by Owen Egerton
He climbed the stairs and walked to the bedroom. Rica was still gone. The memory of her fear was a sick, doughy ball in his stomach. He called her cell but there was no answer. He did not leave a message.
The sharp smell of formaldehyde still clung to his hands and face. Milton turned on the shower. He watched the steam build in a daze, his head reeling like a Doors keyboard solo. He was about to step under the water when the phone rang. Leaving the shower running, Milton sprinted back to the bedroom and grabbed the receiver.
“Rica?”
There was nothing.
“Hello?”
Nothing. No dial tone. No sound.
Milton pulled the phone from his head and noticed something else. Something had changed. He stood rigid. The sound of the shower was different. A change of tone. He recognized the change. The water was no longer hitting the floor of the shower. It was hitting a body. Milton quietly placed the phone down.
He walked out of the bedroom and into the hall. The door to the bathroom was open and a few wisps of steam floated out. Milton stepped closer. A man’s voice was humming a melancholy tune. Closer, still in the hall, Milton could see a figure standing behind the frosted door of the shower. Part of Milton wanted to run, but something larger whispered there was no more time for running away.
“Who’s there?” he asked. The humming was the only answer. It was a tune he recognized. Something from television. Milton stepped into the bathroom. “I’ve called the police,” he said, and wished to God he had. No response from the shower. Milton was now in front of the door, watching the blurred shadow behind the door. It looked as if he was washing his hair, lathering up. The steam billowed out and wet Milton’s face. He reached and grasped the shower door’s handle. He paused, swallowed. The humming stopped. The figure dropped his arms to his side. Through the glass, Milton was face-to-face with a figure he couldn’t quite see. His hand was still on the shower door handle, but he stood still for several seconds. Finally he yanked the door open and a cloud of steam filled the room.
There stood, naked as Milton, a person Milton had seen before. A famous face. Yes. That was the tune. From the television show. Saint Rick was in his shower.
“Milton,” Saint Rick said. “Drive west. Find me.”
Steam clouded everything. Milton stumbled back and fell to the floor. Saint Rick stood only feet away, still under the running water. Milton crawled backward toward the bathroom door. The phone rang. Milton looked away for a second. When he looked back the shower was empty.
Name’s Jim Edwards
“AGAIN, OUR LEAD story,” the radio-voice said through the Lexus’s stereo. “NASA reports that six satellites fell from their orbit last night, causing panicked reports all over the world.”
“No shit. Satellites,” Hayden said to himself.
“Scattered debris made it though the atmosphere, causing spectacular impacts in Arizona, Northern Australia, and parts of the Atlantic Ocean. No injuries have been reported. At this point the cause is still unknown, but some scientists believe a connecti . . . ” The radio-voice bled into static. “ . . . to the rec . . . sun flares is poss . . . holes . . . magnetosphere and the magnetic . . . ” More static. Then a new voice came across the airwaves announcing, “A full hour of the best in soft jazz.”
“Ahh, crap,” Hayden said. He sighed and stepped on the accelerator. He was back on the interstate now, mindlessly heading east. He was also, unbeknownst to him, on his way to his first act of Catholic compassion. Hayden Brock was going to pick up a hitchhiker.
He didn’t consider stopping when he first saw the man. He had never stopped for hitchhikers. Hayden knew from his studies of late-night cable television and USA Today articles that hitchhikers ate people and wore their flesh as a loose fitting shawl or do-rag. The only people who picked up hitchhikers were naive sexually active teenagers on their way to secluded cabins, or other serial killers looking for a challenge.
As Hayden drew closer he could make out the man. He looked old and wet. It had rained most of the morning, and judging by the clouds, it would soon start again. The man was sitting on a stuffed green army bag. A large off-white hat covered most of his face, and an arm and thumb extended out from his hunched figure. He didn’t look like a cannibal. He looked tired. Something twitched in Hayden’s heart. He hesitated for a moment as he passed, but quickly pulled over. The hesitation, though, caused Hayden to bring the Lexus to a halt forty yards from the man.
