Blue Sludge Blues & Other Abominations

by Shannon Lawrence

  "Shall we read the baseball news together tonight?" I asked the boy. I could not hide my fondness, for I truly loved him. He was a good boy, pure of heart and genuine.

  "I have to get on home. I’m going out with old Sully tomorrow."

  "What happened to Jacob?"

  "Papa decided Jacob was unlucky, as well." He paused to run his hand through his hair, frustration showing itself in his quick, jerky movements and furrowed brow. "I can’t wait until I’m old enough to make decisions for myself. No one will have me if I constantly switch boats when there’s a dry spell."

  "It was very kind of you to bring me the rice. I remember when I had fish with my rice. Fish I had caught with these hands." I held them up before me, gazing at the lined and calloused hands as I willed tears into my eyes.

  He bought it, as he always did. Grasping my hands with his, he gently steered them back down into my lap, giving them a quick squeeze before letting go.

  "How long has it been, old man? Not nearly as long as that time we went three months without catching one fish. Remember that?"

  I nodded in response, and the boy took this as his sign to continue. "You must also remember those times where we caught more fish than ever before, breaking our own records. That will happen again. You’ll see. You just have to wait out the dry spell."

  "You always make me feel better." I reached out a hand and placed it lightly on the boy’s neck, nestled above his shoulder. There, I could feel the pulse beating, strong and vibrant. Ah, youth. Such strength and vitality.

  The boy, used to this show of affection, smiled and patted my hand. "Make sure you eat your rice before you fall asleep tonight."

  Nodding, I pulled open the paper. Quietly, the boy left, secure in the knowledge that I was settled in for the night. As far as he knew, I’d read up on DiMaggio, my "favorite player," eat my rice, and fall asleep in the chair. He would sneak in during the early morning hours to cover me up wherever I happened to be sitting when he crept in. His footsteps in the gravel road always preceded him, giving me time to settle myself into a sleeping position. The boy knew I had no one else to look after me, and I cherished these moments when I could see his true love for me, not his conscious expression of it.

  I continued reading the baseball scores until I could no longer hear the boy’s faint footsteps. The news section awaited me, full of tales of murder in New York. These reporters loved to lay on the bloody details and I lived for them. I had to go through this ruse day in and day out just to get quiet time to read up and fulfill my blood lust. If he knew what I was really reading, saw my response to it, he would surely never return. The older I get, the harder I must work to hide my excitement, that stirring deep within me.

  The local fishermen claim to love the sea, the fish. I know their secrets. I am, after all, one of them. The true love of fishing is blood lust and the hunt to satisfy it. Fish are so easy to catch and to kill, though it can take time to do it right. First, I snare a swordfish on my line. It may take minutes or hours just to pull it in. I let the line go out to give some slack then pull it in a bit more each time. Release, pull, release, pull. The blade of its dorsal fin cuts the water, and all I can think of is the moment I’ll get to slide my blade into its flesh, to feel that sudden give then the buttery smooth sensation as the knife slides down its belly.

  Once the fish is at the side of the boat, it’s time to bring it in. I use a wicked hook the length of my arm, and as it slides in, that first coppery scent strikes my nostrils. The fish struggles, always—it wouldn’t be any fun if it didn’t. The harder they fight, the sweeter the victory, and the more my desire is fed.

  When I have the fish slapping around on the wooden planks of the boat, I grab my mallet to stop the thrashing. That is, when there’s someone else on the boat with me. When there isn’t, I let it struggle, fight. Instead of removing the head first, I go straight for the stomach, slicing it from throat to tail, letting the guts spill out onto the floorboards. Blood splatters on my feet, my shins. The scent is intoxicating. My heart pounds in anticipation. Splendid, delicious life. The only thing better is human blood.

  I can do this all day, but there’s a limit to how many fish I can keep on the boat lest the sharks show up. Lately, I’ve given all my fish to them. I love to watch them work. They maul it while it’s still alive, shredding it in seconds. The blood is still fresh at that point—warm and vital like a child’s, spreading across the water like an oil slick.

