Melt

by Christopher Motz

  "This begs the question - what is going on in Ditchburn tonight, and who's trying to cover it up?"

  Maitland shuffled some papers, cleared his throat, and continued.

  "I'm going to take a few calls and see if we can get to the bottom of this. Caller, you're on the air."

  "Hey, Dexter, big fan of the show," a man said.

  "I appreciate that. What's your name and where are you from?"

  "James Conroy. I live in Ditchburn."

  "So you're calling from the quarantine zone?"

  "No, man. I was already on the road when my wife called to tell me what was going on," James said.

  "What can you tell us?" Maitland asked.

  "Not much. She told me she heard gunshots and some of the neighbors were in a panic. Before I could get any details, the line went dead."

  "Gunshots? Interesting. Did you try calling her back?"

  "Yeah, several times, but it keeps saying all the circuits are busy. I can't get through to anyone in town."

  "So cell service has been shut down in Ditchburn?" Maitland asked.

  "I have no idea. I tried calling from a pay phone and still couldn't get through. I'm getting a little worried."

  "Thanks for calling, James. We're going to try shedding some light on this as the night goes on."

  Once again, Maitland ruffled something on his desk before taking another call.

  "Jennifer from Roland Creek, you're on the air."

  "Yeah, uh, I'm about ten miles north of Ditchburn, and even here cell service has been spotty for the last hour or so."

  "Have you seen or heard anything about what's going on?" Maitland asked.

  "No, not in town, but I saw the Army come rolling through here about forty-five minutes ago."

  "The Army?"

  "Well, they were driving those Hummer trucks..."

  "I don't think the Army still uses Humvees, Jennifer. Are you positive?"

  "That's what they looked like... about a dozen of them all at once. Blowing through red lights, packed with guys in green. Definitely military."

  "And they were heading to Ditchburn?"

  "In that direction."

  "Okay, thanks, Jennifer. Keep us posted if you see anything else."

  The studio suddenly grew louder as another voice joined Maitland's. Hectic, out of breath, distressed.

  "Just a moment," Maitland said. "Sit down and put on the headphones. Good? Okay. My marketing manager, Luke, has just entered the studio, and he's claiming to have video from inside Ditchburn. Luke, can you tell us what we're seeing? I apologize to those of you at home, but I'll do my best to explain what's in the video."

  "I found this on the dark web..." Luke began.

  "The dark web?" Maitland said. "You know how to access the dark web?"

  "It's 2019, Dex. A five-year-old can access the dark web. Anyway, I've watched this a dozen times, and if it's a fake, it's a damn good one."

  "Give us a minute," Maitland said. "I want to see what all the fuss is about."

  For exactly thirty-eight seconds - the length of the video - the studio was quiet enough to hear Maitland breathing.

  Then...

  "Jesus Christ! Did you see that?" Maitland shouted.

  "I told you," Luke replied.

  "I apologize for my language," Maitland said, "but I can't even begin to explain what I've just seen. What... what the fuck is that?"

  For another minute the studio was silent. When Maitland returned, he was nearly shouting into the microphone.

  "I can't believe... what... oh my God... oh my God. These guys are not US military. They appear to have military issue weapons, but the Humvees are much older and carry no distinctive markings. They're clearly trained, but they don't appear to be working for the government. God, I hope they're not. Mercenaries maybe? But who are they working for? They're killing people in the street!

  "There was... what? How can I even define it? There was some kind of creature... or bioweapon. Some sort of, like, gelatinous blob... it was attacking a crowd of people as they were gunned down by what can only be described as a mercenary outfit. Maybe black ops? This is crazy!"

  There was a loud shriek of static and the distinct sound of someone pounding loudly on the studio door. Maitland's voice came back as a thin whisper.

  "There's someone here," he said. "The power has been cut and we're operating only on a backup generator. If you can still hear this broadcast, this is not a joke, this is actually happening."

  "Open the door, Maitland," a muffled voice shouted.

  "Do it, Dex," Luke said. "I don't want to go to prison."

