u/therealdocturner

The last thing I remember is my mother screaming. A flash of headlights. The screech of twisted metal. The smell of copper.

For a long time, I felt as if I was in some kind of dream until the ringing woke me up.

A small black room. An overhead light shining down on a tiny wood table and a chair. In the middle of the table is a telephone. One of those old ones I’ve seen in pictures. No buttons, only a plastic numbered dial on the front of it.

The ring is loud and constant and I don’t want to pick it up. I think I know what happened to me and my mom. I think I’m dead.
I really don’t want to pick up that phone.

-

I’ve been sitting here for so long. There’s no hidden doors. No hidden cameras as far as I can tell.

There’s only the constant ring. My stomach turns just thinking about answering it. I’ve actually tried several times to get the nerve up, but I started pouring sweat and my heart was pounding so bad, I was afraid of having a heart attack.
Can dead people have heart attacks?

-

I can’t sleep. The phone doesn’t stop. I tried to unplug it, but there’s no wires running to it. It shouldn’t be ringing, but it is.
If I don’t pick up that phone, I might be stuck in here forever. But  if I do pick it up, I may go somewhere worse.

-

The phone finally stops. I can hear myself breathing in the silence. Oh my God… it actually feels peaceful. The light overhead starts to flicker. It makes a series of angry buzzes until it eventually just goes out. The darkness and the total silence is too much. I open my mouth. I’m quiet.

“Please… somebody help me… please.”

There is an answer. 
The phone starts ringing again.

-

My heart is pounding as I fumble around for the receiver. I have to do this. 
You can do this, Shelby.
I pick it up and hold it to my ear.

“Hello… hello… is anyone there… hello…”

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone, Shelby?!We’ve been trying to contact you forever!” It’s an annoyed male voice. He has me on speaker. It sounds like he’s in an office. Phones are ringing and other people are talking in the background.

“Who is this?”

“Wow. Seriously?”

“What?”

“That sounded a little rude.”

“I’m… I’m sorry. I just was…”

“Did you want to keep talking, Shelby, or would you like me to help you?” His words are clipped. His tone is terse. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Please stop talking.”

…

…

…

“Okay… I just have a few questions for you if you’ll be polite enough to let me speak. We decide where you go from here. ”

“Where I go?” He sighs. I need to shut up. Why did I ask that?!

…

…

“Yes, Shelby. We’re like… uh, triage.”

“What… um… what is that?”

“You don’t know what triage is?” He’s smiling. I can hear it. He’s got that, “Are you really that stupid?!” tone in his voice. He covers the phone with his hand on his end and whispers “...everybody ...she doesn’t even know what triage means…” I hear stifled laughter. Snorts and sniffles. A quiet female voice asks, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I’m soaked in sweat. The phone almost slips out of my hand so I push it hard against my face, and I can hear my own sweaty ear squish against the receiver. The laughter keeps going. I want to say something, but I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“You know what, Shelby… I’m uh… nevermind... I’m going to have to give you a call back… this isn’t looking good.” 

“No, wait! Please!” He breaks out in a howl before the phone goes dead in my hand. 

-

It’s so cold in here. So dark.

This is my fault. I fucked up.
It’s been days. No. Weeks.
I wish the phone would ring.
Is it ever going to ring again?

“Ned. You need to go get checked out.”

“Carl, I can’t. I can work.”

“Ned, you’re burnin’ up, man. I can’t have you on the factory floor like this. You’ve already used your two sick days. I’m sorry man. My ass is on the line. I have to refer you to a Mike. I’m sorry.”

“I’m 43, Carl. I work here. I don’t want to go out this way.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a choice.”

-

I miss doctors. I miss a lot of things. I’ve been sick for the last three days, and now that Carl has put my name into the system, I have an hour to check in with a Mike before a warrant is put out.

Everybody hurries about their business on the street. Gotta look productive. People give me a wide berth as I walk by, coughing and looking like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.
The closest Mike sits on the corner of Fifth and Elm. I’ve never had to use one. When I’ve been sick in the past, I’ve been able to hide it, but as the years and the mileage have worn on me, it's gotten to the point where hiding illness is no longer an option.

I say a silent prayer to an invisible man in the sky that everything works out, which is far more preferable to trusting in the corporate digital gods we’ve all surrendered to. 

The unit is a silver rectangular box that reminds me of a refrigerator. I miss those too. I miss when food was more than just protein mash delivered in exact portions to your apartment through pneumatic tubes.

The words, “Medical Intelligence Kiosk” are written on both sides in white reflective letters. The screen is grimy. I don’t want to touch it. I find the cleanest looking spot and bump it with my fist. A digitized smiling face lights up the screen and a soothing voice comes through the speakers.

“Hello, I’m Mike , brought to you by Merica Medical, a division of the People's Government of Merica. Go Merica! Can I have your name please?”

“Ned Myers.”

“Good morning there, Ned! Please insert your hand into the receiving slot.” I stare at the open slot. A green strip of light outlines it. There’s no way outta this. I also know what happens if this goes bad, but I don’t have a choice. I stick my left hand in the slot past my wrist and I feel a cuff inside gently close in around my wrist. 

“Thank you Ned. According to your biometric data, you are indeed Ned Myers. Thank you so much for your honesty, Ned!”

The lips on the digital face don’t quite match up to the audio. It’s putting me on edge.

“Whoa there Ned! Looks like you’ve got an elevated heart rate. There’s no reason to fret. Please try to remain calm while I continue to process your data.”

Some of the people passing by are looking at me. They’re seeing my color. The sweat that’s broken out on my forehead. They don’t look too long. No one wants to see someone having a bad day at a Mike. I feel the tiny prick on my left index finger and a graphic of a turning bloody hourglass comes on the screen.
After watching the hourglass turn for a few minutes, I feel the cuff cinch down on my wrist to the point of cutting off circulation. I can’t pull free.

“Well Ned, I have some bad news.” 

I knew it. Shit! I start unbuckling my belt. 

“You have tested positive for Bsats- 23. I have determined that your chances of survival even after vaccination is a mere 65%. Unfortunately based on your age, station,  and your credit savings you are ineligible for the new vaccine, brought to you by Merica Medical! Go Merica!”

Once I have the belt free, I loop it around my left forearm. Sweat is pouring into my eyes. Damn it! Stay focused, Ned!

“A Collections Unit will be here in eight minutes to assist you. Merica Medical would like to thank you for being a super productive citizen for the last 43 years! Good job, Ned!” A graphic of party poppers fills the screen and a soundbyte of applause comes out of the speakers. 
I cinch the belt down as tight as I can. I can feel my heartbeat traveling down my arm.

“Please remain calm, Ned. Collection comes for all citizens. Why don’t we listen to the number one viral hit from the day you were born while you wait.”

“Bad Day”, by Daniel Powter begins, because of course it had to get worse. I see that seven hundred credits have been deducted from my account for the play. 

When the belt is secure, I pull the band saw blade out of my waist band; my parting gift that I liberated from the factory I’ve worked in for the last twenty years. I take a deep breath and I go to work.