  Everyone thinks I’m on a dry streak. Of course, they’re wrong. Some of us never hit a bad streak. We just get bored.

  But the desire has escalated lately. I’m so bored the sharks don’t even satisfy me. I lured a shark to my boat and snared it the other day. A swordfish was my bait. It was majestic, leaping through the air in beautiful arcs without a care in the world. Stupid fish. I caught this one with no problem. My blade slipped through his thick flesh with no resistance, his massive eyes rolling about in his head. I threw him back in while he still fought and let him spread his lifeblood throughout the water. It took no time at all for the sharks to pick up the scent, the thrashing of prey, and two of them drew in for the attack. Both were hammerheads. Vicious. Wonderful. Sensual.

  Predatory.

  They tore the fish to pieces before it had a chance to die. As they swam around it, trying to pick up the spare bits of meat, I used my hook to grab one of the hammerheads through the eye. He was an eighteen footer, at least. He fought me with all his might, but I was the stronger one. I pulled him on board, envying the look of fear that came into the great beast’s remaining eye. I’ve never felt fear before. What an amazing emotion it must be.

  I cut him open, wanting to taste his blood while his heart still beat. He never made a sound, just continued thrashing in my boat, his insides spilling out onto the blood-soaked planks. I reached up through his rib cage and grabbed his rapidly beating heart. The feel of it was amazing against my palms, slick and firm. I sat there and held it, becoming one with the shark, enjoying the rapid pulse. This was a brotherhood and I felt a respect I’d never held for the likes of the swordfish, let alone the dull silver minions of the sea.

  As I felt the beat beginning to wane, I grabbed the heart and ripped it from inside him. The taste of his dying heart was the most succulent flavor I’d ever partaken of. The thick, rich blood flowed into my throat and I felt it burning its way through my entire body, even as that great muscle pulsed against my lips. His strength belonged to me now.

  But then I was bored again. Fish weren’t enough for me, not even the bogeymen of their kind. Animals on land had never put up the same fight. It was then that I began to plot. My next kill must be out of love. Yes, that was something I’d never tasted before.

  Memories of the shark’s fear made it hard for me to calm myself enough to fake sleep, but when the boy came to cover me up the following morning I was ready for him, curled up in my bed, the covers slightly askew. As he bent to cover me up, the scratchy weight of the blanket dragging across my bare feet, I stirred. Just a bit. Enough to draw his attention. He paused in his labors and whispered my name, warm breath caressing my cheek.

  "Santiago?"

  "Mmmmm…" I mumbled sleepily, though, in reality, I didn’t require sleep. My energy came from the kill, not from rest.

  "Are you awake, old man?"

  "What time is it?"

  "It’s only four in the morning. You should rest some more."

  "I have more important things to do."

  "What do you mean?" he asked me.

  "Have you thought much of dying, boy? Have you ever wondered where it would come from and if it would be out of love?"

  "I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I’m young. I have forever to live. Isn’t that what you always tell me?"

  His eyes were wide in the dim light of the shack, sunlight not yet creeping through the knotholes in the wooden walls. He sat back on his heels, head slightly tipped to the side. I could smell the clean scent of the soap his mothe
r must use to wash his clothes.

  I sat up, maintaining the illusion of a frail old man with slow movements. He watched as I pulled my fishing knife out from under the mattress and brought it up before his eyes. Such a thrill overcame me when I saw the fighting urge come into him. He backed away, hands held out to me, palms forward. His head shook slowly from side to side, denial warring with the need to flee, to survive.

  No need to cup his pulse in my hand. I could clearly see it beating in his throat as his eyes widened even more in the cold grasp of fear, a wet sheen filling them. He swallowed and looked at me in confusion. His love for me was too strong to allow him to suspect bad of me, even now. Perhaps he thought I was losing my mind. Maybe playing a joke.

  Maybe.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I love you, my boy. With all my heart, I love you."

