Melt

by Christopher Motz

  "Your date is over already?" Brandon said. "That was quicker than Nicholas Cage's last marriage."

  "No! Listen," he said, trying to catch his breath. "There's something going on downtown. There was this thing... this blob... it must have come out of the pipes or something. It ate her," he shouted. "It ate her face."

  Brandon crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Is that your story? I think it's going to need a little more work."

  "I'm serious," Greg said. "It was all over her. She just... melted."

  "Melted, huh?"

  "I'm not messing around. They're everywhere. It ate a bus driver... and all the people in the theater. I've never seen anything like it."

  Brandon was privy to Greg's unusual style of humor, but this felt different. He'd never seen his friend so shaken up before. He made sure the door was closed, turned the lock, and motioned Greg into the kitchen. If he didn't know of Greg's aversion to drugs, he would have thought his best friend had gobbled a handful of mushrooms before paying him a visit.

  "Start over, slower, use your big boy words."

  Greg opened the refrigerator, pulled out a can of beer, and drank most of it at once.

  "That's my Dad's," Brandon said. "He'll kill me if he thinks I was drinking."

  "Where is he?" Greg asked. "Is he here?"

  "No. My parents went to grab takeout from the Chinese place on Adler. They should be back soon." He looked at the clock above the stove and cocked his head to the side. "They probably should have been home by now."

  "I'm telling you, downtown is fucked. If they're stuck there, you might be waiting a while. You didn't see what I saw."

  "Come on, cut the shit," Brandon said. "What's really going on?"

  Greg watched as Rambler trotted into the kitchen and ran face-first into the garbage can before stepping in his food dish and lifting his leg on a basket of clean laundry.

  "Dude, you have to put that dog down."

  "Don't worry about the goddamn dog. Tell me what you saw downtown."

  Greg finished his beer and grabbed another. "I already told you. Lizzie went to the bathroom to check her makeup. She was gone for a while so I went to check on her, and when she came out, there was some kind of blob on her face. It was small, but the more it... ate, the bigger it got. It stripped her skin to the bone in seconds. Before I took off, I saw more of them. Dozens, maybe more."

  "Blobs," Brandon said.

  "Blobs! Like the ones in that old movie, except these were brown... and they were quick. No one had a chance."

  Brandon pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat heavily. Rambler slid beneath the table, tail wagging, eating crumbs off the floor before lying on Brandon's feet.

  "That's insane," he said, scratching behind Rambler's ear. "There's just no way..."

  "Tell that to Lizzie. She's at the 'Stop-And-Fuck' melting into the friggin' ground."

  Greg took a deep breath and leaned against the counter. He closed his eyes to gather his thoughts and figure out what to do next. When he opened them, he screamed and dropped his beer on the floor. What he thought was another one of the blobs quietly eating someone's face was only Brandon's younger sister, Denice, wearing one of her ridiculous herbal shit-masks.

  "Denice, for God's sake, don't sneak up on me."

  "I wasn't sneaking," she whined. "I live here. What's your excuse?"

  Rambler slid from beneath the table with all the grace of a three-legged alligator and lapped at the spilled beer at their feet.

  "Go to your room," Brandon said. "No one wants to deal with your crap right now."

  "I came down for a soda, jerk. You don't own the kitchen."

  "No, but I am in charge when Mom and Dad aren't home, so get your ass back upstairs and let the adults talk."

  "You're not adults," she said. "You can't even grow a beard."

  "Denice, you stinking shit stain," Greg shouted. "Get out of my face before I tell your parents what I saw you doing with Bobby Sheets behind Turkey Hill."

  With a wounded cry, Denice turned and stormed up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

  "Turkey Hill?" Brandon asked.

  "Don't worry about it. Let's just say your little sister isn't as innocent as she pretends to be."

  "Can we get back to the slime-monsters please?"

  "What do you want to know? I told you everything I can. I saw what I saw. If you don't believe me, stick your head outside."

