Melt

by Christopher Motz

  "What's so funny?" Greg asked.

  "Do you remember our freshman year?"

  "Most of it," Greg said. "It wasn't a particularly great year, was it?"

  "Jack Beidermeyer," Brandon said. "It was our second month and Jack told me he was going to kick our asses for staring at his girlfriend."

  "Wow! I haven't thought about that in ages."

  "In the cafeteria, he kept staring us down at lunch, pointing at us and laughing with his other jock buddies."

  "Yeah, and you threw your iced tea at him from across the room and hit his girlfriend in the forehead."

  "He fucking snapped," Brandon said, laughing even harder. "So we ran into the hall and hid in that closet next to Mrs. Moyer's room."

  "I thought he was going to kill us," Greg said.

  "How long did we stay in there?"

  "Until the bell rang for next period." Now both of them were laughing from the memory. "Then we hung out in the library after school until we knew he'd left the building."

  "He was a prick," Brandon said, wiping tears from his eyes. "He never came after us again."

  "No, but we both got suspended for three days. I thought my mother was going to beat me to death. That was much worse than anything Jack Beidermeyer could have ever done."

  "What happened to him, anyway?" Brandon asked. "He was there for a few more months and then he just disappeared."

  "He knocked up his girlfriend... what was her name? Caitlyn?"

  "That's it! She finished her senior year with a belly, and he started working on his father's farm to pay for it. Suits him right."

  "Caitlyn died last year," Greg said. "I saw it in the newspaper. Car accident on 78. Her and the kid were killed."

  "Aw, shit," Brandon said. "Bummer."

  The silence stretched on as Greg closed his eyes and dozed off. Brandon listened to Greg's breathing and tried to find sleep, but every time he got close, his mind filled with the image of Denice reaching out for him as brown slime opened her flesh like a pig on a spit.

  One hour, he thought. I'll let him sleep for one hour, and then we have to get the hell out of here.

  Those sixty minutes would feel like an eternity.

  Chapter 7

  Greg awoke with Brandon frantically grabbing at his clothing.

  He sat up just as Brandon opened the closet door and peeked into the hall. The glare of the emergency lights hurt his eyes and forced him to reach for the wall for support.

  "What the hell?" Greg asked. "What are you doing?"

  "I heard screams out front," Brandon said, "and then shooting."

  "How long was I asleep?"

  "Like twenty minutes... keep your voice down."

  Brandon crept into the hall with the gun pointed at the floor. Greg wondered if his father had taught him that, or if he'd just watched too many episodes of CSI. Either way, Greg felt better having Brandon take the lead.

  The theater was silent.

  "Are you sure?" Greg said. "Maybe you were dreaming."

  "I never fell asleep," he replied. "You snore like a fucking garbage truck."

  Brandon motioned for Greg to stay behind him as he peeked around the corner of the wall and into the lobby. Nothing there had changed. The rain pounded the sidewalk in front of the Silver, making it hard to discern any other noises. Brandon tip-toed forward to get a better look outside and gasped as he saw two fresh bodies in the middle of the street - two young girls that he recognized from school.

  But they weren't melting; they were just lying there, riddled with bullet holes and staring into the sky as if waiting for God to answer their prayers. Brandon crept to the glass door and watched to see if their bodies would begin melting into the gutter.

  "Sector Two," a robotic voice said. "Was that you?"

  Brandon turned and saw one of the mercenaries bending to tie the laces on his boot. When he stood, he grabbed a walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket and keyed the mic.

  "Roger that," he said. "I found two stragglers hiding in a car on Block Street." He stepped over to the lifeless bodies and toed them with his boot. "They've been neutralized."

  "Copy that," the walkie-talkie squawked. "Continue your search and report back."

  "Understood." He tucked the radio back in his pocket and stretched. The systematic annihilation of innocents was surely tiring work.