  I hefted my old man’s body out of the bed and let him see the truth, that I wasn’t as weak as I had led him to believe. He continued to move backward from me as I strode toward him. Each of his steps was half the size of mine, so I filled the gap quickly. I could now smell the fear on him—that mysterious mix of sweat and adrenaline pumping through his awakened veins. I could almost hear his heart in the silence of the hut as I reached out to take him in a final embrace. It was then that he started to pump his resilient arms and legs against me, to buck in outrage against what was to occur. I held him with little effort. The shark’s power still pulsed within my body and he was, after all, just a child.

  The tears in his eyes spilled over as he gasped against me. His body bucked when my sharply honed blade pulled across the artery in his throat, so full it pressed back against the cool metal in that second before the flesh parted.

  The blood began to pump out and I let it flow into my open mouth as I cradled him to me, my face nestled against his jawline. I’d always known his blood would be sweeter than any fish’s. I let my mouth move over his now slackened lips and kissed him with all the love I felt. His mouth was full of his own blood and it was at that moment that the final light flickered from his eyes, his puzzlement, fear, and disappointment leaking from them as his soul left his body and entered mine. His heart ceased to beat and I let his body slump to the floor. I had to have his heart to seal the deal. His strength would be mine; we would be one. I let the intense sensation of love and exhilaration overtake me, and knew that this was what I was meant to do.

  No more fish for this old man.

  Metamorphosis

  I am confusion.

  Scent of gasoline.

  Taste of pennies.

  Flickering light.

  Cold, so cold.

  Here I lie, chilly solid ground beneath me, cement above me.

  Something is growling. Not an animal. A person?

  There’s a tug on my leg. I shift my eyes, look along the length of my body. Someone, a man, is bent over my foot, dark head jerking back and forth.

  Everything is foggy around the edges. My leg moves again. The back of my head scrapes over cement as my body shifts.

  Then comes the hurt. Everything is pain, sharp and pulsating.

  The man looks up at me, something pale hanging from his mouth.

  Why is he chewing on my shoelace?

  My sluggish brain focuses on the shoelace, the pain. It is then that I realize that’s not a shoelace.

  It’s my flesh.

  A husky female scream bounces off the concrete surrounding me.

  The man staring at me with pieces of me hanging from his mouth isn’t screaming. His mouth is closed. The edges of his lips move around his mouthful, and he snarls at me. The scream stops. I suck in a breath.

  Then I scream again.

  My body feels heavy. I can’t move. Focusing, I try to send a message to my leg to pull away from him. Blood drips from his tear ducts, his nose. He is filthy, eyes glazed. But as he chews, the film over his eyes clears like a fog pulling back. The animal noises he’s making turn into grumbles, and soon I understand words.

  “So hungry. Food. Yes. Mmmm.”

  “Stop,” I say.

  He ignores me.

  “Stop!” I yell, and I’m finally able to move my leg away from him. I feel the skin tear further, the rest still in his mouth. It separates, and he falls back. The pain is sharper for a minute, but it dulls to a throbbing ache.

  He reaches for my leg, pulls it back toward him and bends his head again. This time I know I can move it, and I jerk it away before his teeth can touch me. He grabs it and pulls. I pull back. Him, me, him, me.

  I’m playing tug-of-war with my own leg.

  “No!” This time, I’m able to pull both legs toward my body, flatten my feet on the floor. My hands spread out on the cement, and I push myself up, head spinning. I feel drunk. Nothing looks or feels right. Everything is out of balance. Sounds are wonky, muffled.

  I back away, feeling sluggish. His eyes narrow, and when he speaks, my skin slaps against his chin, wiggling as it hangs from his mouth. “I’m hungry.”

  He tilts his head to the side, studies me.

  My back hits something hard, and I expel a breath with a grunt. Placing my hands on the wall behind me, I use it to help me stand, looking around. There’s no one else here. At least, no one living. A few feet to the right of where I was lying rests a body. A man? He’s dressed like a man. His head is partially gone, and I can see the smooth white of his skull where a brain should be. Do I know him?

