Keeping Molly

by Hayes, David C.

  8

  Monty found that mornings were the best time to weed the bed of geraniums that ringed his home. Today he stuck to the front lawn but couldn’t help looking over to the neighbor’s house. He knew that something pretty bad was happening inside there but couldn’t get over the desire to catch a glimpse of Molly naked. Ever since the couple moved in, Monty has had a raging erection the likes of which he thought had long passed him by. Never married and an infrequent dater, Molly’s natural prettiness, and kindness, allowed Monty to think in terms of love and romance and, yes, sex. Resigned to a life alone, he rarely allowed those moments to come up. Over the two years they had lived next door, though, those rare moments became more and more frequent, and Monty’s fantasizing increased in intensity until he was about to burst. Even with Molly’s… condition, Monty would kill to get a piece of her.

  Monty’s daydream was rudely cut short and brought to the present as an older, maroon, Buick pulled into the driveway. Inside the car, Monty saw a man and woman in their late fifties. The car came to a lurching halt and Monty looked on as the older man swung the door open and struggled out of the driver’s seat like he had been in there for quite some time and taken root.

  The man walked back to the trunk, popped it with his remote, and pulled two suitcases from it, a small one with a strap, which he slung over his shoulder, and a large one with wheels, which he dropped to the ground before extending its built-in handle. After a moment, the woman let herself out of the passenger side, glaring at the man. He, as if this has played out many, many times before, managed to avoid the woman’s penetrating gaze and took the bags to the front door.

  Monty looked at the woman, watching as she swept that caustic gaze across the yard with a perpetual look of disdain, and that’s when he remembered. He had seen these people once before, when Alan and Molly moved in. They were Molly’s parents. Monty would never forget that old woman’s rigid face. Even a yard away, she made him nervous. She scanned his yard, as well, and eventually she made eye contact with Monty. He nodded to acknowledge her. She sneered and quickly dismissed him before joining her husband at the front door. Monty shook his head and sighed as he went back to his yard work.

  “They have no idea what they’re in for,” he mumbled to himself.

  ***

  Alan continued his bedroom vigil. He was uncomfortable in the stiff wooden chair, but it helped him to stay awake. His eyes were fixed on Molly, who was dressed in clean clothes and slept on clean sheets. The previously soiled linens were now in the dryer. It was one more task to distract Alan from his lack of rest. The doorbell rang. Alan shot upright in the chair. He couldn’t think of anyone that would be visiting and was bewildered at who might be ringing the bell.

  Alan walked down the hall into the foyer, tired and cautious. He had no idea who, or what, to expect. After what he saw happen to Tony on TV and Molly’s freak out, he expected the worst. Alan unlocked the door and pulled open just a crack and, in an instant, he realized it was even worse than the worst.

  The door flew open, pushing him backward. Alan’s father-in-law, George, nearly trampled him as the old man dragged luggage into the house.

  “Hey there Alan, Audrey is right behind me.”

  At the mention of her name, Alan’s skin crawled. Audrey walked in and, as always, sported the victim of a fart in a closed elevator look.

  “Where is my baby?” she scolded.

  Alan closed the door behind her. He was very confused. “What are you guys doing here?”

  Audrey huffed at him, and Alan’s head cocked back in surprise. She headed down the hallway toward the bedroom.

  “Is she down here?” Audrey hollered.

  Alan didn’t answer. She disappeared into the bedroom.

  “Hey, Al, you got any beer?” George asked as he strolled into the kitchen. Alan started to answer just as Audrey popped her head back into the hallway.

  “I told her, you are useless,” she yelled to Alan. She turned back into the bedroom.

  Alan could still hear her saying, “Don’t worry pumpkin. Mommy’s here.”

  George walked past Alan into the living room as he pulled the tab forward on an ice cold can of beer. “This the only kind of beer you have?” he asked before taking a sip.

  Alan nodded and made for the bedroom.

  “Al,” George called, “let her do her thing, son.” Alan stopped and looked at George. George tilted his head to signal Alan to come to the couch. Alan nodded and complied.