  Brandon squinted, stood, and opened the back door. At first, he couldn't hear anything, but after a few seconds came the shrill sound of police sirens and the much more disturbing sound of distant screams. He closed the door and sat, pale as a sheet and blinking rapidly. Brandon's 'eye flutter' had been an ongoing joke for years, one he and Jonas teased Brandon for mercilessly. It was Brandon's most outward sign of distress, one they found hilarious at countless sleepovers since they were eight years old.

  "Okay," Brandon said. "So what do we do?"

  "I was hoping you'd have an idea. I don't want to go back out there. If you saw what it did to Lizzie..."

  "We have to get in touch with Jonas," Brandon said. "What if he doesn't know?"

  "His old man has more guns than the Russian mob. If anyone's going to be okay, it's Jonas."

  Brandon nodded, grabbed a beer for himself, and stood opposite Greg, listening to the wet, sloppy sound of Rambler lapping the rest of the beer from the kitchen floor.

  "We can call the cops, right? 911?" Brandon asked.

  "What good is that going to do? If they get too close, they're just going to wind up like everyone else."

  "I swear if you're messing me with me I'm going to punch you in the fucking kidney."

  "I'm not messing with you," Greg said. "I tried calling my parents, but my cell service is shot."

  Brandon pulled his phone from his pocket, exhaled, and said, "Yep. I got nothing."

  He put his beer on the counter, jogged to the living room, and sat at a small antique phone desk.

  "Your parents still have a landline?" Greg said. "What is this, Mayberry?"

  Without replying, Brandon raised the receiver to his ear and frowned. "Nothing. This phone is out, too."

  "That's spectacular! How are we going to get in touch with anyone?"

  "Carrier pigeon! How the fuck do I know? This isn't exactly something I was prepared for."

  "Turn on the TV," Greg said. "Maybe they'll have instructions or something."

  "Instructions for what? How not to get eaten by angry Jello?"

  "I don't know... like somewhere we can go. An evacuation plan or something. Don't you think the military is going to get in on this?"

  "How do we know the military isn't behind it?" Brandon asked. "We can't trust them. We can't trust anyone!"

  Greg ignored him and turned on the television, flipping through channels as he chewed his fingernails. He stopped on a local news broadcast, not sure what he was looking for. He and Brandon groaned in unison as Rambler stumbled in, bounced off the coffee table, and flopped onto the carpet.

  "Dude..." Greg said.

  "I know, okay? He's old!"

  "I'm not talking about the damn dog," Greg shouted. "Look!"

  Brandon followed Greg's gaze to the fuzzy picture on the television screen.

  "Oh..."

  ***

  Gene Horvath, owner and operator of Nuts and Bolts, the only local hardware store, stared at the camera like he'd just been shot. He had blood on his shirt and held a baseball bat in his shaking hands.

  "Can you tell us anything about what's happening?" a young female reporter asked. Her long, brown hair was a mess, and her eyes darted from place to place. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the commotion behind her.

  "It's all going to hell," Horvath shouted. "One of those things got my clerk! Ate her legs right out from under her."

  "What things? Can you explain what they are?"

  "No, I can't explain it. You tell me. I saw a lot of shit in Vietnam... wait, ca
n I say that? Shit? Anyway... I saw a lot of stuff in Vietnam, and ain't nothing comes close to this. It came out of the pipes and wrapped itself around Cindy's legs... burned her down like napalm."

  "So it's alive," the reporter prodded.

  "Yes, it's fucking alive... oops, sorry..."

  "Just go on..."

  "Whatever it is, it's alive and it's fast. I was at Khe Sahn... I know how to fight Gooks, but this..."

  "Okay, that you can't say..."

  "...this is something different. Chemical warfare? I don't know!" Horvath lifted the bat and brandished it at the camera. "This is all I had time to get. A goddamn baseball bat! You have a better chance of fighting these things with a rolled-up newspaper for Christ's sake! Get your guns! Get a flamethrower if you have one..."

  The reporter nudged Gene Horvath out of the way and urged her cameraman to focus on her.

  "We apologize for the language, but as you can see, it has gotten very chaotic in the streets of Ditchburn tonight..."

  "Get your guns," Horvath shouted in the background. "Kill the sons of bitches!"