“Ned, your heart rate is still quite high. Is the song not doing the trick?”

“Fuck you!” I spit the words through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry Ned, but 2,000 credits have now been deducted from your account for the use of blatant profanity. Your available credit limit is now negative 300 credits.”

It’s an old blade. Flimsy and dull. I’m only two thirds through the bone when it craps out. The people on the street are now watching with their mouths open and their cameras out. I throw the blade down and bring my fist down on my left forearm over and over.

“Ned, please remain calm.” 

The arm cracks louder and louder with each blow, until the little bit of bone that I couldn’t cut finally gives, and I’m free. 

Mike’s voice fades behind me as I stagger away, desperately trying to figure out what to do next.

“Thank you for using Mike by Merica Medical. Go Merica!”

“Don’t forget to subscribe and smash that like button. Tad’s new video “Baby Oil, Bronzers, and Muscle Juice” will be up in a few days. And don’t miss my other channel, Cryp-Tad, where I discuss my dope, new Alt Coin and broader market trends! Live rad everybody!”
I give a wink to the camera.

My fifth video in the series of how to shred a shirt by flexing your latissimus dorsi is finally finished.
High Def Tad.  

I hit the upload button and look in the mirror over my desk. I give myself a couple of finger guns. 
Everything’s coming up Tad. 

My self improvement Youtube channel, Tad Maxxing, is blowing up. Super popular. My subscriber list is a total sausage fest based on the comments, but sooner or later, the chicks will come. I can feel it.
Tad’s got faith.

-

Time to get ready for a run before I shoot the next video. I turn on Quiet Riot’s greatest hits and zip up my favorite pair of jorts, but I don’t bother with the button. I like to keep the top open. Exposing a smooth and sculpted V root is the only way to go in public, and briefs are a definite no go with jorts. I like to give the Chief a little wiggle room when I’m running.
The Chief is what I call my dong.

I do some push ups against the bathroom sink and then I smear no less than twenty ounces of my new oil concoction all over my skin. Muscle juice is a good product to enhance definition, but it doesn't quite give the glow a body like mine deserves. You gotta be creative. I cut mine in half with baby oil and just a squirt of Avocado oil. I’m calling it, “Trickles by Tad”.
Tad thinks outside the box.

When I can make out a faint reflection in my abs of the man in the mirror, I’m good to go. I pull a fresh Vin Diesel t-shirt on. Gotta let those oils bake under cotton for a bit before filming. 
After I don my wrap around Oakley’s, it’s time to roll.

-

The Fresno sun feels good. I like to run through the wealthy neighborhoods and think about what my life will be like when I finally reach that bodacious status of Influencer. 
That’s right. Trading out the Doughboy and the Fusion for one of those crazy pools with a lazy river and a Lambo. I’m about to go viral. 
Tad’s got plans.

I’m halfway through my run when I reach the nicest house at the end of the nicest street in the city. There’s a moving van parked outside of it. There’s only one person moving furniture into the house with a dolly.

A long cool woman in a black dress; hair in a tight bun, and a blouse full of goodies that makes me want to fall on my knees and say trick or treat. She’s a little more Goth than I like, but Tad isn’t big on the whole discrimination thing.
Tad’s progressive.

She’s sweating, and the longer I look at her, so am I. 
My dating life has been in a heinous rut for the last year, but ruts don’t last forever.
Tad’s an optimist.

I run over and offer to help her move everything. I can tell she doesn’t know what to say, so I lay on the charm.

“My name’s Tad, and for the next few hours, you can put these guns to work however you see fit.” I wink and give my teeth a tongue wipe.
Classic Tad.

“I’m Belle.” 

“Well don’t worry Belle, your beast has arrived.” I flex my pecs and make Vin do the happy dance. “This is a big house. Are you all by yourself here, sweetness?”

“The sisters will be here soon.”

“Righteous.” Sisters?! Jackpot, Tad.

She asks me if I’d like to stay for dinner after I’m done moving everything. I tell her that sounds legit. She looks me up and down, taking it all in with her eyes, smiling at the bulging buffet of mucho macho laid out in front of her. 
Oh, I’m for real, baby. Just wait until the shirt comes off, that’s when the real fireworks begin.

-

She has me moving stuff into the front room while she paints the basement windows black for some reason. She’s got some weird music playing on repeat she called Bauhaus. Not really mood music for a nooner, but I can work with it.
Tad adapts.

All the dark wood furniture is really outdated. No entertainment center. No tv. There’s a ton of worn out leather bound books and lots of old paintings of naked women with perfect knockers dancing around fires in the forest. 

When she comes up from the basement, she puts blackout curtains over all the windows. It’s pretty hard to see while I’m moving her stuff, but then she unpacks a grip of giant silver candle holders and lights them. It looks like Halloweentown in here.

Moving everything takes two hours. When I’m finished, she calls me down to the basement. 
She’s standing in the middle of the basement under the only light in the room. There’s four open coffins in the shadows. She’s really into this whole dark fantasy thing. I’m down. Twilight chicks can get pretty freaky. Time for her to jump on Team Tad.
She’s motioning me over with the most adorable “pork me” eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Are you ready for dinner, Tad?” 

“So hungry.”

“How hungry?”

“I’m famished. What’s on the menu?”

“Tad.”

“You bet he is. Let’s quit the small talk.” I flex everything I got and my shirt shreds and falls to the floor. “Come on baby, it’s time to feel the noise.”
The basement door closes behind me. I hear breathing in the dark.

“Is there someone else here?”

“Only my Masters.” I realize that I’m surrounded by four naked chicks, but not hot ones.
Their skin is hanging from their bones. Red eyes. Long gnarled fingers. Gleaming sharp teeth.

Shit! Why does stuff like this keep happening to me?! If only there had been some kind of clue I might’ve seen before I walked into the basement.
There’s no way out. They’re closing in from every side. 

Game over, Tad. Game over!

I yank my phone out of my backpocket and I chuck it at the bloodsucker in front of me, but I miss. The phone goes wide and shatters one of the painted windows. A ray of light shoots in. Suddenly there’s a light so bright that I have to put my Oakley’s back on. The ray of sunlight reflects off of every curve of my well oiled body and fills every corner in the dark room with the afternoon sun.

I stand still, afraid to move, while my body turns into a blazing beacon of buffness. The vampires around me scream and burst into green flames. The whole basement starts to burn as they try to put themselves out. One of them falls into Belle, and she goes up along with it.

Time to bail. I tear ass up the stairs and out of the house. I don’t know what to do. If I go to the cops with this, they’ll have me evaluated again. 

-

I walk home, as the sun sets and fire trucks pass by. Why can I never meet nice girls… Maybe there’s something wrong with me…Maybe forty really isn’t the new twenty five…Maybe I should just give up on chicks…

No. 

I can’t do that. Vin wouldn’t give up.