  "Yeah, Dex," the voice taunted. "Open the fucking door."

  The pounding grew more insistent.

  "If you can hear this," Maitland said, "someone has broken into the building and is currently ordering me to give them access to the studio. Whether this is connected to the incident in Ditchburn or not has yet to be determined, but under the circumstances, it seems pretty obvious that someone is trying to shut me up. Don't let them silence you! Get the word out... tell everyone. We can't allow these rogue factions to control the streets and the airwaves."

  The sound of the studio door being kicked off its hinges was followed by angry voices all shouting to be heard over one another.

  "Get down! Get down! Get away from the fucking board!" a man shouted.

  "You can't bust in here like this," Maitland said. "What are you doing? Wait... you can't..."

  Ten seconds of semi-automatic gunfire and the piercing feedback from the damaged soundboard followed.

  Dexter Maitland's Forgotten Places was off the air.

  ***

  Greg and Brandon stared at the radio for nearly a minute, hoping and praying that Dexter Maitland was playing some War of the Worlds prank. They'd both listened to his show before and knew he wasn't capable of this level of acting.

  "I think I'm going to throw up," Brandon said as he bent over and clutched his stomach.

  "It isn't the Army," Greg said. "It's fucking Wildflower... like some private military hired by that fucking Gates guy."

  "Would you stop yelling?" Brandon said.

  "They let something escape that lab and now they're exterminating anyone who knows about it."

  "Stop. Fucking. Talking," Brandon pleaded.

  "They're going to come for us, come for everyone. They can't risk the world knowing what it is they're really doing."

  Brandon spun, clenched his fists, and came within inches of Greg's face.

  "If you don't be quiet for two fucking seconds, I'm going to knock your teeth through the back of your throat."

  Greg swallowed and bit his tongue.

  The seconds spun out like days.

  "Can I talk yet?" Greg asked.

  "Jesus Christ, do what you want," Brandon said, relaxing and letting his arms fall to his sides. "I wasn't actually going to hit you."

  "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose it."

  Brandon's eyes blinked so quickly, they'd become a blur.

  "What the hell are we going to do?" Brandon asked. "We can't fight these guys. They're animals."

  "I don't know what worries me more," Greg said. "The blobs, or the people sent to stop them."

  Brandon walked to the window and stared into the night, but all he could see was the glow from Denice's candle. If something was waiting for them in the yard, it was invisible.

  "Look," Greg said. "We know this town better than almost anyone. We're surrounded by woods. There has to be a dozen ways out that those mercenary dicks don't know about."

  "Yeah, but maybe the death-blobs do! Are you willing to take the chance of running into one of those things in the woods?"

  "Yes," Greg said. "It's either that or wait here until we have guns pointed in our faces. They'll shoot us or take us to some fucking hidden bunker where they'll wipe our memories or torture us into submission."

  "You watch too much science fiction."

  Greg spread his arms and looked
around with an over-exaggerated sneer. "What the fuck do you think this is? Except in this movie, when the characters die, they don't just go off set and eat a fucking hoagie!"

  "Okay, you're right. Jeez." Brandon paced the length of the garage with his arms folded over his chest.

  "Hey! Energizer! Could you stop pacing, you're making me dizzy."

  "No! This is what I do when I'm nervous, okay? How the hell are you so calm?"

  Greg shook his head and laughed. "Calm? I'm not even in the vicinity of being calm. I pissed myself three times today. Three! Pissed myself! And this Dexter Maitland thing? I may have shit my pants but I'm too scared to check. I am not calm, but if I lose my head, I'm not going to be any good for either of us."

  Brandon stopped pacing and leaned his back against the wall. His face curled up as he slid to the floor and buried his head in his hands. There was no mistaking the harsh cry of someone who'd just hit a brick wall at full speed.

  "No, no, no," Greg said, stepping closer. "Don't you shut down on me now. I can't do this without you."

  Brandon looked up with wet cheeks and snot leaking from his nose.

