Melt

by Christopher Motz

  "You couldn't have done anything," Greg said as he put his hand on Brandon's shoulder. "As soon as that shit touches you, it's over... but at least it's quick."

  "Do you think it hurts?" Brandon asked in between sobs. "Do you think she suffered?"

  "No," Greg lied. "I don't think she suffered. Maybe it's better than having to look over your shoulder every second to see if one of those things is creeping up on you."

  "It's better that she's dead?" Brandon asked with menace.

  "No, man, you know what I mean. It's such a fucking cliche, but she's in a better place. She doesn't have to see what's happening... she won't have to carry the memories of tonight with her for the rest of her life."

  "How can this happen?" he said. "What have those bastards done? We're not fucking test subjects!"

  "That's why we have to escape, so we can tell someone what happened. Whoever did this... Wildflower, the government... someone has to pay."

  Brandon had stopped crying, but his body shook like a live wire. His rage ran just beneath the surface. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath.

  "They'll pay, alright. I won't stop until every single one of them is dead or in prison." He stood and spit on the floor. "No, not prison. Dead! They deserve the same thing that happened to Denice. Worse!"

  "We can't make that happen if we stay here," Greg said. "We have to go. If we can make it to Thorpe's Woods, we can take the path over the mountain. We can make it to Parkland by morning."

  "Thorpe's Woods is two miles away," Brandon said. "How are we going to get there without being spotted?"

  "Very carefully," Greg said. "We'll stick to back alleys, stay in the shadows."

  Brandon offered a perfunctory nod, but his head was swimming with visions of Denice's blackened skull watching them from her bedroom window. How many times had she looked down at him from that same window and teased him as he chased Rambler around the yard? How many times did he catch her sneaking down the back trellis to hang out with her friends after being grounded?

  He looked out the window and saw the entire second floor of the house engulfed in flames; he felt the heat baking through the door and tightening the skin on his arms. Rambler sniffed the air as pungent smoke drifted in through tiny cracks in the wall.

  "What do we do about him?" Brandon asked.

  Greg looked down at Rambler and frowned. "We have to leave him here. He's only going to slow us down."

  "What about the fire?" It had grown noticeably warmer in the garage.

  "I think he'll be fine. The garage is far enough away from the house. Leave him some water and we'll come back for him once we get to safety."

  "What if we don't get out? He'll starve in here. I can't do that to him."

  "And if we stay, we'll all starve in here. I know he's your dog and I know you love him, but we're the only chance he's got," Greg said.

  Brandon bent and patted Rambler on the head. "All I wanted to do was watch reruns of The Three Stooges, eat a bag of popcorn, and listen to some music before bed. How am I going to live with this?"

  "One day at a time," Greg said. "Just like we've always done."

  "Yeah... but it's different now." He turned his face back to the window and watched the house burn - a funeral pyre for a past life. Black smoke drifted into the night sky and curled around the flowers in his mother's garden. In the flickering orange glow, Brandon's face had taken on a sinister quality... a look that meant he'd kill anyone who got in his way.

  "Are you ready?" Greg asked.

  "As ready as I'm going to be." When he turned, Greg backed up a step. The look in Brandon's eyes bordered on insanity. "We're not taking anything with us. We need to be light on our feet." He walked over to his father's workbench, rifled through the drawers, and pulled out an old cigar box. He placed it on the table, removed a shiny, black 9mm, and removed the magazine to check if it was loaded. Satisfied, he checked the safety and tucked it into his waistband. "Except this."

  "You have a fucking gun?" Greg said.

  "It's my Dad's," Brandon replied. "We can't be too careful."

  "You know how to use that?"

  "Point and pull the trigger. That's all I need to know."

  "This isn't an arcade game..."

  "I just saw my sister get murdered by a fucking Jello mold," Brandon shouted. "If I see a single person wearing a Wildflower logo, I'll jam this down their throat."

  There was no point talking to him about it; Brandon was out for blood.