Tad will prevail. Not today, but someday. Tad will prevail…

“Don’t forget to subscribe and smash that like button. Todd’s new video “Baby Oil, Bronzers, and Muscle Juice” will be up in a few days. Don’t miss my other channel, Cryp-Todd, where I discuss my dope, new Alt Coin and broader market trends! Live rad everybody!”
My fifth video on how to shred a shirt by flexing your latissimus dorsi is finally finished.
I hit the upload button.
Everything’s coming up Todd. 

My self improvement Youtube channel, Todd Maxxing, is blowing up. Super popular. My subscriber list is a total sausage fest based on the comments, but sooner or later, the chicks will come. I can feel it.
Todd’s got faith.

-

Time to get ready for a run before I shoot the next video. I turn on Quiet Riot’s greatest hits and zip up my favorite pair of jorts, but I don’t bother with the button. Exposing a smooth and sculpted V root is the only way to go in public. 

I do some push ups against the sink and then I smear no less than twenty ounces of my new oil all over my skin. Muscle juice is good for definition, but it doesn't give the glow a body like mine deserves. I cut mine in half with baby oil and a squirt of Avocado oil. I’m calling it, “Trickles by Todd”.

When I’m good to go, I pull a fresh Vin Diesel t-shirt on. Gotta let those oils bake under cotton for a bit before filming. 
After I don my wrap around Oakley’s, it’s time to roll.

-

The Fresno sun feels good. I like to run through the wealthy neighborhoods and think about what my life will be like when I finally reach that bodacious status of Influencer. 
Todd’s got plans.

I’m halfway through my run when I reach the nicest house at the end of the nicest street in the city. There’s a moving van parked outside. There’s only one person moving furniture into the house.

A long cool woman in a black dress; hair in a tight bun, and a blouse full of goodies that makes me want to fall on my knees and say trick or treat. She’s a little more Goth than I like, but Todd isn’t big on the whole discrimination thing.
Todd’s progressive.

My dating life has been in a heinous rut for the last year, but ruts don’t last forever.
I run over and offer to help her move everything. I can tell she doesn’t know what to say, so I lay on the charm.

“My name’s Todd, and for the next few hours, you’re free to put these guns to work.” I wink and give my teeth a tongue wipe.
Classic Todd.

“I’m Belle.” 

“Well Belle, your beast has arrived.” I flex my pecs and make Vin do the happy dance. She asks me if I’d like to stay for dinner after I’m done moving everything. I tell her that sounds legit. She looks me up and down, taking it all in with her eyes, smiling at the bulging buffet of mucho macho laid out in front of her. 
Oh, I’m for real, baby. Just wait until the shirt comes off, that’s when the real fireworks begin.

-

She has me moving stuff while she paints the basement windows black for some reason. She’s got some weird music playing on repeat she called Bauhaus. Not really mood music for a nooner, but I can work with it.

All the dark wood furniture is really outdated. There’s a ton of worn out leather bound books and lots of old paintings of naked women with perfect knockers dancing around fires in the forest. 
She puts blackout curtains over all the windows. It’s hard to see while I’m moving her stuff, but then she unpacks a grip of giant silver candle holders and lights them. It looks like Halloweentown in here.

When I’m finished moving everything, she calls me down to the basement. 

She’s standing in the middle of the basement under the only light in the room. There’s four open coffins in the shadows. She’s really into this whole dark fantasy thing. I’m down. Twilight chicks can get pretty freaky. Time for her to jump on Team Todd.

“Are you ready for dinner, Todd?” 

“I’m famished. What’s on the menu?”

“Todd.”

“You bet he is.” I flex everything I got and my shirt shreds and falls to the floor. “Come on baby, it’s time to feel the noise.” I hear breathing in the dark. “Is there someone else here?”

“Only my Masters.” 

I realize that I’m surrounded by four naked chicks in the dark, but not hot ones.
Their skin is hanging from their bones. Red eyes. Long gnarled fingers. Sharp teeth.

Shit! Todd really is on the menu.

There’s no way out. They’re closing in from every side. 
Game over, Todd. 

I yank my phone out of my backpocket and I chuck it at the bloodsucker in front of me, but I miss. The phone goes wide and shatters one of the painted windows. A ray of light shoots in. Suddenly there’s a light so bright that I have to put my Oakley’s back on. The ray of sunlight reflects off of every curve of my well oiled body and fills every corner in the dark room with the afternoon sun.

I stand still, afraid to move, while my body turns into a blazing beacon of buffness. The vampires around me scream and burst into green flames. The whole basement starts to burn as they try to put themselves out. One of them falls into Belle, and she goes up along with it.
Time to bail. 

-
I walk home, as the sun sets and fire trucks pass by. Why can I never meet nice girls… Maybe there’s something wrong with me…Maybe forty really isn’t the new twenty five…Maybe I should just give up on chicks…
No. 
I can’t do that. Vin Diesel wouldn’t give up.
Todd will prevail…

“Grandpa, can’t we just use the chair?”
She’s annoyed that I insist on using the cane. She’s got those damn glasses on. I haven’t seen her eyes in so long. 

She’s watching whatever feed is being piped in from the system. Her ears are filled with those little plugs that complete the illusion. Anything to take her mind from reality.
She’s picking me up for my appointment. 

-

We walk as fast as my old legs can carry me through the rest home. We walk past all of the other residents in their beds and their wheelchairs. The nurses are lazily milling around the halls pretending to care. Both the residents and nurses all have their glasses on. Those wonderful little corporate lenses that put a glossy veneer over everything; washes away and makes new.

Everything is a dark orange outside. The smoke in the air isn’t as severe today.
The last tree outside the home is dying. Only a handful of the daffodils came in this spring. The flower beds are left to the weeds.

-
“I hate this car. Doesn’t anybody drive anymore?” 

She doesn’t answer. Neither does her son. He’s too busy drooling in the backseat. I’ve never even heard my great-grandson speak. Both he and his mother are lost in their digital fantasies. They’ve got no truck with paying attention to an old man yelling at the clouds. 

The inside of the car is nothing more than a smooth tube with seats. Steering wheels are a thing of the past.

Who’s steering anything anymore?

-

“Stacey…Stacey?!” She turns her head. “When is the last time you actually talked to your son?”

“Grandpa, I talk to him all the time. If you got the implant, you’d know that.”

“No. I’m not talking about neurally. When was the last time you actually spoke to him?”

“Grandpa… you’re the only person I have to talk to like this. Things are different now.” 

-

Stacey lost both of her parents in a car crash seven years ago. Automobile malfunction. They didn’t have their hands on the wheel. They died watching a wonderful world of pixels. They didn’t feel any pain at the end, only joy; their neural units triggered a stream of serotonin and dopamine that coursed through their bodies. At least that’s what the Medical Unit said.

The worst part wasn’t losing my daughter. That happened long before she died. The worst was the funeral.

A silent church filled with people all linked through their glasses and earphones. I sat there crying alone, not for my daughter, but for the world I gave her.

