Blue Sludge Blues & Other Abominations

by Shannon Lawrence

Confused, I look around the desk. Where is the food I smell?

  “Can I help you?” A slight tremor in her voice gives away her unease, though she sounds firm when she says the next part. “We’re closed.”

  Laughter titters from my throat.

  She frowns, moves a hand over to the phone and picks up the receiver. Before she can get it to her ear, I’m upon her, her delicious scent filling not only my nose, but every corner of my brain, my throat. My very pores soak it in. She gasps, but the scream she’s trying to form quickly turns to a burbling sound as I rip her throat open, the meat tender and succulent. Juices fill my mouth, run down my throat, and I gnaw at her flesh. I’m just so damn hungry, and she tastes divine.

  Beneath me, she’s twitching. We’re on the floor, though I don’t remember getting here, over the desk. The lamp is lying on the floor somewhere on the other side of the desk, casting shadows around us. Blood is pumping into my mouth, but it’s not enough. Something smells far better. What is it?

  I sniff at her, follow this new scent around her cheek, her ear, the back of her head. It’s wet back there, blood sliding along her scalp, dripping on the floor. I work my fingers through her hair, feel an indent, a crack. Jerking her head up, I sniff at the crack. Yes, this is where the good food is.

  Once, twice, three times I slam her head into the floor until her skull shatters with a sound resembling a thick eggshell cracking. I twist her head around and she jerks one last time before going still. Picking at the bone fragments, I clear them away, find the chunky goodness. It’s soft, much softer than skin and muscle. Small pieces come away in my hands, and I shove them into my mouth, groan with the pleasure of the taste, the texture. This is what I needed.

  Fulfillment overcomes me as I scoop out the last of it, lick my fingers clean. If I were a cat, I would purr right now. Instead, I release a moan of pure pleasure and contentment.

  From somewhere on the other side of the desk comes the sound of sniffing, followed by a growl. The shadows change as something large passes between me and the light. I turn to face the threat, arch my back.

  My pursuer appears around the desk. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor, head down in a subservient position. As I stare at him, contentment forgotten, he crawls toward me, whimpers. I snarl, slap the ground with an open hand, feint toward him.

  “Mine,” I say. He can get his own.

  He lowers to the floor, flattens himself against it.

  I growl again, but then I start to feel weird. My vision clears, no longer foggy. The smell of feces assaults my senses, shaded with a strong, flowery perfume. I start gagging. My eyes water, and I look down at what I’ve done. My hands and arms are covered with gore. A weird paste coats my tongue, my teeth. A young woman lies on the ground, neck twisted, head caved in and empty. Her neck has been chewed down to the spine on one side, bone shining whitely through torn muscle and skin.

  The man remains flattened on the floor, but he creeps slowly closer, dragging himself across the carpet.

  I did this. I killed this woman. What are we, me and this man? What kind of monster flees an attacker just to become one herself?

  Horrified, I stand up and run around the desk, escape the room. My feet fall across the carpet with a pomp, pomp until a cool marble wall presents itself, and I lean against it. From the room I’ve just fled, the sound of crunching begins, accompanied by wet sounds. He’s snacking on the corpse.

  A bathroom lies down the hallway in the opposite direction, and I sprint toward it. The door is wood, grainy and smooth at the same time, when I press my hands to it. It opens with only a mild squeak, and I’m inside, a light automatically turning on above me to illuminate the three stall bathroom with a bright, harsh glow.

  My stomach feels heavy, but when I try to force what I’ve just consumed out, it proves impossible. I look down, press my hands to my swollen belly. I try one more time, forcing two fingers down my throat as far as I can. While it makes me gag, still nothing comes up.

  Slamming out of the stall, I lean over the porcelain sink, press my hands into the cool counter. The reflection that stares back at me looks wrong. There is blood everywhere. My chin, my nose, my hair, my clothing. Something thick and white is smeared across one cheek. It takes me a moment to realize there’s a milky film over my eyes. It’s faint, but I can see it thickening and creeping back across the iris from the sides, like a mirror fogging up. My dark hair is matted, a knot hanging against one ear.