  When someone pounded on the garage door, Brandon reached for the weapon, bobbled it, and dropped it to the concrete floor. Rambler stood defensively, growling at the noise as Greg backed away, holding his water bottle in front of him like a knife.

  "Bran, are you in there?" a male voice shouted. "Open the goddamn door."

  "Dad?"

  Brandon ran to the garage door and pulled it up just enough for his father to squeeze under it before closing it again.

  Donald Meisner looked as if he'd been to Hell and back. His hair was a mess, his pants were torn, and his face was covered in black smudges.

  "Boys," Donald said, relieved. "I'm so glad you're okay." He looked around the room, grunted at Rambler, and asked, "Where's your sister?"

  "Dad..." Brandon said before breaking into tears.

  Donald ran to his son, lifted him off his feet, and hugged him. He knew Denice was gone without having to be told. He cried silently on his son's shoulder before putting him down. Greg looked away; the moment wasn't one to be shared by an outsider. Greg couldn't remember if he'd ever seen an adult cry before.

  "My God, no. What happened?" Donald asked, clearing his throat.

  "One of those fucking things got her," Brandon cried. "We couldn't do anything..."

  "It's not your fault," Donald said. "I've seen what they can do." He went to his workbench, and with an anguished cry, swept everything to the floor. Rambler shied away and slunk to Greg's side... the only person who hadn't yet screamed and threw things around the room.

  "Dad, the house," Brandon said, pointing.

  Donald quickly glanced out the window and saw his life's work being reduced to ash.

  "GODDAMMIT!" he screamed as he kicked a can full of nails across the floor. "Okay, okay... you kids have to get out of here."

  "What?" Brandon asked. "What about you?"

  "I have to go back into town... your mother and I got separated when the shooting started."

  "What is this?" Greg asked. "How are they doing this?"

  "I don't know," Donald said, "but they're shooting everything that moves. You have to stay out of sight, do you hear me? They're not locking people up, they're lining them up like a firing squad and shooting them in the street." Donald wiped a tear from his cheek and checked the drawer of his workbench. "Do you have the S&W?"

  "Yeah, Dad," Brandon said, embarrassed. He picked the weapon off the floor and handed it to his father. Donald ejected the magazine, nodded, and handed it back.

  "You remember everything I taught you?" he asked. "Don't aim it at anyone if you're not willing to pull the trigger. The clip holds fifteen rounds, and while that might seem like a lot, it's easy to get carried away. Only use it if you need to."

  "Dad, I want to come with you!"

  "No," he said emphatically. "I'm going to find your mother. It's not safe for you downtown."

  "Then at least keep the fucking gun," Brandon said, trying to hand it over.

  "I have my revolver in the car," he said. "I'll get your Mom and we'll meet up after..."

  "But it's not safe. You said so yourself!"

  "I'm not going to leave your mother down there to fend for herself while those things are on the loose," Donald said. "I have to get her... I have to."

  Brandon quickly hugged his father after tucking the gun back in his waistband. Donald reached out, grabbed Greg's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  "You're sure you'll be okay?" Brandon said.

  "I'll be fine. You two take care of each other a
nd get out of town as soon as possible. I'll find you, I promise."

  "We're going to try to get to Parkland," Greg said. "Through the woods and over the mountain."

  Donald nodded, bent, and pulled the garage door open before going outside and opening the back door of his 4Runner. Rambler perked his ears up and trotted outside.

  "You're taking him with you?" Brandon asked.

  "I don't have a choice," Donald replied. "He can't fend for himself and he'll only slow you down." He patted the back seat, and after a few muffed attempts, Rambler jumped up and sat down. "Good boy," Donald said as he slammed the door behind him. He looked over the garage one last time as the house burned furiously. The neighboring homes on either side were already catching.

  "I love you, Dad," Brandon said, holding back his tears.

  "I love you too, kid. Now go! The whole neighborhood is going to be gone before morning."