-

I tried the glasses and earphones once and that was enough. Everything and everyone was beautiful through those lenses. Nothing was dirty, scarred, or marred in any way. The two prongs that curled down into my nostrils made the smell of decay in the rest home go away. It was replaced with the smell of a world that only exists in my memory. I can only imagine how immersive and irresistible it would be if I had ever got neural implants.

I looked in a mirror and saw myself the way other people do through the lenses. I looked twenty five again, but better than I ever did at that age. 

Perfect. 

There’s two generations of people who don’t even know what old looks like.

-

As we pull up to the dentist, I shake my head at the state of the building. A grey unfinished concrete box with no windows. There’s no such thing as windows anymore.

There’s no reason to look outside.

-

I sit in the silent waiting room. I lean over and touch Stacey and she looks at me.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I put your mom in front of a screen. I didn’t do my job. None of us did.” I tell her all of my regrets and the things I would do differently. I tell her how much I loved her mom and how much I love her. I stop talking. 
“Stacey…Stacey?”

“I’m sorry. I had a call from the office. What were you saying?”

“Nothing.”

-

Time for a cleaning. The technicians lumber into the room and strap on the head restraint to keep me aligned with the machine. Once they’ve got me in place, one of them tells me that they’ll be back in twenty minutes. A digital clock on the wall counts down.

19:59

19:58

19:57

My hands grip the arm rests as the Dental Unit descends. A robotic spider-like thing anchored to the ceiling with a small light on the bottom of it. I can see my reflection in the shiny finish of the machine.

Two small metal arms from the unit hold my mouth open while two other arms start scraping my teeth. I try to put my mind somewhere else, but the smell of something burning brings me back into reality.

Hot plastic and metal.

A thin wisp of smoke is coming from the Dental Unit. 

That’s strange.

I feel my mouth open wider and my jaw pops.

The scraping speeds up. One of the scrapers leaves my teeth and digs into the inside of my cheek. The other arms that were motionless begin to jerk and spasm. I try to call for help.

I try to free myself from the head restraint, but my fingers find no weakness in the cold metal.

My body flails, but my head remains still.

An arm descends with a syringe and jabs it repeatedly into my tongue. I can taste the blood pouring from the inside of my cheek as the scraper moves further down my throat.

The drilling arm descends and moves into my mouth, and grinds through my front teeth, past the gums, and then into my jaw. Another arm sprays a constant stream of water, sending ground bits of my teeth down my throat.

No one is coming to help.

I look at the digital timer.

18:37

18:36

18:35   

It started with the cats. They came out of the woods and into the town. Stray cats were nothing new, but this was different. None of them were feral creatures.

All of them well fed.

All of them friendly.

There were easily over a hundred of them, in the beginning.

The tiny shelter was overrun even as more cats were found. People started adopting them. No one wanted to see that many animals euthanized.

Townsfolk called friends in other counties to find homes. Mrs. Grady was one of those people, and despite Sheriff Grady’s objections, she brought three of the cats home and gave each of them a collar with a little bell.

She was always of a whimsical mind, so it was when she named her new brood. 
Ripley, a black lanky female. Tibbs, an orange tabby. Meekus, an overweight Maine Coon mutt who never stopped eating.

On a Tuesday morning, Sheriff Grady was asked to do a wellness check at the Manchester House on Mill Creek Road just days after the new cats invaded his couch. No one had seen old Dr. Graf for two weeks.

Sheriff Grady was met with the sight of old Dr. Graf, dead on the front steps of the mansion in the middle of the woods. A self inflicted gunshot. He was holding a diary and the gun lay on the steps. A note was pinned to his chest.

“Too weak to go on. The research isn't finished, but I can’t let it die with me. I finally created something that will live beyond my life. This, at the very end of my life, I have brought unto the world. Veni, vidi, vici.”

Dr. Graf was an eccentric old cuss. There were many theories. Many in town thought he was a retired government agent, though he never said so. He wished to be left alone, and so he had been for the fifty years he had lived in the Manchester House.

The front doors were open. No one had ever been inside the house other than old Dr. Graf. Children steered clear of it for fear of what might go on behind those ornate gothic doors and amber stained glass. It was a four storey angular nightmare tucked back amongst cedars and dogwoods, bedecked with crumbling stone corbels and wrought with curling iron lacework.

As Sheriff Grady made his way inside, it reeked of urine and litter. The marble floors were sticky and crunchy with it. There was nothing on the walls. No couches or chairs, only stained mismatched cushions and old mattresses thrown helter skelter about on every floor. Overflowing litter boxes were scattered everywhere.

After a thorough search of the house, he made his way into the basement. Inside was a vast laboratory decorated with archaic and repurposed medical equipment. Torn pages of equations and theories scrawled in languages and characters Grady had never seen were tacked into the walls. Dozens of syringes and tiny vials awash in red residue were smashed on the floor, glittering under the fluorescent lights. In the middle of it all, there was a rusty iron cage, and inside of that was an emaciated dead man.

There was a single shot to his head and track marks on his arms and legs. 

The scene was processed with as much vim and vigor as one would expect from a county Sheriff and his part time deputies.

Word of the scene spread throughout the day. Grady had no answers, as he was busy trying to decipher the chicken scratches left inside the weathered leather diary. 
The day dragged on. Grady grew more and more anxious about the coroner's report. Only after receiving it would he make any kind of statement to the town.

Dusk was rapidly approaching when Grady neared the end of the diary. A detailed procedure about some kind of  blood transfer. He turned the page and a shiver slinked down his spine.

The recipients of the transfer; Graf’s cats.

Grady’s phone rang. The coroner had unusual information. There was something strange about the bodies. The man in the cage wasn’t an addict. Those were not track marks on his arm, rather they were hastily performed punctures with a syringe. Blood draws. The man had been nearly drained of all of his blood.

The coroner went on to explain that the man in the cage was shot after his death, while Dr. Graf died of the self-inflicted wound. Grady watched the moon rise through his window while the coroner delivered his last bit of information. 

Both of the bullets were silver.

There was a moment of silence between the men, and then the phone lines began to light up.

-

Sheriff Grady ground the pedal into the floorboard, desperately trying to call his wife at the same time. There was no answer from her.

The town was being overrun. The other deputies were begging for assistance over the radio. Gunfire accompanied their pleas. The descriptions from the radio matched what Grady was able to see with his own eyes as he blazed through the stoplights of town.

Lithe and limber three foot animals, streaking hither and thither on two legs, resembling something feline yet also wolf-like. The muscular mutants were roving in cut-throat clowders, mauling pedestrians, invading homes, killing neighborhood pets along with the neighbors themselves.

The violent vocalizations of the creatures wafted through the besieged buildings and out into the night.

Grady, in his haste to get home, mowed through a pack of the murderous moggies, only to look in his rearview and watch them get back up.

Grady came to a sudden stop in front of his home. He lit out of his cruiser and pulled his gun, screaming for his wife. He found what was left of her on the couch. The fat gray thing she had adopted days before was daintily dining on her innards.

He raised his gun, only to hear the quiet jingle of bells coming from behind him.

The engines rev. The crowd roars and the cameras are on. Time to defend my title. Time for glory.