  Why did things change when I ate the brain? It appears to improve my senses, but only for a short time.

  I turn the faucet on, wait for the water to warm. A good scrub clears the gore from my face and hands, but there’s nothing I can do about my hair or clothing. I can feel the injuries around my body. There’s more than just the hurt ankle.

  The hallway is clear when I leave the bathroom. Maybe the man is still snacking away, or perhaps he’s wandering around somewhere up here. The safest bet is probably to head back down the stairs, try a different floor.

  My vision is growing foggier again, blurry around the edges. Sounds are muffling.

  A search of the fourth floor turns up a coat, but no other clothing. I don’t get lucky again until the second floor, where there’s a gym. In one locker, there’s a clean pair of sweatpants and a tank top. The scent of sweat and deodorant hangs in the air. A hot shower cleanses the filth from my body, blood and bits of skin sluicing across the tile and into the drain. In addition to my ankle, abrasions cover my back, my other leg, one arm, and my neck. There are places that will definitely be bruised tomorrow. What happened tonight? Why can’t I remember?

  Drying off, I slip into the sweats and tank before using a brush from the same locker.

  I feel more human now, though something tells me that is exactly what I am not. Not anymore. Something has changed, something vital.

  This time when I look in the mirror I seem more myself, though my skin has paled to the point of near-translucence. My veins seem darker. The film over my eyes has thickened all across, no sparkle visible, only a flat, dusky blue.

  When I step out of the gym, the wall of windows before me shows deep, velvety darkness. Street lamps trace the line of a road out front. Nothing looks familiar to me, yet I have to have gotten here somehow. There are no cars out front, and the portion of the parking garage I saw earlier was empty of cars. Perhaps I got here by train or cab.

  Even if I figure out a way to leave, where will I go?

  My brain is growing foggy like my vision. Maybe it’s time for a nap. A room on the third floor had bean bags in it, a daycare probably. I can grab some sleep, refresh my brain. Then I need to figure out who I am, where my home is.

  The trek up the stairs is slow as my body grows increasingly sluggish. My feet scuff across each step, and it becomes harder to lift them as I climb. It’s only one floor up, yet it feels like I’m climbing Mt. Everest. My injured ankle fights me, and my foot drags behind.

  When I reach the red door with the red number three next to it, I slump against the wall with relief. I take a moment to gather my energy before trying to push through the door. At first, it doesn’t budge. I push harder, lean my weight against it. It slips open a little bit, and I’m able to tumble through, catching myself before I fall.

  A quick search of the daycare provides several small blankets. I shove the bean bags together into a nest before slumping onto them. The blankets aren’t as warm as I’d like, but they’re better than nothing. They’re soft against my battered flesh. And they smell like food.

  In no time at all, darkness overtakes me.

  ***

  Jumbled sounds.

  Children’s voices.

  Footsteps.

  Shrieks and giggles.

  A woman’s voice: “Come on in, guys. Put your jackets in your cubbies and meet me on the rug.”

  The smells are titillating.

  I’m incredibly hungry.

  Where am I?

  The scent of food is all around me,
warm and pulsating against my senses.

  Something in the back of my mind tells me I should leave. Run away right now.

  Why would I do that? There’s a smorgasbord nearby. I just know if I can grab something to eat here, I won’t have to eat more for days. Hell, weeks.

  My corner of the room is still dim. I lie in wait, nestled in my cocoon. Soon, I will break free, become something better. I just need some brains, and then my metamorphosis can occur.

  The children chant the day of the week, the date, the weather. They say the pledge of allegiance. The teacher leads them in a song, her voice as sweet and clear as the children’s. It soothes me.

  A little while later, they break apart, activity all over the room. The lights above me come on, and I wince at the brightness. It’s an assault on my eyes, my brain. It hurts.

  Pain makes me angry.

  A woman approaches, not looking down at me. Her hair is long and blond, her face round. She wears a long, loose dress, her feet in sandals. I sniff before I can stop myself. She looks over, and our eyes meet.

  She freezes.

  I tense.