  "All we know so far is that some sort of animal or creature is running wild and terrorizing the local population. Several deaths have been reported..."

  "Not an animal, you ditzy broad," Horvath said as he jumped in front of her. "Ain't no animal that can do this. If it gets you, it's over. Shoot yourself in the fucking head..."

  "Please, sir, we're live..."

  "Don't say I didn't warn you. You're not safe anywhere, do you hear me? Get out of town... head for the hills..."

  Horvath was interrupted by a chorus of fresh screams. He turned, raised his bat, and ran off camera, leaving the reporter looking stunned and breathless.

  "Again, we're very sorry. We're live on the scene in Ditchburn where things seem to be escalating by the minute. As you can see behind me, there has been an elevated military presence over the last several minutes, but we've yet to receive any official word on what's causing this sudden outbreak of violence."

  The camera zoomed over her shoulder and focused as an assortment of military vehicles blocked the street and uniformed soldiers set up makeshift barricades.

  "It appears the Army is cordoning off sections of the downtown area," she said. Her microphone waggled in her shaking hand. "They're ordering people off the streets... they... why are they pointing their guns into the crowd?"

  A row of screaming people jockeyed for position and demanded answers as they stared down the barrels of automatic weapons. In the distance came the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

  "By special order 313, we have been given the authority to contain the outbreak and quarantine residents to their homes," a soldier bellowed through his megaphone. "Please back away from the barrier and return to your homes or businesses. Further instructions will be given as soon as the situation is under control."

  "What are they?" a woman shouted.

  "I have rights!" a man screamed on the brink of madness. "Who gave you the authority..."

  "Everything will be explained to you once the outbreak has been neutralized," the soldier said.

  "What outbreak?" someone asked. "Are we under attack?"

  "It's North Korea," a man replied.

  "Aliens," a woman added. "It's an invasion." Her head was wrapped in several layers of tin foil and she carried a spatula that she waved in front of her like a magic wand.

  "As I've explained," the soldier continued, "we don't have details at this time. Please return to your homes and await further instructions."

  "You did this, didn't you?" A man broke through the crowd holding a 9mm in his hand as stunned onlookers backed away. "This is some military experiment gone wrong and now you're here to cover it up."

  "Put down your weapon," one of the soldiers ordered, "or we'll put you down."

  "You can't do that," the man cried. "You can't just come in here and start shooting people. This is America."

  A second after he raised his gun, four soldiers took aim and fired. He danced in place as his chest exploded in a spray of blood. Half of his head disappeared as those closest were sprayed in hot, sticky gore. The crowd dispersed, running in all directions and tripping over one another.

  The automatic gunfire continued.

  One after another, fleeing taxpayers were gunned down in the street. Storefront windows exploded in showers of broken glass; vehicles were riddled with bullets and stray shots whined and ricocheted off the asphalt. The dead began piling up on the sidewalks, knocked down like ducks in a carnival game.

  "What is happening?" The reporter looked into the camera but said nothing more. Her eyes were wide; her lip quivered as tears welled up in her eyes.

  "We have to go," the cameraman said. "If they'll shoot people like rabid dogs in the street, what do you think they'll do to us?"

  "No, we can't," she said on the verge of panic. "The world needs to see this."

  "No one is going to see it if we're all dead."

  The gunfire ceased as a white van pulled behind the military blockade, the distinct logo for Wildflower Pharmaceuticals emblazoned on the side. A man stepped out, wearing a long black trench coat and Trilby hat that made his head look tiny in comparison. The entire look was ridiculous but expensive. He reached into his coat, removed a plastic ID tag, and spoke in hushed tones to the officer in charge.

  "That's Steven Gates," the reporter whispered. "What the hell is he doing here?"

  "The CEO for Wildflower?"

  "Do you know more than one Steven Gates?"

  "We have to get out of here," he said.

  Just as he did, Gates pointed in their direction and barked orders to several of the soldiers standing nearby. On his command, they jogged to the news van with their weapons drawn. A panel in the side of the Wildflower van slid open and several men hopped out, wearing all black trench coats like a group of 1930s gangsters.