The announcers words are gibberish, lost in the sound of metal and the beating of my heart. I look over at the other drivers. The governor upped it to twelve. More chaos equals more engagement with viewers. Ratings have been slipping.

All of the copilots are screaming, begging for mercy, trying like mad to rip free of their auto cuffs. Mine spits on my windshield. 

The countdown begins. I yank on my belt. It’s tight. I grip the wheel and grind my fingers into it. I feel the pulse underneath me.
5

One rotation. That’s all it takes to be a champion.
4

Karkazian and I lock eyes. My main competition. He’s young and hungry, but that means nothing when you’re racing on the deck.
3

He said he was going to take my title. He said he had the perfect copilot. I’m afraid he may be right. I have doubts about the one I picked.
2

It’s been a long time since I’ve been afraid of anything. My fingers are trembling. I’m pushing against my own restraints. My mouth is a desert. My heartbeat is a thundering twitch behind my eyes. I missed this feeling.
1

I give the war cry when the green drops and the auto cuffs on my copilot's wrists release and retract back into the hood. I have to get just the right amount of speed so he doesn’t try and hop off. I pull gears and my copilot’s knuckles go white from his grip on the hood. I’ve got him. He’s not going anywhere.

One of the other drivers gooses it too hard and his copilot loses his grip. He rolls off of the hood and falls underneath the next car. 

One down.

The music in the arena is a driving beat and the audience stamps their feet on the bleachers in time. Their cheers are electric. Just under three hundred million are watching from home. The pressures on. Each of the drivers tries to get ahead. They go too hard, too fast.

Fools. 

This early in the race, that’s a great way to lose your copilot. Two more let their copilots fall off their hoods. Three drivers disqualified now before they’re even a quarter of the way through. I keep my acceleration steady. 

Coming up on two hundred.

I watch my copilot’s fingers. His position. The way he’s sliding to one side. It’s hard to accelerate and keep them from listing one way or the other. It’s even harder to give a subtle turn of the wheel to keep him in the middle of the hood, but I know what I’m doing.

Another driver loses his copilot into the first turn. 

Karkazian is in front of me. Just where I want him to be. The drivers behind us can’t handle the pressure. One of them overcorrects to keep his copilot from sliding, and it’s over for all of them.

The grind and screech of metal. The smell of gasoline spilling. The cheers of the audience and the roar of fire. The crash behind me lights everything up. When I was young, I would have looked in the rearview to see the carnage, and just as I hoped, Karkazian does.

It’s just enough of a break in his concentration to swing beside him. The other drivers are done. Paste on the blacktop behind us. The copilots are wasted potential.

As we come into the final turn, we keep speed. He’s not going to do anything stupid. It’s just a race now.

Side by side we fly into the stretch. Our copilots are hanging on for dear life. 

300mph

310mph

320mph

I see the finish line. I look over at Karkazian and he looks back at me. This is an even race. By the time we hit the line, it’s anybody's guess who is going to win. It all comes down to our copilots.

I might lose. For the first time in four years, I may not come in first. No more government penthouse. No more endorsement deals. No more Wheaties boxes.

We’re almost to the line. 

My foot hovers over the brake.

Karkazian hits his too soon. A tenth of a second too quick on the draw. It happens when you’re young.

I hit it hard right on time.

Both of us watch as our copilots are propelled forward. The crowd goes silent. The only sounds are the screams of the copilots.
…
…
…

Karkazian’s copilot flies into the wall in a helluva bloody show. 

Mine flies past it. Over it. Arms flailing and body spinning, he slams into the bleachers, taking out twenty or more of the spectators. 

The crowd roars. Karkazian rips off his helmet and throws it out of the window.
I open the door and stand on rubbery legs. I was almost beaten tonight. It makes the victory sweeter.

The arena chants my name and I raise my arms and take in all of the adoration they’re giving. I smile at the cameras. These are my people. Without them I am nothing.

Oh to be alive at a time such as this!

It was 1988, and having just turned eleven years old, I was on a quest. The small mountain town where I grew up had a peddlers fair on the first weekend of September every year. The air was thick with the smells of barbeque and beer and popcorn, and everywhere you looked, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were in some Rockwellian whistle stop. A place unaware of or uninterested in the advances of the then modern times.

Deadwood Mountain loomed over the small valley where the town was built, and the fair was always held in the community park where the river snaked its way along the southern edge of grounds. Girthy oaks grew here and there through the well maintained green grass. Slides and seesaws and one of those huge spinning metal things where kids would spin themselves sick were in one sandy corner and two concrete block bathrooms were on either side.

The merchants' rickety canopies were lined in neat rows of three down the middle of the park, while all the people selling hot and tasty treats were positioned around the edges. Quiet people who enjoyed a quiet simple life would amble through the wares of the out of town vendors while they gnawed on tri tip sandwiches and overcooked churros.

Their eyes jumped from table to table, convinced that this year they might find that one rube who was unwittingly selling some forgotten treasure hiding amidst the heaps of the other worthless junk they were peddling. The oak leaves were slowly falling here and there, and a group of children were playing a game, darting through the strolling adults, snatching the leaves as they fell and stuffing them into their pockets.

There was a weather-worn gazebo in the middle of the park and a local band was singing The Mammas and the Papas and Jefferson Airplane through tinny microphones and about two pitchers of lukewarm beer. The leathery woman on the main microphone was wearing a sundress and thumping a tambourine out of time. As I walked by the front steps of the gazebo, my nose was filled with the overpowering scent of patchouli oil or what my mother referred to as “the hippy stink”. 

A friend of mine had called me the night before and told me that there was a booth that was selling old Star Wars toys for next to nothing, and the twenty dollars of allowance I had been able to save up would be just enough for me to add a piece or two to my collection.

The sun was starting to go behind the mountain, and one by one all the floodlights in the park had come on. Booth to booth I went, scouring the long wooden tables with greedy eyes, but after walking through every booth twice, I came to realize that my “friend” was probably just being an asshole and having a gay ole time messing with my hopes and dreams.

As I wandered and ducked in and out of the numerous canopies for a third and final time, I heard a voice that struck a fear in me that no nightmare ever had before or since. Kevin Anderson was there with his two friends Mike and Chris. Kevin was almost fifteen and he was starting eighth grade yet again. He had taken a particular joy in my misery ever since I moved up from the city over a year before. He was almost as tall as my father and stringy strands of scruff hung down in small patches from his ruddy face. His teeth were butter yellow and he spit when he talked, which earned him the nickname, “The Gleeker”.

A genetic throwback of a brute, the likes of which used to roam the earth speaking in grunts and growls and hurled rocks at low flying pterodactyls, but as there were no more pterodactyls to torment in 1988, Kevin Anderson’s only recourse was to grunt and growl and hurl rocks and fists at eleven year old Star Wars fans.

I did my best to blend into the crowd and I observed Kevin and his mouth breathing myrmidons laughing and pointing at a nebbish vendor wearing coke bottle glasses who had brazenly displayed old used Playboy magazines for sale in sealed bags. 