  Brandon shook his head and muttered 'you piece of shit' as he stared at the motionless bodies. It was no longer about killing those who'd been infected, it was about killing anyone who knew what had happened in Ditchburn that night - covering Wildflower's tracks. He and Greg wouldn't be safe anywhere until they could cross the border into Parkland and find someone who wasn't connected to this catastrophe. Unless Sam had been right, and the blobs had spread to neighboring towns or states.

  "Jesus, we really have to get out of here," Brandon said.

  As he turned away, his foot slipped in a jellied lump and he staggered back against the glass window. It was enough motion to get the soldier's attention, and before Brandon recovered his footing, several bullets tore through the glass and dug craters in the wall.

  "Stop where you are," the soldier demanded. "I'll shoot you where you stand."

  Knowing that he'd kill them anyway, Brandon pushed away from the window and ran through the lobby. Greg watched in awe, willing his insubordinate legs to follow his brain's instructions. Brandon grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him forward, but they tripped and tumbled to the slimy carpet as the remainder of the front entrance shattered and fell to the floor.

  "Get up!" Brandon screamed. "Get up! Get up!"

  Greg crawled away and finally regained his footing as Brandon sat up and tried to do the same, but it was too late.

  The soldier grinned and aimed his weapon.

  "Why do all you young kids try to make this so difficult?" he asked. "Where do you think you're going? We have soldiers all over town... well-trained and well-paid soldiers who don't need a reason to pull the trigger."

  "Fuck you," Brandon shouted. "You're not soldiers, you're murderers."

  "Oh, you have a mouth on you, kid. I don't have time for this."

  He raised the weapon.

  "No, wait..." Greg pleaded. He raised his hands in front of his face and stepped back as a door opened nearby, slamming loudly against the wall. The soldier turned in surprise at the noise and spun on his foot, aiming at some new threat the boys couldn't see. He fired three rounds down the hall before his weapon dry-clicked, forcing him to reach for a secondary weapon he carried in an ankle holster. Greg heard the report from a second weapon as he fell to his knees and covered his ears. He never saw the soldier fall to the floor, but he sure as hell heard him.

  "You son of a bitch," the man wailed. "Fucking little shit!"

  When Greg looked up, Brandon was standing over the soldier, pointing his father's S&W at the man's upturned face.

  "Shut up," Brandon said. "I'll shoot you right in the mouth if you don't close it."

  The man did as he was told, whimpering between his closed lips.

  "Greg, get over here."

  "What?"

  "Get the hell over here and take his weapon."

  Brandon kept the gun trained on the man's head as Greg worked at getting the soldier's pistol from its holster. Once Greg had it, Brandon kicked the empty rifle across the floor.

  "You little mutt," the man growled. "You won't kill me. I can see your hands shaking from here."

  "Tell that to Belter," Brandon said.

  The man was confused, but in too much pain to argue. Blood seeped between his fingers as he applied pressure to the small, red hole in his thigh.

  "I'm going to bleed out," he said.

  "I didn't hit an artery," Brandon replied. "Tough guy like you shouldn't even feel it."

  "We have to get out of here," Greg said. "Before his buddies show up."

  "First, we're going to get some answers."

  Greg groaned but held his ground. At this point, he knew if
the man tried something stupid, Brandon would have no qualms about shooting him in the face. By the look in the soldier's eyes, he knew it too.

  "Who's doing this?" Brandon said. "Who's behind it?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  Brandon kicked him in the leg just below his bullet wound. The man howled and rolled onto his side, shaking from the pain.

  "Turn over and look at me," Brandon demanded, "or I'll shoot you in the back. I'm not screwing around."

  The man rolled onto his back. He snarled and watched Brandon with such tremendous hate in his eyes that Greg knew there was no room for error. If Brandon slipped up, just the tiniest bit, the man would lunge and tear him apart.

  "What's your fucking name?" Brandon said. "I want to put a name with a face. I want to remember the man who shot two girls in the middle of the street like stray dogs."

  "I'm not telling you anything."