  To the other side, white columns stand in orderly rows. The one to my left says B2 in yellow letters. Painted lines on the floor. It’s a parking garage. An empty one.

  Where I lay before, blood pools, dark in the dim, flickering light. The man is squatting, tense. He places one hand on the ground, leans forward. Any moment now, he will charge me.

  To my right stands a dark red door. I sidle sideways, test my throbbing ankle. It holds.

  When I look back at him, he’s lifting up, muscles standing out in his bare arms.

  Our eyes meet.

  His eyes widen and he leaps forward as I turn to run. Footsteps sound behind me, rapid, coming closer. My breath rasps in and out of my throat as I put everything I can into this sprint. Somewhere between me and that door it will be decided whether I live or die.

  Two sets of feet are pounding the pavement, mine and his, and I am convinced his are moving faster.

  “Please be unlocked, please be unlocked.” These words become a chant as the red of the door grows in my sight, larger, closer.

  “Come back, I’m hungry,” he yells.

  Gooseflesh crawls at my neck and arms. He sounds frantic, desperate. Close.

  I feel him behind me when I’m only two steps from the door. Instead of running directly to the door, which appears to open out, I dart to the left, rejoice inside when I hear the thunk of his body against the door.

  Continuing in an arc, I turn my head to the left to check his position. He’s coming my way, bloody drool sliding down his chin. My flesh is gone from his mouth. His lips are pulled back from his teeth, and I feel the primitive prey within myself shrink away from the feral creature before me.

  I turn so that I’m racing straight toward him. He slides to a stop, crouches. But I’m already past him, breezing by on the side. He claws at my jeans, and I stumble, but right myself. This time, I hit the door, grasp the handle.

  It turns easily in my hand.

  I rip it open, throw myself through it. I can hear him huffing behind me, feet hitting the ground. The door is heavy, and I shove it closed, look for a lock.

  There’s no lock.

  “Oh God, oh no.”

  I turn, press my back against the door. Stairs rise up in front of me, grey and sharp-edged. On the other side of the door he whimpers like a dog. His nails scrabble over the metal surface of the door, and I can feel the vibration along my back.

  He continues to scratch at the door as I consider my options. There’s something terribly wrong with him. Perhaps he won’t be able to open the door.


  That’s when the door handle moves.

  Without another thought, I push off from the door, leap up the steps two at a time. As I reach the first landing, I hear the scrape of the door. At the second landing, it slams.

  Running, gasping, hurting. The scent of urine fills the stairwell. The cacophony of two sets of feet echoes back and forth from the smooth walls. Where is he? How close?

  A howl sounds, briefly overcoming all other sound.

  Instead of being afraid, I feel a return howl bubbling up from my throat. It bursts from my mouth. His feet stop.

  I don’t stop. I keep running, but now I feel elated. My chest is about to burst. My stomach rumbles.

  I’m hungry.

  The next landing sports a red number five beside another red door. Have I been running that long? There’s a bar on this door, and I slam into it, push through.

  Carpet is soft beneath my feet. The smell of urine is gone, replaced with the scent of cleaning products, paper, paint.

  Sweat.

  And suddenly my stomach is aching, not just rumbling. This is the hungriest I’ve ever felt. Something smells delicious, and I stop running, scenting the air around me. Where is it coming from? If at all possible, my vision has blurred further. Everything appears frosted, a halo framing the edges of sight.

  A shuffling sound occurs to my right. Turning that way, I move slowly, still scenting. What is that? It’s heady, whatever it is. My entire body responds.

  The shuffling again, followed by a small clank. My mouth waters as the scent fills my nose, even though I can’t quite place what it is. My brain certainly seems to know what it is, and it has declared it food.

  Around the corner, and there’s a desk, a small lamp burning. A woman sits, head bent over the desk, papers spread across it. She’s so intent on her work that she doesn’t hear me until I’ve stepped closer, am within reach of her.

  The scent is overpowering now, and it’s coming from her.