Hayden put on his hazards and worked to clear the passenger seat of Catholic books, CDs, and empty bottles of ginseng energy drinks. As he removed the clutter, Hayden found himself excited for company. He had talked to no one since leaving Melinda early that morning. He had continued east, but with no goal in mind. He had just driven straight, filling the hours with little more than miles.
Hayden glanced back and saw that the old man had made it only twenty feet. He had stopped, leaned over, and looked to be catching his breath. As he started walking again, Hayden noticed his legs were severely bowed, as if he were carrying an invisible tree trunk between his thighs. Over one shoulder was the large army sack. The other hand held a black plastic trash bag, the kind Hayden’s lawn boy used to collect cut grass. It looked heavy. Leftover body parts from lunch? No, probably not.
Hayden wasn’t sure what the proper etiquette was. Should he help the guy with his bags, or was it rude to presume he needed help? He decided it was best to follow the same procedure for being pulled over by the police: stay in the car, both hands on the wheel, make no sudden movements. It took another six minutes for the old man to reach the car. He tapped on the passenger-side window. Hayden stared for a moment. He could still drive away. But already a few new drops of rain were rolling down the window. Hayden stretched over, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The man stood there wheezing.
Hayden gave his best Saint Rick smile. “Hello. Do you need a lift?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
Hayden blinked.
The man struggled through some more breaths before slowly squeezing his bags into the back of Hayden’s Lexus. He then wheezed a few more times, “Heeweezz . . . You couldn’t have . . . heeweezz . . . reversed a little, huh?”
Hayden tried to chuckle. But it came out more like a swallowed cough.
“You got a leg in your backseat,” the man said, nodding at the prosthetic.
“Yes, I do.”
Finally he sighed and dropped into the passenger bucket seat. Hayden forced himself not to think about the leather upholstery, not to concern himself with the possibility of water damage, not to notice the ripe scent of wet sweat and stale tobacco. He just kept smiling.
“Well,” Hayden said, putting the car in gear and pressing on the gas. “Let’s hit the road.”
“Don’t mind if we do,” the man said. Then he farted.
Hayden was sure he had made an awful mistake. It was a sensation that would return to him several times over the next three days. In fact, he would grow to enjoy the feeling. Fear of having taken the wrong the step is at least evidence that one is walking.
The man wore blue jeans and a dark denim shirt. He took off his once-white Stetson and laid it on his lap. His mustache was the same shade as the hat, except the bottom ridge, which was tobacco brown. He pulled a red bandana from his shirt pocket and wiped the sweat and rain from his lean, pockmarked face. His eyes were a cloudy blue. Like an overused hot tub, Hayden thought.
“I’ve been out there for an hour. No one even slowing to take a look,” the man said. “Thanks for stopping. Feels good to be inside.”
Hayden nodded and turned on the heater. They drove for a while with no sound but the soft jazz playing on the radio.
“Yep. Thanks,” the man said. “You care if I smoke?”
Hayden had never allowed a lit cigarette within ten feet of his car. He had lost several friends and one lover over the rule. But the idea of telling this old man that he could not smoke seemed impossible. He shook his head.
“You want one?” the man offered. “They’re not the best, but it’s what I got. Shit, take one.”
Hayden, to his own surprise, took one.
“Name’s Jim Edwards. You?”
“Hayden. Hayden Brock.” Hayden waited for the usual response—“The Hayden Brock?” or “Oh my God, Saint Rick!” or “My wife loves you.” Jim Edwards did none of these. Just nodded and lit his cigarette. He leaned over and, using one hand to steady the other, held an open flame for Hayden to light his own. Hayden noticed the knuckles, swollen, the skin callused. When Jim Edwards pulled the lighter away, Hayden could see his own soft, well-tanned hands on the steering wheel. He felt a vague shame. Then nearly coughed up every organ above his lower intestine.
“Yep,” Jim said with a chuckle. “Not the smoothest, but cheap. I smoke Winstons when I can afford them.”
Though Hayden had tried most narcotics, he had never smoked a cigarette. But he had been around cigarettes, knew people who smoked. And even with his car rule, he was sure he had inhaled at least a few packs’ worth of secondhand smoke. But this was completely different, like breathing in ground-up glass rolled in nettles. Hayden wasn’t sure what to do. The guy didn’t have much money and he had gifted the cigarette. But he didn’t want any more of it getting inside his body, so he did his best to let the cigarette hang from his lip while he held his breath. But the smoke, seeing the lungs were closed, went for the eyes. Tears welled up to block the path.