  "No? Really? Do you want to rethink that?" He pointed the gun in the man's face and applied pressure to the trigger.

  "Nonono, okay, don't shoot me. Michael," he said, out of breath. "My name is Michael."

  "Tell me why I shouldn't paint the wall with your brains, Michael."

  "You don't understand," he cried. "I'm just following orders."

  "Whose orders? Who are you working for?"

  "If I tell you, they'll kill me!"

  "If you don't tell me, I'll kill you."

  Michael closed his lips so tightly, it looked like he was trying to eat himself. Greg thought that whatever secrets he was carrying, he was willing to take them to his grave. Brandon leaned closer.

  "Okay! Okay!" Michael whined. "Gates. Steven fucking Gates."

  "I knew it," Brandon said, turning to Greg. "It's those Wildflower bastards."

  "P-21," Michael said. "Project 21. It's a special project run by Gates himself... even most of his employees don't know about it."

  "Project 21?" Greg asked, stepping closer. "What is it? What it's for?"

  When Michael started talking, his words spilled out like the blood from his injured leg.

  ***

  As Michael began explaining what he knew about Project 21, Greg went to check what had startled the soldier and forced him to empty his weapon. When he turned into the hallway, he saw the lifeless body sprawled on the floor in a puddle of blood. He bent down and looked for the telltale rise and fall of the man's stomach, but there was none.

  Michael had killed Sam.

  "You bastard," Greg said. "You murdered him."

  Michael looked up and quickly turned his head away.

  "Just another number, huh?" Brandon asked. "Kill anyone that gets in your way."

  "It wasn't my fault," Michael said.

  "Not your fault?" Greg said. "Was there another soldier in here shooting and I just missed him?"

  "He startled me..."

  "He fucking startled you... are you kidding me?" Greg ran to where Michael was sitting on the floor and grabbed him by the neck. "What were your orders? Kill young girls and old men? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

  "I don't have a choice," Michael growled. "Gates makes sure of that."

  "You work for Gates. We get that," Brandon said. "What does he have on you? Why would you work for that corrupt son of a bitch?"

  "I was in prison for armed robbery," Michael explained. "My life was shit, I was broke, and I had a three-year-old and a wife to take care of. I made some mistakes and I wound up in jail. By the time I would have finished my sentence, my daughter would have been in junior high. She wouldn't even know who I was."

  "This is really fucking touching," Greg said, "but what does it have to do with Gates?"

  "He's a very rich man," Michael said. "When you have that kind of money, you can buy and sell people for top dollar. Wildflower sent a representative to visit me... to interview me. I didn't know if it was a joke at first, but he came back several times over the next couple weeks. I felt like I was being studied. One day, Gates came to meet me and asked if I'd be willing to work with him on a top-secret project. He explained that I'd be paid well for my services and that I'd get an early release if I agreed to his terms.

  "You have to understand, at that point, I was willing to do anything to get out and see my family, so I agreed. Ten minutes later, the guards walked me outside with three other inmates. We got in a white van, drove off, and I never saw that prison again."

  "So he bribed you to kill for him?" Brandon asked.

  "No, it wasn't like that," he said. He winced at the pain in his leg and closed his eyes.

  "Don't you pass out," Brandon said, tapping the 9mm on Michael's forehead.

  "I'm not going to pass out," Michael shouted. "It fucking hurts."

  "Tell someone who gives a shit," Greg said. "Keep going."

  Brandon allowed Michael to slide against the wall to support himself. His injury wasn't life threatening, but he was losing a lot of blood. When Michael got comfortable, he continued.

  "When we got back to headquarters, we were led inside and taken underground. The Wildflower facility is massive, and there are at least five or six floors beneath the surface. They took me to a room that wasn't much bigger than my prison cell. There was no window, but there were also no bars... so at least it was a step up from being locked away and rotting in jail.

  "There were twenty of us down there, each one with a similar story. We were recruited because we had no other choice."

  "You're telling me that Wildflower bailed out a bunch of convicts just to work on some secret project?" Greg asked.