  There was no warning before the men opened fire.

  The reporter turned to run as her face came apart like wet newspaper; blood and bone sprayed the lens as the cameraman grunted with repeated shots to his chest and abdomen. The camera fell to the street, filming nothing more than approaching feet.

  "I want the camera," a husky male voice ordered. "Burn the van."

  The picture went black.

  ***

  After the live feed was lost, Greg and Brandon sat staring at the screen for another minute, mouths agape, breathing like they'd just run the Boston Marathon. Greg backed away from the television as if it would reach out, grab him, and pull him into the alternate universe where American soldiers were killing unarmed civilians. He sat heavily on the couch and covered his face with his hands.

  "What the fuck did we just see?" Brandon asked. "This has to be a joke."

  "Do you think the US military doesn't have anything better to do than stage a riot in Bumfuck, Pennsylvania?"

  "You saw what they did. There's no way..."

  "Wake up, man," Greg yelled. "I told you what was happening and you didn't believe me. Do you believe me now?"

  Gunshots rang out in the distance... and they weren't on TV.

  Denice entered the room wearing a hideous pair of pajamas and waving her hand in front of her face.

  "Oh my God," she exclaimed. "Did one of you shit your pants?"

  "Shut the fuck up, Denice," Brandon ordered.

  They'd been too absorbed by the images on the screen to smell the noxious, meaty stink of lingering dog farts. Rambler raised his head, wagged his tail, and went back to being useless.

  "If you guys are going to watch TV, can you at least turn it down?" Denice asked. "It sounded like it was right outside."

  "It was right outside you idiot!" Brandon shouted.

  Denice's eyes teared up as she backed away, not from her brother's words, but by how he said them.

  "I'm telling Dad," she whined.

  "I'm sorry, okay?" Brandon stood and quickly hugged her. "There's something going on downtown, and Mom and Dad are down th
ere somewhere..."

  "What do you mean, something?"

  "I don't know! People are getting shot..."

  "You mean that wasn't on TV?" Denice asked.

  "Well, yes, but no. It was on the news... it was awful."

  "Listen," Greg said. "We have to make sure everything is locked tight and we'll stay inside. If we don't go asking for trouble, maybe we'll be okay."

  "What does that mean?" Denice asked. "What's happening? Why won't you tell me?"

  "Denice, listen to what I'm saying," he continued. "I don't fucking like you and I think the feeling is mutual, but I don't want to see you die."

  "Come on, Greg. Chill out, okay?" Brandon said.

  "I don't think hurting someone's feelings is the most important thing in the world right now, do you?" Greg asked. "Denice, please, just go upstairs, play with your fucking dolls, and let us talk."

  "I don't play with dolls, dickhead! I'll be fourteen in two months."

  "If I have to tell you again, you're never going to make it that far," Greg growled. "Go upstairs, shut your door, and go to sleep... or don't go to sleep. I don't care. I just don't want to hear your voice for the rest of the night. Can you do that?"

  "I hate you," she said. She grabbed Rambler by the collar and led him out of the room. Once upstairs, she slammed the door and screamed, "FUCK YOU, GREG!"

  Greg shook his head, took a deep breath, and said, "I don't know how you deal with her."

  "You were a little harsh," Brandon said. "She's going to tell my parents."

  "I'll be sure to write her an apology as soon as this is over."

  "Do you think we should look for another news channel?" Brandon asked. "Someone else has to be on the scene."

  "No. I don't want to see any more." Greg wiped his eyes and put his head between his knees. "They killed those people like rats. They only wanted answers... and they got murdered for it. What is the Army trying to protect?"

  "The Army... or Wildflower?" Brandon asked.

  "What?"

  "You saw the Wildflower van... and that asshole, what's his name? Steven whatever. The CEO. He plasters his smug fucking face all over the billboards along the highway."

  "I thought he looked familiar," Greg said. "What the hell would he be doing there? What does Wildflower have to do with this?" But Greg already had his theories. Maybe he wasn't so far off the mark in thinking some of the stories he'd heard were true.