“You okay?” Jim Edwards asked.
“Just thinking of an old friend.” Hayden took three quick puffs, got the cigarette past halfway down, and smashed it in the car’s ashtray. He casually rolled down his window, even though the rain was falling in force again. For a few miles they drove in silence except for the soft jazz and Hayden’s occasional hacking throat spasm.
“So,” Hayden said, after recovering control of his breathing. “You’re heading east?”
“I am now,” Jim said.
“Where are you going?” Hayden asked.
“There’s a rest stop just east of Las Cruces, New Mexico. I stay there sometimes. I know the custodian.”
“You just want a rest stop?”
“I can catch a ride to Houston from there. Gotta get to the VA hospital by Monday. Got some cancer things on my back, they’re gonna cut ’em off.”
“Wait, New Mexico? That’s like another state from here.”
“Yep. I really appreciate it,” Jim Edwards said. “They cut the stuff off before, but it keeps growing back.”
No way, Hayden thought. I’m not driving this guy all the way to Las Cruces. Sainthood or no sainthood, I’m not crazy.
“Hey, I’d like to drive you,” Hayden said. He was planning on continuing with “but . . . ” The problem was nothing came after “but.” Mentally, he searched for excuses. But I can’t because . . . Because what? He had no other appointments, no plans, just a vehicle and time. Besides, Jim Edwards had what Hayden severely desired without even knowing it: a destination. So Hayden just repeated himself. “Yeah. I’d like to drive you.”
The radio blurted out another belch of static. “ . . . no cause for alarm,” the radio-voice said. “In other news, television actor Hayden Brock is being sought by police for questioning in connection with a sexual assault and theft case. Melinda Hawks of Blythe, California, claims that Mr. Brock forced—”
Hayden clicked the radio off. “Huh,” Hayden said with a forced chuckle. “No news but bad news.”
Jim Edwards looked at Hayden from the corner of his eye and nodded.
Hard to think with all the sirens
MILTON TRIED CALLING Rica three more times, but each attempt ended with her cheerful voice asking him to leave a message. He was just pulling on jeans and a near-clean T-shirt that he had fished from the floor of his closet when the phone rang. He leaped across the bed to pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mitt, how are you feeling?” Roy asked.
“The world is ending.”
“Which world?”
“This one.”
“I’ll come right over.”
Milton hung up the phone and sat on the bed. His head felt heavy. Too much to handle. Too much strange. And he could still see the fear in Rica’s eyes. Fear of him. Where could she be? They didn’t have much time. Then it hit him. Of course, she was at work. Everyone was still going about their business. They didn’t know. No one seemed to know, except Milton. Milton quickly dialed Mundi House. Rica picked up.
“Rica, it’s Milton.” There was no response on the other end, but she didn’t hang up. That was encouraging. “Rica, something weird is happening.”
“Yes, Milton,” she said. “You’re losing your mind.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Do you remember last night?”
“Okay,” Milton said. “Maybe that’s part of it. But something else is happening, too. I’ve got to leave town.”
“Then go. I’m staying. I don’t trust you right now. I don’t trust that you’re safe for this baby.”
“Rica, please. Give me some time to figure this all out. All I need—”
“I can’t hear you . . . someone’s yelling outside,” Rica said. Milton could hear the yells through the phone.
“I’ve got to go west and find—”
“What? Someone’s dog is going nuts. What did you say?”
“I’ve got to find Hayden Brock,” Milton said.
Silence for a moment. “The actor?”
“Yeah. On that saint show.”
More screams came through the phone.
“Rica?”
“Oh my God. A rat. A big fucking rat! Lots of them.”
“Rica?”
Screams.
The phone went dead. Milton tried calling back. A busy tone. Milton called 911 and was immediately put on hold. He stood for a moment. What do I do? What do I do? On the floor of his closet he spotted an old aluminum tennis racket. He grabbed it and ran to his bike. Only after a search of the house did he remember that his bike (and belt) had been stolen the night before.