I walked in the opposite direction of Kevin and found myself near the south end of the park. There in front of me was something I had never seen in our town before, a mime. He was wearing old tramp clothes and his face was caked in white makeup. A heavy five o'clock shadow covered his jaw and made the white makeup over it look like a grey smear. He had a black beaten down beret that drooped down over the side of his head with a yellow square patch sewn right in the front of it. He looked like a crazed bum that had been beaten viciously about the face with a broken bag of flour, and he was silently performing tricks with an invisible dog.

A small group of children were sitting on the grass and watching him and his imaginary dog intently. 

There was an empty old seabag on the ground next to a small canvas sign that was hand painted; a small drawing of the man and his dog just under the words, “Artaud and Henri, The Invisible Dog!” I forgot about what I was there to find and I forgot about who it was that I was trying to avoid. I sat down on the grass and nothing else in the world mattered for a few moments.

I watched him do pratfalls and pantomime and I watched him somehow pull off incredible pet tricks with a dog that simply wasn’t there, but of course me and the rest of the kids clapped for him anyway. Artuad would reach into his pocket every so often and pull out a treat for Henri, and if Henri did the task that was required, the old mime would throw him the treat.

It was one of those beautiful moments in my life that rarely comes with each passing year as I get older; a moment where I was held captive in a wonderful innocent obliviousness that made everything else in the world unimportant.  

I laughed along with the rest of the kids when Artaud pulled out an old harmonica and started playing it. We watched a dog we couldn’t see dance to music we couldn’t hear, but our imaginations filled in the blanks. We all clapped and Artaud waved his hands and plugged his ears. Then he demonstrated the way we should be clapping without a sound and we all obliged.

The old mime bowed deeply at the “applause”; his beret almost touching the tops of his floppy leather shoes.

It was at this point when I heard a familiar laugh.

“Look at this!” Kevin and his friends had walked over and were standing just behind me. I thought about getting up and running back to my bike, but the three of them hadn’t even noticed me. They were too busy making fun of Artaud. Before long Kevin had walked through all of us sitting on the grass and he was standing next to the mime.

“Is this your dog?” Kevin pointed toward the ground and Artaud smiled and nodded his head emphatically. Then, I watched one of the most shameful and depraved displays that I had ever seen up to that point in my life. 
Kevin kicked the imaginary dog. 

Artaud exploded in silent shock and he reached down to try and protect Henri, but Kevin pushed him down. Mike and Chris ran through the sitting crowd and we watched all three of them beat Henri mercilessly. The older kids, myself included, yelled at them to stop, while the little kids cried. Kevin reached down and picked the dog up and threw it into the river at the edge of the park.

By this time, Artaud had gotten back up to his feet and lunged forward, throwing himself into the river, desperately trying to save his beaten and drowning friend. He came back up out of the water, cradling an armful of nothing, silently weeping over the state of Henri.

Kevin and his friends were laughing so hard they were almost crying. Artaud slowly took his eyes away from Henri and placed them with a burning intensity at the abusive interlopers. His white makeup was running down his face in streaks, and the black makeup under his eyes sagged down. His eyes filled with rage and his hands began to shake as they held Henri.

The menacing mug of the mime gave Kevin and his friends pause for just a moment, then they all turned and laughed, making merry at what they had done to Henri and how it had made some of the small children cry and run to their parents. I stayed there for a moment, not willing to get up just in case Kevin was still close.

Artaud laid Henri down on the ground next to his old empty sea bag and rolled up his sign. After he pushed the sign into the bag, I watched him as he gathered up multiple unobservable props and crammed them into the the bag, and to my amazement, the bag itself seemed to take on the shape of whatever he threw inside of it until it looked as if it was ready to burst at the seams under the pressure of all the intangible tricks of his trade. 

He drew the string and then heaved the bulging bag over his shoulder and his knees seemed to buckle under the load for a moment. Then he leaned down and scooped up Henri with one arm, and dawdled down the dirt path that led out of the park.
I watched him until he was completely out of view, transfixed with the knowledge that I had truly seen something that could only be described as magical and then a simple act of boorish cruelty had brought it all to an end.

I walked back to my bike, turning the whole scene over and over in my mind. I simply hadn’t noticed that I was being followed. I had hidden my bike in the narrow alley behind the grocery store and as I approached it, I heard something that made my blood run cold. 

“Where do you think you’re going, pussy?!” I turned toward the sound of the speaker and my heart began to race at the sight of The Gleeker. Mike and Chris were just behind him on either side. The single overhead light in the alley cast most of it in shadow and the three of them walked from the darkness into the light like hungry monsters.
I was frozen. I knew I could never outrun them, I knew that they would be on me before I even had a chance to get on my bike, so I put up my fists in a pitiful display that immediately made them laugh.

“You want to fight, punk? Let’s fight.” Kevin’s mind was slow but his fists were quick. His right hand flew forward toward my face but it hit something in between us that neither of us could see. I heard a dull thud and I saw a single spurt of blood shoot from Kevin’s split knuckles. It hung there in the air for a second and then began to run downward as if there was a window between us. Kevin cradled his wounded hand and although I could see him yelling, I heard no sound at all. 

The three of them tried to move forward, but they couldn’t. I watched their hands come up and their palms pressed firmly against an immovable barrier. 
They banged on the four sides of the invisible box that held them captive. They tried to push upwards, but to no avail. I watched them struggle and scream for help, but I could hear none of their protests.

Then a familiar figure waddled into the alley. Artaud walked over to the scene and dropped his heavy bag on the ground next to the three boys who had beaten his dog. He wiped his forehead and exhaled as he straightened up after putting down the heavy load. He smiled at me and gave me a wave and then began to rummage through his bag. He pulled something out of it with both hands. He seemed to struggle with the weight of it, and he pushed whatever it was against the invisible box that held the trio of terror. Their breath was starting to fog up the inside of the box. They hurled silent obscenities at the mime as he began to turn whatever it was he had taken out of his bag.

After a moment of exaggerated effort from Artaud, I realized he was turning some kind of crank and the four walls and the ceiling that were keeping the bullies at bay were starting to close in on each other.

Sheer panic erupted inside of Artaud’s invisible box as Kevin and his friends were pushed closer and closer together. The ceiling of the box was pushing downward, and they tried in vain to squat down, but the four walls prevented them from doing so. They cried and pleaded, helpless and hopeless at the mercy of the murderous mirth of the mime. 
Artaud looked at me and winked and then he began to turn his crank faster.

Kevin and Mike and Chris were pushed together by the invisible walls, closer and closer until they popped. The ever shrinking walls suddenly were awash in a red goo, and Artaud kept turning the crank until the box was nothing more than a small red cube.
The mime took the crank and placed it back in his bag. He stooped down and plucked the cube from the pavement and tossed it in an open dumpster with a gleeful flare.

He hiked up his pants and then I watched him once again heave his heavy bag over his shoulder. He walked over to me. I was frozen in fear of what was going to happen next. He frowned at first and then he smiled and tousled my hair.