  "My parents are out there," he cried. "I don't know if they're alive or dead. What if those things got them? What if those gun-toting assholes lined everyone up and executed them? I'm too young to be an orphan... Denice is too young." His words ended in another fit of heart-wrenching cries.

  "Look, man, I know," Greg said soothingly. "I have no idea if my parents are okay, either. Right now, all we have is each other, and if you ask me, that's a pretty good start. We can get out of here together... you, me, and Denice. Our story isn't going to end in this fucking garage."

  Brandon looked up with eyes so puffy, they were nearly pinched shut. "Do you promise?" he asked.

  "I promise to do everything in my power to get us out of here."

  Brandon put his hands against the wall to help him stand. When he was sure his legs would hold him, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Greg's shoulders. Greg took it as long as he could before gently pushing his friend away.

  "Okay, okay. Enough, before I have to file a restraining order."

  Brandon laughed, nodded, and wiped his eyes.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," Brandon said.

  "The sooner, the better."

  From the house came Rambler's frantic, high-pitched barking.

  Followed by Denice's blood-curdling screams.

  Chapter 4

  Brandon's feet were moving before his brain could catch up.

  Greg followed him into the dark, crossing the yard in seconds and entering the kitchen. Denice's screams filled the house. Rambler continued barking as Greg ran after Brandon, climbing the stairs to the second floor and throwing open Denice's bedroom door. Rambler stood in the corner of the room, barking at the ceiling and spinning in circles as Denice writhed on the floor at the foot of her bed.

  "Denice?" Brandon screamed. "What's wrong? What happened?"

  "I was just brushing MY TEEEEETH," she shrieked.

  When she rolled over and tried to stand, Greg cried out and backed against the wall as one of the mysterious blobs slid down Denice's neck, tearing off bloody hunks of flesh. Her face was a skinless mask of muscle and tendons; her lips had been eaten away, exposing her teeth, making her look like a grinning skull in the dim candlelight.

  "What do I do?" Brandon bellowed.

  "Stay back," Greg ordered. "If it gets on you, it's going to eat you alive."

  "I can't just let her die!"

  Denice crawled across the floor as another blob ate the flesh from her foot. She dragged it behind her uselessly, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet. Her screams became nothing more than wet grunts as she reached for them with a blistered, smoking hand. Her eyes were filled with blood.

  "We have to go!" Greg shouted. "She's already gone, Brandon! You can't save her."

  "Denice," Brandon wailed. Rambler added his shrill whine to the mix before bounding past them and into the hall. It was a miracle he was able to escape without running into something and knocking himself senseless.

  Greg grabbed Brandon by the back of his shirt and pulled him back.

  "We have to go. There's nothing you can do," Greg said.

  "SHE'S DYING!" Brandon cried.

  "And we're going to be next if we don't get out of here."

  Greg pulled him towards the door as Brandon fought to reach his sister. Denice sat up silently and held her arms out to them, but there was nothing left to save. She reached up and grabbed her face, running her hands back through her hair. When she did, her hair slid from her scalp like a wig and fell to the floor in a bloody pile. Her mouth opened in a scream but she made no sound. She fell on her chest, moving her arms and legs as if trying to make one last snow angel. Her shirt raked up around her neck, exposing her bare back. Her skin bubbled and steamed as a long tear opened from her neck down to the waistline of her sweatpants. The skin curled and peeled open, revealing the wet, shiny length of her spine.

  Brandon covered his mouth with his hand and screamed through his fingers as tears ran unchecked down his face. The room was full of acrid smoke and the stench of burning meat. Greg swallowed to keep from puking and dragged Brandon into the hall, slamming the door to Denice's room. Brandon stared at the door, wondering if he opened it again if the room would show something other than Denice being eaten alive among her stuffed animals and Adam Levine posters.

  They stepped back as Denice pounded on the other side of the door and flailed helplessly around the room. The light beneath the door grew brighter as she knocked the candle from the windowsill where it instantly ignited the carpet and drapes. Smoke poured into the hall, carrying the smells of burning plastic and baked ham. Brandon bent and vomited between his feet as Denice's room became a crematorium.