Milton ran from the house and down the street, trying to deduce a way to cross the three miles between his house and Mundi House. He was halfway to Riverside Drive when a voice beside him said, “Hey friend, what’s the rush?” It was Roy leaning out the window of his VW Microbus.
“Drive me to Mundi House.”
Roy didn’t ask and didn’t hesitate. “Get in.”
Milton jumped in and Roy slammed his foot down on the gas, which doesn’t do much in a 1972 VW Microbus. The bus rolled on toward Lady Bird Lake. “We’ll be there in three minutes,” Roy said.
She’ll be fine, Milton thought. Probably a raccoon. Nothing to worry about. Hard to think with all the sirens.
The Microbus screeched to a halt.
“Sweet Lord,” Roy said. Two cars were burning on the Congress Avenue Bridge. Billows of black smoke filled the air. On the bridge a man was dancing and jumping with something small, gray, and furry clinging onto his back.
“You see this, too?” Milton asked.
“What am I seeing?” Roy asked.
“Beginning of the end.”
Oh my God! Nutria!
NO ONE IN Austin was prepared for the nutria to attack. They had been docile for so many years. These possum-like creatures, near rascals, beady-eyed water rodents no bigger than house cats had kept to the lakes and muddy shores, quietly apathetic to the city surrounding them. People watched them slinking and swimming and foolishly believed there was nothing to fear. But on this day the nutria crept from the water, up the north banks, and onto the pathways and roads of downtown Austin.
The first victims were a young woman and her dog running along the Hike and Bike Trail. Her yellow lab started barking at the shrubs; she yanked back on the leash. A small river rat slinked from the foliage.
“See, Rex,” the woman said. “It’s just a nutria. It’s all right—Oh my God!”
&n
bsp; The creature leaped at the dog’s throat. The woman screamed and dropped the leash. Another nutria fell from a branch above and landed on her head. Other joggers stopped midstride. They didn’t offer help at first, just stood gaping, unable to grasp what they were seeing. The woman thrashed her head from side to side. Finally, a man in tight shorts took a branch and smacked the nutria off her. The creature hit the ground, twisted to its feet, and hissed at the man. It turned and scurried down the path. The other nutria abandoned the whining dog and followed.
In the beginning it was just the random one or two nutria being spotted, but within ten minutes of the first attack, the creatures were roving in packs of twenty or more. They marched fearlessly, causing a four-car pileup on Cesar Chavez Street. Metal crunched around them and some were crushed into a pulpy mess, but the other nutria didn’t flinch. Their army advanced.
The Austin High School marching band was ambushed while perfecting their rendition of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” The beating drums and feathered hats seemed to enrage the rodents and they attacked with even greater fury. Horns, teenagers, and band directors all squealed together in a horrible harmony. A Duck Tour amphibious vehicle filled with wide-eyed tourists collided with a mass of nutria just past the First Street Bridge. The Duck Tour bus skidded out of control, jumped the curb, and splashed into Lady Bird Lake. Three homeless men rescued a besieged meter maid and carried her down Congress Avenue, pursued each step of the way. Hundreds of nutria swarmed Whole Foods at Sixth and Lamar, biting and scratching, devouring tray-loads of free samples and sucking fresh linguine from the pasta maker. A motor scooter flipped over one of the creatures on Lavaca Street.
“Oh my God!” screamed the toppled scooterist as he struggled to his feet. “Nutria!”
I can’t do this
MILTON JUMPED FROM Roy’s Microbus and ran toward the bridge, the tennis racket still gripped in his fist. He circled around the burning cars, feeling the heat press against his body, and reached the screaming man. Two other men were trying to peel off the nutria, but the man’s thrashing frustrated their attempts. More nutria were approaching from the north, weaving through the unmoving cars filled with frightened faces and muffled screams. An ambulance shrieked on the north side. Milton looked up just as it swerved off the road and into a large oak. I have to get to Rica. Milton ran to the attacked man, raising his racket to swipe one of the nutria off his back, but the man spun around and slapped Milton in the face. Milton stumbled backward, hit the railing, and flipped over it.