Then he looked back down the alley, put his fingers in his mouth, and whistled without a sound. I watched him as he turned and walked away and then I noticed something on the ground. Wet paw prints of a small dog on the pavement, running past me and up alongside the old mime.

Another lonely night. The rain is driving hard, pinging against the sidewalk outside of my window. 

Night thirteen of trying to make it through this abysmal excuse for a book. I keep thinking that I’m going to turn a page and my opinion will change, some new plot twist to keep me interested, but it won’t.

The door to the diner opens. Life turns the page on a plot twist. A woman bundled up against the cold outside.
Our eyes meet for just a second as she shakes the water from her coat. 

She sits in the corner. I hold my book in front of me, hoping she doesn’t notice me looking at her. 

She pulls out an old beat up paperback of “Anne of Green Gables”. 

I watch her until the diner is about to close, quietly trying to find the sand to even say hello. 
Right before closing, she walks out of the door and into the rain.
I silently berate myself.

I hear the door open again. She’s there.

“Is that your car outside?” She’s talking to me. “My battery died. Could you…”
“Sure.”
-
I think she’s homeless. She’s obviously been living in her car for a while. When it’s all done, she sits in her driver's seat.

“Hey, um… if you ever make it back this way, I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee.” 

“Sure.”

I watch her drive away into the night.

Wow.
-
Another night and another cup of coffee. She didn’t come last night, tonight won’t be any different. 
I’m reading a different book, lost in words that take me somewhere.

“As I Lay Dying?” 

I look up. Several strands of her hair hang down in her face.

“Hi.”
She sits down. 

“Can I ask you something that’s going to sound weird? Do you mind if we just sit and read? It’s just… sometimes I say the wrong thing, and ...”

“I’d love to.” 

-
She hasn’t said a word all night. At first, I thought it was a little strange, but with every minute that passed, a calm drifted over me that I have never known. Just two lonely people reading in an old diner in the middle of the night. I’m in a strange and silent spell.
-
The diner closes. We both walk outside. The rain stopped, but I don’t know when. Time doesn’t mean anything right now.
She thanks me.

“For what?”

“Just sitting with me.” 

-
She comes in again around eight o'clock. 

“I’m never able to stay in one place too long, but I wanted to see you again.” There’s a wide pale scar that runs from the bottom of her neck and disappears somewhere under her shirt.
-

She sits with me all night. 
She tells me about some bad men who are looking for her and when I offer to help her, she says no.

-

I’m counting down the nights. She’s firm on when she’s going to have to be back on the road. 

I want her to stay.

-

It’s the last night. 
I take her for to the lake. It’s quiet this time of year.
We lay down on the hood of my car and stare up at the sky. She takes my hand and puts her head on my shoulder. 

-

I cradle the cup of coffee. She’s gone.
It’s almost closing time when the door to the diner opens. Two men wearing suits. One of them shows me a picture and asks me if I’ve seen the woman in it. I say no. 

-

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn all day. 

-

As the sun goes down, I make up my mind. I have to go to her. I have to tell her how I feel.

-

I find her in just under half an hour. Her car is on a back road in the middle of the forest. She’s standing in a clearing, talking to herself. I walk up behind her.
She’s shocked to see me.  

“How the hell did you find me out here?!”

“It’s kind of a long story. We’re connected.” A pair of headlights shine behind us. Another car pulls up next to hers.

“Who is that?”

“Probably the two men from the diner last night. They were looking for you.” Two car doors open and close. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them.”

“You need to run away from me!”

“Please…”

“No! Leave!”

“I’m not letting you go.”

She falls to her knees and screams. I see the full moon beginning to rise above the trees. Her screams change.  
It all makes so much sense now.

The two men run up behind me. I stand between them and her. They both have guns and order me to get out of the way, but I don’t.
She’s almost gone behind me, replaced by something of nightmares. I warn them not to hurt her, or else.

I feel a silver bullet pierce my guts.

It makes me mad.

My eyes go red. They piss themselves when they see my teeth. One of them drops his gun and makes a cross with his fingers. The other empties his gun. I kill both of the men who were hunting her.

When I face her, she’s staring down with her teeth bared. She’s in there somewhere.

Both of our dirty little secrets are plain now. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about me. I think we belong together.”

I hold up my hand for her to take it, but she doesn’t. She runs away from me into the night. 

-

Four nights of taking turns between reading a new book and staring out of the window.

The rain pings off the sidewalk and I move my eyes back to a fresh bunch of pages. I’m halfway through a new chapter when the door to the diner opens and I feel someone standing over me. She pushes a few strands of hair from her face. 

“Hi.”

Scrotopus.

Fuckin’ Metal! 

Last performance at the Warfield, where it all started. Hamos Otel was diagnosed last year. Stage 4. The fuckin’ maniacs decided to go on a farewell tour and it ends here.
The tickets were outrageous. I had to be here. So did 2400 other fans. They’ve got the most loyal fanbase. Most of them are practically cult members.

The boys went all out. They’re rockin’ behind a razor wire fence, woven in a chain link pattern that stretches to the top of the arch. There’s a giant mechanical version of their logo hanging over the audience; an octopus with googly eyes and a scrotum for a head. Two of the tentacles are playing a guitar. Two are holding flamethrowers that spout fire. Two are holding shot guns that shoot blanks. The last two are holding spiked flails. The giant balls swing over the mosh pit.

They’ve played for four hours. Their entire catalogue. Understanding The Delicate Balance, A Little Unclean, Hold The Pickle. They even did Balls.
Fuckin’ epic.

They’re finishing up Drink The Weenis Grease. Only one more song left. The big one.

Save Your Words Padre, Let Her Rip

The song I listened to over and over while I was fighting the very same thing that the lead singer is dying of.

Crazy.

I walk closer to the doors. I’m too old for moshing this long. I’ll hear the song and bounce. The last thing I want in my head is the song, not tearful goodbyes.
Hamos walks up to the mic.

“DOES ANYBODY WANT TO HEAR ME SING ABOUT TRAGEDY?!”
The crowd roars back in the negative.

“YOU READY TO GO OUT WITH ME?!”
The crowd roars back in the affirmative.

“WE’VE ALL PUT A LOT OF THOUGHT INTO OUR SEND OFF! THIS ONE WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN!”

The sound of the church organ comes in while Hamos sings into the mic. Something catches my eye above. A digital clock appears on the guitar on the mechanical Scrotopus. 

4:17

4:16

4:15

The drums come in. The guitars. The bass. There’s another sound underneath the music. One of the band's security team is wrapping a chain around the doors. I look along the walls. At every door, there’s a security guy doing the same. I look back at the one closest to me. He puts a padlock through the chain, and after he locks it, I watch him swallow the key.

Weird.

I turn back to the stage. The chorus is about to start. The wailing is about to begin. I look back up.

3:49

3:48

The mechanical Scotopus begins to descend. The tentacles holding the guitar start to move over the strings, while the other six point their weapons downward.