  Alan plopped down next to George.

  The news was still on the television. A very proper, middle-aged woman sat at the news desk. Her face, usually congenial and pleasant, looked hardened. The feeling that bad news was right around the corner filled the studio. Alan recognized her from other local broadcasts. Her name, Joyce Waterman, appeared in a graphic along the bottom of the screen as a new graphic, a biohazard symbol, floated next to her head.

  “Reports from local authorities and the Center for Disease Control have been mounting this past hour. What was once thought of as a “super flu” is nothing of the sort. From what researchers have gathered so far, this is a form of transmissible viral encephalopathy that is closer to mad

  cow disease than it is to a super flu. The process and gestation four…”

  Without warning, the channel flipped to professional wrestling. Alan turned to find George holding the remote in his hand. Incredulous, Alan couldn’t say a word and paid no attention to the obese man in tights get beat up by two skinny kids in overalls on the screen.

  Alan continued to stare at George, finally asking, “George, what are you guys doing here?”

  Without looking away from the TV, George shifted in his seat and replied, “Audrey wanted to take care of Molly after, you know… Sometimes a girl needs her mama.”

  Alan was speechless, for the second time. He lifted his arms, unsure of what to say. “And you couldn’t call?” he finally managed to get out.

  George never turned away from the TV and Alan recognized it as an Audrey-coping mechanism.

  “Don’t look at me. Mama Bird runs the show.” George, engrossed in the wrestling match, took a sip of beer and cheered. “Oh, man! Look at them tossing that fat bastard around!”

  Alan sunk back into the couch. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled to himself.

  “You better pray!” screeched from the bedroom and down the hallway. Audrey did everything a little louder, and little shriller, than everyone else.

  Alan’s head snapped around at the sound to see Audrey barreling down the hallway in his direction. As she got closer, Alan sunk even further back into the couch as though he was trying to become a part of it.

  Audrey wagged her finger in Alan’s face as spit flew from her mouth.

  “What have you done? Nothing! Molly’s in terrible condition. I told her from the minute she said you two were getting married, that you didn’t give one good gosh darn about her!”

  Alan tried to interject, but every time he opened his mouth to speak Audrey jumped back in.

  “You shut up! Looks like I got here just in time. That little girl needs her mother’s help and there is nothing you can say about it!” Alan tried to speak again, but it was useless. He glanced at his father-in-law, who stayed engrossed in the wrestling.

  Knowing that George was going to be of little help, actually, no help at all, Alan decided to sit quietly and accept what Audrey was spewing his way. He sighed and allowed the barrage to continue.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, but if you really loved Molly you’d leave. I have to get back to my baby. Don’t you even think about coming in!” Before she could even finish the sentence, Audrey spun on her heel and stomped back toward the bedroom.

  Once she was out of sight, Alan waited until he heard the door slam and, once again, he turned to look at George.

  “Mama Bird,” was all George had to offer. Alan threw up his hands as the fat man on television took a beating. Alan wished they could switch places.


  ***

  Audrey stood at Molly’s bedside, carefully blotting sweat from her daughter’s forehead. Molly’s squirmed underneath the blankets, eyes closed. Audrey, not really knowing what to do, talked to fill the void as she tended to her daughter.

  “I hate to bring this up when you’re feeling bad, but I knew he was no good. Remember? I told you that on your second date. I knew he would ruin your life.”

  Molly rolled to her side, facing away from her mother, and her eyes snapped open. They were almost completely yellow, the edges of her eyelids completely crusted over in a strange, hardened mucous. Her skin was terribly mottled; the blue veins appeared, more pronounced, and spread as far as Molly’s temples. Lesions and boils continued to develop on her arms and burst with the slightest touch. Audrey took her daughter’s hand and rubbed it gently. As she did, she inadvertently burst several of the boils; the hot, yellow ichor flowed onto Audrey’s hand, burning it. Audrey squealed and dropped Molly’s hand. She could not believe what she had seen.