  He shook his head sadly, got behind the wheel, and sped into the night. Brandon ran outside, watching the taillights disappear around the corner. He suddenly felt abandoned, but knew his father would never let his wife roam the streets alone.

  "Your Dad is one ballsy son of a bitch," Greg said.

  Brandon closed his eyes for a moment before saying, "Do you want to go to your house before we leave?"

  Greg thought about it and shook his head. "No. If anything happened to them, I don't want to know about it. Besides, my Mom is also one ballsy son of a bitch. They'll be fine. I'll find them when this is over."

  Brandon couldn't imagine not knowing what happened. Denice was dead, but he still had hope that Donald would find his mother. Still, he understood why Greg would want to stay away. They'd both seen what the enemy was capable of.

  Greg drank the rest of his water and urged Brandon to do the same. Neither of them knew when they'd have another opportunity.

  "So, we're doing this?" Brandon asked.

  "We're doing this," Greg replied.

  Brandon once again checked to make sure the S&W was tucked into his pants before they walked outside and closed the garage door behind them. From the alley, they saw that Brandon's house was only minutes from collapsing. The house to the right was also on fire, and it wouldn't be long before the entire street was erased from the map. The fire whistle blared like an air-raid siren, but all the town's firetrucks sat behind barricades, unable to do the one thing they'd been made for.

  Greg and Brandon looked at one another and started off down the alley in the direction of Thorpe's Woods.

  Whatever happened next was in God's hands.

  Chapter 5

  The stillness made the night seem deceptively normal.

  The fire whistle had ceased its incessant cry; the sporadic crack of gunfire made it feel like Independence Day.

  Only they weren't free. They were under the tyrannical rule of Wildflower's mistake.

  Greg and Brandon had only made it a few blocks. They smelled the scent of smoke in the air, making it difficult for Brandon to forget what he'd left behind.

  "At least my Dad took that damn dog," Brandon said as they approached a cross street. "Blind as a bat and pisses all the over the house, but he's been with me since I was three years old. I wouldn't want to see anything bad happen to him."

  "I'm sure he'll be fine," Greg said. "Your Dad, too. We're all going to get through this."

  "Are you trying to convince yourself, or do you think we actually have a chance?"

  "We'll make it," Greg said. "I'm sure of it."

  But he had his doubts.

  The next block down, there was a car on fire in the road. They had to stay to the left to keep away from the baking heat, and as soon as they passed, a man burst from a metal gate with his hands in the air.

  "Oh my God," the man said. "Sullivan? Meisner? What the hell are you doing out here?"

  "Belter?" Greg asked. "I didn't know you lived in town."

  Jim Belter had been the High School Phys Ed teacher for the last three years. Before that, he taught freshman Science, and before that he was a substitute History teacher. He bounced around wherever he was needed, hoping to ride his father's coattails into a Superintendent position some day. The students called him 'Biker Belter,' because he carried at least seventy pounds of extra weight and a beard that touched his belly button. The school's decision to employ him as a gym teacher certainly raised more than a few eyebrows.

  'Biker Belter stays at the shelter before he comes to class - out of shape and overweight and a serious pain in the ass.'

  Greg forgot the rest of the rhyme. The kids at school weren't easy on him, but it was hard to take him seriously when his prodigious gut hung over the waistband of his gym shorts.

  "Why are you two out here?" Belter asked. "You know what's going on, right?"

  Brandon turned and looked the opposite direction, gazing at the orange glow in the sky that signified where he'd lived until an hour ago.

  "Of course, we know," Greg said. "We're trying to get out of town."

  "Did you hear what they did to that Dexter Maitland wacko?" Belter asked. "Shot him down in his own studio."

  "We heard that, too," Brandon said. "I wish we wouldn't have..."

  Belter looked at the ground and nodded. "Strange things afoot, my young friends."

  "Hey, we're glad you're okay," Brandon said, "but we really have to go."

  "Go? Where the hell are you going?"

  "Out through Thorpe's Woods," Greg said. "See if we can make Parkland by morning."