Fuckin’ Metal!

The flamethrowers kick it off. At first people think it’s part of the show, with the obvious exception of the people who are doused in flame. They’re screaming. Running. Rolling.

The band keeps playing. People panic and run for the exits, while others flee forward toward the stage to get away from the fire in the middle of the moshpit. Still, others are holding up their phones filming the whole scene.

Shit.

3:35

3:34

This can’t be real. Is this part of the show?

The spiked flails begin to swing through the crowd. The crack of bones is somehow louder than the music. The giant balls mow people down. They knock them upward into the sides of the walls and their bodies slink down the walls like those sticky spider toys.

Ok. I think this might be real.

The flamethrowers turn to the balcony above me and hose it down with fire. People start jumping down from the balcony down into the pit to escape.

I watch a wave of people try to push their way through the razor wire to get to the band, but it doesn’t give an inch. Another wave of people come from behind and grind the first wave into the wire. I see the soft flesh of an overweight man sliced and squished through the diamond pattern, like playdough through a fun factory. 

This is definitely real.

2:59

2:58

I’m afraid of what’s going to happen at the end of the countdown. I run for the doors. I can hear the shotguns going off behind me. They’re targeting anyone trying to get out through the doors.

The people who aren’t shot, try in vain to pull the chains from the doors. They claw at the locks. The band keeps playing.

2:23

2:22

The key. I have to get the key!

I find the body of the security guy laying on the ground. The crowd banging on the door has trampled him. I pull him away from them and I kneel over his body as the flames and bullets fly. One of the flails is stuck in the wall, trying to pull free from the plaster. One is still swinging.

I pull up the security guard’s shirt. I stare at his sweaty hairy pudge. It’s in there.

1:43

1:42

I have nothing to tear him open with. 
Wait!

 I feel the bottom of my teeth with my tongue.

I just have to rip a hole big enough to get my hands in there.

I take a breath and get to it while the metal masterpiece underscores the mayhem. The sound is almost drowning out the sound of what I’m doing. I try to imagine I’m just chewing through rubber bands.

When I’m through, I spit and dig with my hands until I find something tiny and hard in all the soft stuff.

:32

:31

I fight my way through the crowd with the key and reach the lock. Once I use the key, I’m pushed through the open doors.

I run out of the building. I hear Hamos through the speakers.

“WE LOVE YOU! GOOD NIGHT!” 

A moment later, I hear the explosion.
I look back at what’s left of the Warfield.

Fuckin’ Metal!

The house was too good to pass up. An old farmhouse in the foothills. Nearest neighbor was half a mile away. We didn’t want to raise Garrett in the city. It was everything we wanted. Our first house.
It was a flipper. Whoever flipped it knew what they were doing. The inside was completely remodeled.  High fence around the backyard. Black Oaks and granite boulders all over the property. A porch swing. It was paradise. 

Jim worked from home. I did most of the time, only having to take a trip down to LA once a month.
The only flaw? Plastic grass in the backyard. 

We hired a crew to put in real grass. They found bones. Lots of them. Dogs and cats mostly. 
It freaked me out. I had asked the realtor three times if anyone had died in the house. Of course the answer was no. I hadn’t counted on having a pet cemetery in the backyard.
One really bothered me. It wasn’t a whole dog, just a skull.

 The crew said they’d dispose of them.

Nothing happened for a week. The first thing we noticed were the scratches. Deep grooves raked into the new french doors. A stray dog? Maybe the coyotes we heard every night trying to get in?
Then the howling started a week later. The coyotes howled and barked at night, but this was different. A terrible mournful wail. We never heard the coyotes again once it started. We began sleeping with the television on.

Garret was in first grade, making lots of new friends, but he was afraid to go out into the yard. He told me that there was a mean dog outside. He told us that it would stare at him. It scared him. 
He would call me over to the fence in the backyard. “It’s right there, Mommy.” I never saw it. It got to the point where he wouldn’t go outside.

It set me on edge. Jim kept leaving the doors unlocked which didn’t help. “We aren’t in the city anymore. It’s fine.” 
I would have to lock them behind him every night.

We had our doors fixed. The scratches were back the next morning. Jim set a big metal trap to try and catch the dog. After two nights, we finally caught it. A coyote. Obviously starving and growling at us. It was biting the metal wire. 

Jim said he would call animal control first thing in the morning. When we woke up, the coyote was gone. The metal trap had been torn open. A wide trail of blood led down the steps of our porch. 
We didn’t tell Garrett. 

As the days went on, so did the howling. Garrett refused to go outside. Honestly, I didn’t even like sitting on the porch swing after dark. Jim thought I was ridiculous. He thought we were having a hard time adjusting to the city.

I made him put up motion lights. Cameras on the porch, but we never saw anything. For a while, the howling stopped.
We thought it was over.

Jim installed a firepit in the backyard. He came up with the idea of a camp out for Garrett and his friends. A sleepover with smores.

I was in Los Angeles that Friday. I wasn’t going to make it home until midnight. 

Jim said the camp out was going great. All the kids Garrett invited showed up with their sleeping bags. 
They were having a great time running around the property. He said he was out playing hide and seek with them. He hid behind the garage and saw that the landscapers had just left all the animal bones in a black yard bag in the weeds.

He didn’t want the kids to see it, so he moved them into the backyard for the rest of the afternoon.
I called a little later. Jim didn’t pick up. 

As I drove into our new town, the light for my tires went off. I knew I’d forget about it if I didn’t take care of it. I pulled into the empty gas station just before midnight.
The clerk was smoking outside.

“You live in the Ramos place, don’t ya?” The wrinkled hard woman walked over.

“I don’t know.”

“The farmhouse out on 43 just before Walker Grade?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s us.”

“Shame what that man did. Lived there for forty years and no one knew.” I finished airing the tire and asked her to tell me more.

“Ramos was an old farmer. A model citizen in town. No one knew he had that dog back there. Big son of a bitch. Named it Baal. Smart as hell, just as evil. Figured out how to open doors. Half German Shepherd, half wolf. Ramos was goin’ down to the valley, takin’ that monster to fight in those illegal rings. Heard he never lost. 
He trained  it on strays, coyotes, and cats that he trapped. Twenty years ago, that thing got out. Ramos forgot to lock the doors. Took down three kids at the grammar school. Broad daylight. Ramos got Baal before the cops did. Took him home. That night, cops show up, and Ramos gives them the dog. What’s left of it. He’d already cut off its head. Buried it somewhere. Said the only one who was going to kill his dog was him. Been in prison ever since. So many new families movin’ here, nobody really talks about that anymore. Helluva thing.”
-
When I pulled into the driveway, the front door was wide open. All the lights were on. I didn’t believe in ghost stories, let alone, ones about a dog.

I walked through the front door. 

The back glass door was shattered.
I saw what was left of Jim and the kids in the backyard. Sleeping bag stuffing was strewn everywhere. Patches of bloody snow.

Later, the police found something strange. A freshly dug hole through the new grass. The skull of a large dog had been buried.