  “Oh baby,” she said sympathetically, “Oh pumpkin. Mommy will make it all better.” She reached down and gently took Molly’s hand again, slowly inspecting hands, arms and back for blemishes. Seething, Audrey turned her head toward the door as though were looking right at Alan.

  “That bastard let you get bed sores! I can’t believe him.” Audrey gently placed Molly’s hand back at her side and turn toward the bedroom door. “I’ll be back soon, Molly. You need some things, sweetheart.”

  As Audrey walked out the door, Molly growled, quietly… hungry. Audrey, focused on her task, didn’t hear a thing

  Audrey stomped her way into the living room. George, blissfully unaware, watched wrestling on the couch. Alan hadn’t moved, either. Audrey takes her position in front of Alan again and points a cold, bony finger in his face.

  “You… You…” Audrey sputtered. Her rage evident, her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She finally balled her hand into a fist and turned to George. “George, I have to go back to the house and pick some things up.”

  George nodded, his eyes never leaving the television. “That’s a 12 hour roundtrip.” Audrey stood straight, taking deep breaths to control her anger before replying, “I know that. I will be back tomorrow. Molly needs some things.”

  Alan spoke up. “I can…”

  Audrey turned at him and snapped. “You can do nothing! Nothing, do you hear me?”

  Alan, frustrated, threw his hands up and turned away from her.

  Audrey stared at him, burning holes in his head with her eyes, before turning back to George. “George, look at me,” she demanded.

  George didn’t reply. He was still fascinated with the wrestling match.

  “George!”

  George slumped his shoulders and leaned his head to the side just far enough to see Audrey. “Yes dear.”

  Audrey’s eyes narrowed, she knew that tone. “You’d need to stay here and take care of Molly,” she instructed.

  George nodded along as though he were actually paying attention. Audrey pointed at Alan.

  “And don’t let him get in the way,” she warned.

  George nodded again. “Yes dear.”

  Audrey turned back to Alan, but he couldn’t even bear to look at her. Finding no one else willing to engage in battle, Audrey stomped to the front door, ripped it open, and stormed out, slamming it hard behind her.

  George turned back to the television, just another day in paradise for him.

  Alan stared off into the distance.

  George’s ears perked up a little as he heard the engine to the car start. He listened carefully to the wheels squeaking along the pavement until he heard the car speed off. That was all he needed.

  “Think she’s gone?” he asked.

  Alan looked up as though he was startled out of a trance. “What?”

  George stood up and smiled. He walked over toward the front door and looked through the window. His smile grew wider as he looked out onto an empty driveway. “She’s gone,” he said with relief.

  Alan slumped back in the couch. “Good,” he muttered.

  George, still smiling, clapped his hands together and rubbed them as though he was about to enact a master plan of some sort.

  “Hot damn!” he said, “I’ll be at the bar.” Without saying another word, George exited.

  Alan watched him go, confused. He was concerned about Molly, and now this… Audrey and George. He stood and moved to the other end of the couch and snatched up the remote.

  Alan watched for a minute as the fat wrestler, Joe Broni as the text indicated, yelled into a microphone about his loss. Alan shook his head, wondering what his father-in-law saw in this garbage. Alan switched the channel back to news talk where a press conference was underway.

  A stately woman, in her early to mid-forties, addressed a room full of reporters from behind a podium. The front of the podium bore the seal of the Surgeon General’s office. The woman seemed frazzled, tired. She addressed the assembled reporters with a staff of white-coated doctors behind her. The graphic below her read, “Dr. Victoria Lance, Surgeon General of the United States.” Alan tuned in midsentence.