  “Kids,” she calls, voice lilting above the shaking. “Kids, I want you to go visit Mr. Patterson at the bank. Surprise field trip!” A cheer goes up around the room.

  She still hasn’t moved.

  “Right now,” she says, firmly.

  I hear their little feet moving, but I don’t look away from her, just as she doesn’t look away from me.

  As their voices fade away, she addresses me. “What are you doing in here? You need to leave.”

  I can tell she knows there’s something wrong with me, but do her suspicions do the truth justice?

  When I try to reply, it comes out all wrong. I can’t tell if I’m saying real words or not. What I want to say is that I’m hungry. I want to tell her that I need her brain, that I have no choice. She looks confused, her face scrunched, eyebrows almost touching. She leans toward me, listening.

  Though I feel sluggish, I move fast. If it weren’t for the beanbags, I would be on top of her. Instead, my feet slip from beneath me as I push off, and I fall. She shrieks and runs away from me as I scramble out of the blankets and cushy beanbags. She’s quick, and my body is moving slow again after the initial burst of speed. My foot drags, my arm hangs limp at my side. My head feels so heavy that I can’t lift it. It hangs over my right shoulder.

  Doesn’t she know I can’t think right without food?

  She’s too far ahead of me as I shuffle after her. Probably, I can’t catch her, but I’m going to try. I’m no quitter.

  And I’m hungry.

  I follow her out to the hallway. There are other people out here, people who smell almost as good as the kids. She pushes past people, yells for them to run, but they just look at her with stupid expressions. Cattle. Sheep. Livestock in the halls of a business plaza.

  Yes, she’s out of reach, but these people aren’t. A man pauses in front of me, turns his head to watch her. Slowly, he turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised.

  Stupid man.

  I’m on him in seconds, tearing at his throat, his face. His lower jaw comes away, my teeth meeting his, grating. I spit it out at a woman gaping at me a few feet away. She screams, flees. Briefly, I wonder why she hadn’t already done that. But I don’t really care.

  The man is struggling under me, but he’s weak, blood flowing from his throat. I remember the woman at the desk, grasp his head in my hands, and slam it onto the ground until I hear that blessed sound. Crack. His skull yields to me, and I feast.

  At least, I feast until something hits me from behind. I turn to look. There stands a man holding a cane. He’s old, slow. His lips are pressed together, nostrils flared. He hits me again, right in the face.

  “Get off him,” he says to me.

  I don’t want to.

  The brains I already ate are starting to work. My senses have improved, and I feel like I can move at a regular speed again. The crazy bastard is still facing me, cane brandished. I turn my back on him, yank a large chunk of brain out of the first man’s head. When I face the cane man again, I shove the brain in my mouth, chew it with my mouth open. His face changes, lips drawing back in disgust, eyes widening. His cane arm begins to drop as he stares, but when I shift my entire body in his direction, he raises it above his head.

  “Get away from that man, and I won’t hit you again.”

  He’s brave. If I wasn’t so hungry, I might appreciate that trait. Instead, I leap. His head cracks against the floor just the way I like it. He’s soft and flabby, his body giving beneath me. The cane clatters to the floor next to him.

  “I respect you,” I say, and then I grab the cane, jam it into his mouth as he bucks beneath me, and wrench it like a tire jack. I hear a snap as his jaw unhinges, but it doesn’t get me to his brain. He’s screaming, a high pitched sound. It becomes a whistle when I stick the cane as far as it will go and wrench it again.

  The screaming stops. I can see the brain, but only a little. Sticking my lips to the hole, I suck at the meat, stick my tongue into it. It needs to be softened up.

  I break the cane, study the jagged edge. People are still running and screaming, but they are far away from me now, their noises distant. Outside, sirens sound. The high pitched whines reverberate around me. I’ve got time to finish.

  The jagged point of the cane fits perfectly in the cavity, and I swish it around, break up the tissue. This time, when I put my mouth to the hole, I’m able to suck out the brain, which is now the consistency of cottage cheese. I slurp with pleasure, pause, look around to be sure no one witnessed the rudeness. Then I return to it. There’s no one to hear me. Slurp away, me.