  "Parkland? That's three hours on foot," Belter exclaimed. "You don't know what's in those woods."

  "No, but we do know what's happening downtown," Brandon said, "and we figured we're better off staying as far away as possible."

  "Come on in for a minute," Belter said. "The least I can do is pack you a bag. Water? Snacks?"

  "No, we're okay," Greg said. "We don't want anything to slow us down."

  "Like a book bag," he said. "Just a few bottles of water, maybe a flashlight."

  Brandon and Greg looked at each other and felt foolish for not bringing a flashlight. Thorpe's Woods was treacherous in broad daylight; navigating at night would be like tip-toeing through a minefield.

  "He has a point," Greg muttered.

  Belter turned, opened his gate, and led them down a narrow path to the back door of his house. When they entered the sun porch, they were assailed by the lingering smell of pot smoke.

  "Jesus," Greg said. "Did the end of the world interrupt your party?"

  Belter laughed and brushed it off. "Just trying to get out of my head."

  "I'd say you succeeded," Brandon said.

  He led them further into the candlelit house, stopping at the base of the stairs to the second floor.

  "Just wait here," he said. "I think it's all upstairs."

  As Jim Belter disappeared into the gloom, Brandon turned and grabbed Greg by the arm.

  "Something doesn't feel right," he said.

  "What do you mean? It's no surprise Belter is a pothead."

  "Not that... something just feels off."

  "Just a second," Belter called from upstairs. "Stay there."

  "Okay, let's go," Brandon said. "We don't need anything. We'll be fine without a flashlight. We know those woods like the back of our hand."

  "Not at night, we don't. What if..."

  Greg's voice trailed off as he heard a quiet thump through the closed door to his left. When he thought he'd imagined it, it came again.

  "There's someone in there," Greg whispered.

  "It's probably just his wife or something," Brandon said, but he couldn't remember Belter ever mentioning that he was married. Brandon stepped to the door and rested his ear against it.

  "What are you doing?"

  Brandon held up his hand and closed his eyes. He listened for a few seconds before turning away.

  "There's definitely someone in there," he said.

  "It's none of our business," Greg said. "Belter is trying to help us out, so le
t's take what he's offering and get the heck out of here."

  "But what if someone needs help?"

  "It's not our problem." Greg turned away from the door and stared down the dim corridor. After a few seconds, he shrugged and said, "Okay, fine, just a quick peek."

  Brandon nodded and grabbed the handle, slowly sliding the pocket door aside. At first, all he noticed was the dining room table and the candelabra standing in the center. Once his eyes adjusted, he gasped and jumped back.

  "What? What is it?" Greg asked.

  Brandon only pointed into the room but said nothing. His eyes were wide and his finger trembled.

  Greg pushed him out of the way and leaned through the doorway. He felt Brandon approach and look over his shoulder. Greg tensed as he saw three pairs of eyes staring back at him, shining in the candlelight.

  "Holy shit," Greg whined. "What is Belter doing?"

  Greg recognized the three boys sitting around the table but couldn't remember their names. They were all guys from Ditchburn High. Their mouths were stuffed with gym socks; their hands and feet were bound with jump rope. Each one was wearing nothing more than their underwear. They all had clear signs of having been beaten.

  "What the fuck?" Brandon said. "We have to help them."

  Seeing their chance to escape, all three boys began jumping around in their seats and pulling against their restraints. Greg ran to the boy closest to the door and removed the gag from his mouth.

  "Untie me," he said. "Please! He'll be back any minute."

  "What the hell did he do to you?" Brandon asked.

  "We don't have time for that. Just untie me. I'm not going to die in this pervert's house."

  Greg bent and pried at the knot around the boy's wrists while Brandon did the same to another of Belter's hostages.

  "He hit me..." the boy said before breaking into tears.

  "You don't have to talk," Greg said. "Just stay still so I can get this damn knot."

  After a few more seconds, the knot came free and the boy gently touched the red skin around his wrists. He reached down and began working on the knot around his ankles.