  "Come on!" Greg shouted. "She's gone! The whole house is going to burn down around us if we don't get the hell out of here."

  Brandon nodded but suddenly didn't care if he escaped or not. His parents were missing, his sister was dying, and his house would be gone in a matter of minutes. Even if things could ever possibly get back to normal, what would he have left? Where would he live? He'd be alone with the memories of having his entire family wiped out in a single night by creatures that should have never existed in the first place.

  Greg wrapped his arm around Brandon and helped him down the stairs. Brandon's legs kept buckling beneath him, threatening to dump them both to the floor. The house quickly filled with black smoke as they crossed the kitchen.

  "Back to the garage," Greg said, winded. "It's the safest place until we can get the fuck out of here."

  Brandon gave no indication that he heard a word Greg was saying, but when he saw Rambler crawl from beneath the kitchen table, he screamed and pulled away.

  "It's just the dog," Greg said soothingly. "It's okay."

  When Rambler trotted to his water dish, Brandon shook his head as if coming out of a trance. He kicked the water bowl across the floor and yanked Rambler back by his collar.

  "Don't drink the fucking water!" Brandon yelled. Rambler tucked his tail between his legs and cowered away. "It's in the water, you stupid mutt!"

  Greg couldn't be sure if this was true, but he nodded and placed a reassuring hand on the Golden Retriever's neck. Rambler looked up, licked his muzzle, and wagged his tail once to show his appreciation.

  "It's okay, boy," Brandon said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you." Brandon bent down and hugged him as Rambler licked the tears from his face and accepted his apology.

  "Come on," Greg said. "Grab him and let's get out of here."

  "It is in the water, isn't it?" Brandon asked. "That's how it got Denice... it's in the fucking pipes."

  "I don't know! It doesn't matter right now. Come on."

  Something crashed overhead and shook the house as Brandon grabbed Rambler's collar and led him through the kitchen door. The dog stopped briefly to lift his leg on a potted plant before
following them in a crooked, zig-zagging line.

  Denice's bedroom window exploded, showering the yard in broken glass and burning debris. They shaded their eyes and looked up at the raging inferno as a blackened, charred figure stepped to the window, wreathed in fire, swaying side-to-side in a macabre dance of death. Brandon choked back a cry and turned away as the heat intensified and his sister backed into the flames.

  They stumbled into the welcome coolness of the garage and locked the door behind them.

  ***

  Brandon went to a metal shelf in the corner of the garage and grabbed three bottles of water. He tossed one to Greg, grabbed a bowl from the shelf, and filled it for Rambler. The dog looked up as if to ask 'is it okay now?' Brandon scratched him behind the ear, their brief argument forgotten.

  "It's okay, right?" Brandon asked. "I mean, that stuff can't get into bottled water, can it?"

  Greg unscrewed the cap and allowed a single drop to touch his finger. It may have been the dumbest thing he'd ever done, but when nothing happened, he upended the bottle and drank deeply.

  "I think it's okay," he said.

  Brandon watched him for several seconds to make sure Greg wouldn't start melting before his eyes before he too took a long swallow and exhaled a shaky breath. He put the bottle on the workbench, sat in a plastic lawn chair, and put his head between his knees. Greg watched him silently as Brandon's body trembled from the shock. There was nothing Greg could say, not after what they'd just seen upstairs. If that brown sludge had gotten into the town's water supply, no one was safe.

  And what would happen if it rained? Could those fucking monsters be in the rainwater?

  Greg let Brandon cry himself out as he paced the floor and watched Rambler curl up beneath the workbench as if it was business as usual. The dog watched Brandon with sad eyes and inched closer before stopping a few feet away. Greg wondered exactly how blind Rambler actually was, because the mutt never took his gaze away from his master.

  He drank more of his bottled water before approaching Brandon and quietly speaking in his friend's ear. It may not have been the right time, but they needed to plan a way out of here, and if Brandon wasn't with him, it would make it much more difficult.