  I finish up and lie beside the man, pat him on the chest. “Thank you for your contribution.”

  The ceiling is made of metal panels, and I stare at my reflection next to cane man. It’s blurry, but I can tell I’m covered in blood again. Guess I can’t help it. Time to embrace my new look.

  “Stay where you are. Roll over and put your hands above your head.”

  A police officer stands a few feet away. His uniform shirt is light blue, his pants dark grey. I can see fear in his face. He holds his gun out in front of him, just as I’m sure they teach at the Academy. Grips it with two hands. It’s aimed at me, a single black eye, staring.

  I sit up, and he fires once. It hits me in the chest, and I stare down in surprise. A dark red hole has formed there. Is that my heart, pulsating beneath my chin?

  “Officer, why? I just needed to eat. I’m the hungriest I’ve ever been.”

  “I told you to get on your stomach, put your hands over your head. Do it now.”

  Two more officers run up behind him, take in the sight before them, eyes darting between the bodies and the gaping hole in my chest. They both draw their own weapons, point them at me.

  I smile, tasting the copper penny flavor of blood in my mouth. My own this time.

  Shifting into a crouch, I stare them down. There are now three black holes trained on me. Obviously, they’re willing to shoot; the first guy did.

  Glancing around, I look for an exit. If I run, they shoot. If I charge, they shoot. If I lie down, they take me away, and I starve.

  I’d rather get shot.

  There. The door to the stairs. It’s not far. If I can get to the parking garage, I can reach the outside.

  Turning to face them again, I wink. I want them to know it’s okay that they have to shoot me. I’m a bad thing now, a monster. But if I can eat enough, I can think long enough to solve this problem. I can find a way to stay fed without having to kill people. Wouldn’t that be the best all around?

  I run, but not like a woman. No, I bound on all fours, gliding over the first man I took down. Shots fire. Heat sears through my already injured foot then my side. It doesn’t matter. The door is close, and I make it, pulling it open and darting through it as one more bullet tears through my stomach, leaving a fiery trail behind it like the tail of a c
omet.

  It doesn’t take me long to get to the garage level. When I burst out the door, the man who ate my ankle is there. He’s moving slowly, head tilted forward, too heavy for his neck. He lifts it a little to look at me when I near him, shakes his head. One of his arms lifts, crooked index finger pointing toward the yellow exit sign. His head shakes again. Is he telling me it isn’t safe that way? It appears so. He groans and nods his head to the left.

  We both go that way, not as fast as either of us would like, I’m sure. He’s dragging behind me, hasn’t had the benefit of fresh brains. There’s a small grey metal door against the far wall. If I can make it, it might be an exit.

  The stairwell door opens, slamming against the wall with a crunch. I move faster, eyes trained on the grey door. Their voices climb over each other as they yell, “Get down, sir. We need you to get down. She’s dangerous.”

  He groans, and I hear, “What the hell?”

  Yep, he’s the same as me, guys. And I’m mere steps away from the door.

  A volley of shots sounds. Behind me, he grunts, then there’s the impact of a body on the floor.

  That’s when the fires begin. Bullets are tearing through me. I can’t count how many have found a path into my body. The door looms ahead, and I slam into the bar. It opens, and sunlight blasts me in the face.

  So warm.

  So bright.

  I tumble to the ground, half in the garage, half in the bottom of the concrete stairwell. Rolling over, I stare into the sun. It burns my eyes, but I welcome the blindness that comes as the darkness swallows me.

  Know Thy Neighbor

  Rebecca stepped out her front door into the cool air, her tension ebbing as the night embraced her. Stars sprinkled the sky and a Cheshire cat moon grinned down upon her. A slight breeze stirred the leaves of the trees along the street, whispering in calming tones as it carried the scent of grass.

  She did her stretches to limber up then took off at a brisk walk up the hill to her right. The houses she passed were overwhelmingly dark, but this only served to make her feel relaxed. She so rarely got any privacy with a husband who worked from home and three kids ranging in age from five to fourteen.