  “…will not be taking questions from the floor. Currently, the CDC is planning on moving the level of this alert to pandemic.” The reporters murmured, but Dr. Lance continued, unfazed. “We have determined, from local reports to our own field research, that this is a viral strain of spongiform encephalitis. The roots of the disease appeared to be contained in a contaminated food source. Makers of a synthetic supplement of L–cysteine, an amino acid in protein and used in many different processed food products, broke FDA rules and processed the protein from human hair. We are still investigating and hope to reach a ground zero soon. The closest approximation to the disease we can find is bovine spongiform encephalitis. And, before you pundits can react, this is not “mad human” disease. The disease has been named VT-3, or Viral Titus Three. We are not sure what the chances are for vaccination yet, but implore people to avoid public places and call authorities if you suspect someone, including a family member, is infected. By all accounts, the gestation period for VT-3 is around three days. It moves quickly, so the sooner you can get in contact with treatment facilities, the better.”

  Alan could only stare at the television. They were talking about Molly. God damn it… Molly.

  9

  Monty couldn’t help himself. He knew that Alan was home but he just couldn’t stay away. He snuck back into the yard. Monty plastered himself against the wall and inched along as if he were an obese James Bond on a mission from M. He licked his lips as he eyed the French doors that led into Molly’s bedroom and crept toward them. He carefully passed by patio doors that looked into the living room where Alan was.

  Alan was entranced by the television and Monty smiled. Too easy, he thought. Monty moved quickly past those doors and Alan didn’t even notice. Monty stopped once he got past them took a deep breath. He glared at the outdoor stereo. He cautiously approached the French doors and peered inside, sweating profusely. He still wasn’t sure what happened to the cat, but not even that could dissuade him from this. He could already feel his pants tighten in excitement.

  The room was dark. Licking his lips, Monty reached for the door handle.

  ***

  Alan remained focused on the broadcast. The surgeon general completed her explanation of the gestation period and left the podium. Alan stood, trembling, and looked toward the kitchen. His eyes focused on the calendar hanging on the wall. The circled date stared back at him and he moved a few squares to the right.

  ***

  Monty slowly opened the French doors and gingerly stepped in, entering the room. He peered around, nervously wiping sweat off of his forehead and jowls.

  “Mo… Molly?” he whispered.

  There was no answer. Monty squinted as he peered across the room toward the door to the hallway. He stepped in the direction of the bedroom door when he heard a deep-throated
growl. Monty stopped short. His eyes grew wide and he scanned the room, desperately trying to make out anything in the darkness. Fear took over and Monty shook. He slowly moved toward the other side of the bed, his head darting in all directions, trying to find a hint of what was in the room with him… but he already suspected.

  Monty froze, not knowing what to do. Another, closer, growl and Monty whimpered.

  “Molly? It’s me… Monty. Just wanted to see if you were…”

  Molly leapt from the darkness and pounced on the large man. She landed on Monty and sank her teeth deep into his shoulder. He tried to scream, but Molly, like a wild animal, had wrapped her limbs around her prey, effectively immobilizing and muzzling him.

  With Molly hanging off of him, Monty stumbled toward the French doors. He fumbled with the latch as Molly sunk her teeth in again and again, ripping fleshy chunks of meat off of Monty and gulping them down. Monty managed to luck his way into getting the door open and they tumbled to the outside. Molly never let up; she went in, again and again, snapping muscle and sinew with each bite. The blood ran over her face and she sucked it in even as Monty feebly slapped at her with what limited motion he had.

  ***

  Alan walked into the kitchen, his eyes remaining trained on the calendar. The picture for the month was of two playful puppies engaged in some kind of tug of war. He could only focus on the numbers, though and placed his finger on that day that he and Molly went to the hospital. As if it were some kind of nightmare abacus, he slowly drug his finger it to the right, two more days. He stepped back. Alan gasped. The reality of the situation sank in and he trembled.

  ***

  Monty stumbled near the pool, all of Molly hung off of him, ripping in tearing at his flesh. Stocky and deceptively strong, Monty stayed upright and fell to the side, hitting the outdoor stereo. Music blared through the speakers.

  Alan jumped and spun as AC/DC shook the house. He looked up and out to see Monty and Molly near the pool. Alan ran toward the patio doors and fumbled with the lock. He stopped short as he noticed blood all over Monty and Molly wrapped around the neighbor in a death clutch. Alan could only watch through the window as Molly tore into the pudgy interloper.