  "Yes," Michael said. "Exactly. Who was going to miss a bunch of cons? Gates knew we could all disappear and no one would come sniffing around. He began training us in hand-to-combat, taught us how to shoot, told us if we didn't follow orders there would be consequences. It went on for months. We were tested to see how long we could go without food and water. We were forced to fight each other to prove what skills we'd learned. Some of the men I'd grown familiar with, even gotten close to, began disappearing. We were told not to question it at the time, but eventually, we all found out the hard way what was happening to them."

  "Gates was killing them," Brandon said. "Wasn't he? Those who didn't make the grade were fucking executed."

  Michael sniffled and nodded. "Not right away. They were taken and locked up in a separate room where they were starved and chained to a wall. The final test... my God... the final test was for the remaining recruits to execute them. We were all given knives and ordered to slice their throats... men we all knew! Gates threatened us, threatened our families, told us if we weren't capable of doing what was asked that he'd round up our wives and children and chain them up in the same room and make us try again... to prove our loyalty.

  "There were ten men in my group. Two of them failed to perform and were carried away kicking and screaming. The rest of us were rewarded with a meal and a hot shower."

  "So what happened to them?" Brandon asked.

  Michael cried out like he'd been struck and held a hand over his face, his leg wound temporarily forgotten. When he raised his head and opened his eyes, he stared off vacantly, remembering everything with crystal clarity.

  "We were led to a lab on one of the lower levels," Michael said. "The two men who had been dragged away were tied down to hospital beds. Once they cleared the room and sealed the entrance, we watched through the glass as a small trapdoor opened... and we all got our first glimpse of P-21. We had no idea what to expect. Gates was there, watching us and smiling like he'd just thrown us a surprise party. When those things attacked, it was quick, but it was the most horrible thing I'd ever seen. Those men never had a chance. Gates continued smiling the entire time as we cried and puked and covered our ears to block out the screams.

  "When the feast was over, P-21 slithered through the trapdoor and went back to wherever the fuck it came from. We were given mops and buckets and told to clean up what was left, dumping the remains in a slop sink like it was nothing more
than dirty water. We passed our final test."

  Greg felt a slight twinge of regret as he watched the man fall apart. Brandon slowly lowered his gun, but kept his finger on the trigger. As awful as Michael's story was, it didn't get him off the hook for killing innocent people. Steven Gates had taught him how to be a monster, and Michael fell right in line.

  "You're a cleanup crew," Greg said. "You were trained to do Wildflower's dirty work."

  "If we didn't obey, they'd kill our families," Michael cried.

  "So instead, you kill others' families," Brandon said. "How can you live with that?"

  Michael shook his head slowly. "What would you do for your family? You have no right to judge me."

  "What are those things?" Greg asked. "How the hell do you stop them?"

  "We don't know," Michael said. "We were ordered here to contain them. No one even knows how they escaped the lab. We weren't allowed to ask questions, we just did what we were told."

  "How can you not know what they are?" Brandon said. "You've been up there for how long? Months? Years? You can't even tell us what the hell we're dealing with?"

  "They're not natural," Michael said. "They're not from here."

  "What the fuck are we listening to?" Greg shouted. "You're telling me they're aliens?"

  "I'm not saying that... but some of the men heard rumors about the kind of research they were performing in those labs. Studies into dark matter, time travel, technology not of this world. They're playing with the fabric of the universe, and I think now and then something gets through."

  "This is insane," Greg said. "We don't have to sit and listen to this shit. Brandon?"

  "I want to hear what he has to say."

  "He's filling our heads with nonsense. He was probably trained or brainwashed to repeat this story in case he was ever questioned. Who would ever believe something so ridiculous?"

  "We know those things are out there," Brandon said. "How do we know he isn't telling the truth? Is there any other way to explain what's happening?"

  "Yes!" Greg shouted. "Any explanation is better than that."

  "They called it the Tree of Mirrors," Michael said.