Melt

by Christopher Motz

  "The Tree of fucking what?" Greg said. "Do you think we're idiots?"

  "That's what they called it," Michael said. "Most of us have never seen it, so we only knew what we heard. The man who told me about it was beaten within an inch of his life by one of Gates's henchmen."

  "This is stupid," Greg said. "He's not going to tell us anything useful. Just leave him here."

  "I'm not making this up," Michael said. "What do I have to lose now?"

  "Your life," Brandon said. "Or don't you care about that either?"

  "When I was told about it, I thought the guy was crazy. He said he'd heard rumors that one of their experiments opened a window into somewhere else... a cosmic hub where the Tree of Mirrors stands alone in the darkness at the center of all creation. Each leaf is a portal into another world... a two-way mirror where we can glimpse alien life on a million other planets. Maybe we got through... maybe we brought something back."

  "Yeah?" Greg said. "And maybe Gates let these things run free to see what they were really capable of."

  "That would be the worst thing for him to do," Michael said. "P-21 doesn't give a shit about how much money you have. It eats the rich and the poor. If he allowed it out of the lab, he'd be risking his own life as well, and one thing about Steven Gates I know to be true is that his level of self-preservation is a thing of legend."

  "That's why he has assholes like you doing all the heavy lifting," Brandon said. "Send out a bunch of cons with nothing to lose and who cares if they come back alive. There are prisons full of replacements."

  Michael nodded slowly as he looked down and watched blood dribble from the bullet hole in his thigh.

  "Can you at least give me something to tie off my leg? A tourniquet?"

  "No," Brandon said quickly. "You're not getting anything from us. You shot those two girls in the street... you killed the old man. How many have you killed to keep Gates's secret?"

  "Too many," he muttered before bursting into tears.

  Brandon turned away, disgusted. Killing Michael was more than the soldier deserved.

  "Let's go," Greg said. "I've had enough story time for one day."

  Whether Brandon believed the man or not wasn't the problem. The real problem was if he could be trusted not to follow them.

  Brandon raised the gun.

  "No!" Greg shouted. "What are you doing?"

  Before he could talk him out of doing something he'd regret later, Brandon pulled the trigger and Michael's kneecap exploded in a red spray. The man fell on his side and held his new wound with both hands, trying to put his knee back together. Brandon lowered the weapon and watched Michael suffer.

  "Why'd you do that?" Greg cried. "We're not animals. We shouldn't be behaving like them or it makes us no different."

  "Do you want this guy tracking us down and putting a bullet in our heads?" Brandon said. "If he can't follow us, he can't hurt us."

  "You already shot him once. What was he going to do? Crawl after us?"

  "I had to make sure."

  Michael moaned and fell on his side as his blood spread on the carpet. With both legs incapacitated, the soldier would no longer be a threat... to them or anyone else. Brandon nodded, satisfied, and tucked the gun away. Greg held Michael's pistol out to Brandon.

  "Do you want this one, too?" Greg asked. "I feel sick just holding it."

  Brandon muttered something nasty under his breath and snatched the weapon away. After a brief check, he saw that the gun was empty.

  "All the training you say you had, and not one bullet to spare."

  "We weren't prepared for this," Michael said. He'd grown lethargic. It was hard hearing him over the beating of the rain.

  Brandon tossed Michael's gun on the floor and turned to walk away. Greg followed, glancing one last time over his shoulder as Brandon opened the door into the theater. When he heard the sound of broken glass, he assumed Michael was trying to crawl outside, but it wasn't the soldier... it was one of them. P-21. The largest blob Greg had seen so far slithered through the entrance and made its way toward the injured man, squelching and squealing as it honed in on easy prey.

  "What are you waiting for?" Brandon asked.

  Greg turned and pointed.

  Michael tried to sit up and slide away, watching the boys with wide eyes. His skin had taken on the unhealthy color of sour milk.

  "Help me," he said. "Please... I don't want to die like this."

  The blob stopped as if listening to their conversation. Brandon thought about emptying his gun into it but knew if armed and trained soldiers couldn't take them out, there was little he could do with only a 9mm and a prayer. Instead, they watched as it crept closer, advancing on Michael's position. Greg had seen them in action before. This one was much slower than its smaller counterparts. He wondered if it was toying with its meal, or if its size hindered its movement. In the end, the outcome was the same.

  As Michael stood on his injured legs and tried to stumble away, P-21 reached out a gelatinous arm and grabbed him by the shoulder. The damage was instantaneous. His flesh crackled and spit as he fell on his stomach and clawed at the floor. The monster dragged him across the carpet as his skin melted and sizzled. He tried frantically to fight back, but as the slime ate through his shoulder, his arm was torn free with a wet pop. P-21's undulating appendage disappeared into its body as it consumed its prize. Michael had stopped moving, but he had just enough energy left to scream.

  Brandon grabbed Greg's arm and pulled him back as the blob inched over Michael's motionless body. The man's bones popped and snapped like wet firewood. He looked up at them and reached out his remaining arm in a last-ditch plea for salvation as the blob filled his mouth and silenced his final call for help. Brandon pulled Greg through the theater doors as Michael was digested.

  When they got a block away from the Silver, Greg couldn't remember how they'd gotten there. All he remembered was the look on Michael's face as he was eaten alive.

  Chapter 8

  Without the theater's emergency lights, the night seemed even blacker.

  For the first time that night, Greg's and Brandon's roles had been reversed.

  "This isn't happening," Greg blubbered. "We'll never make it across town."

  "The hell we won't," Brandon said. "I don't care what those fucking things are, they're not turning me into paste."

  Greg wiped his eyes and leaned against a lamppost. Ditchburn was eerily calm.

  "I don't hear anything," he said. "Maybe they're gone."

  "Or maybe they've killed everyone else," Brandon said.

  "Why would you say that? We can't be the only ones left."

  "Did you see how big that thing was?" Brandon asked. "Sneaky bastard just crept up on us without a sound. What if they're getting smarter?"

  "They're globs of jelly! How can they get smarter if they don't have a brain?"

  "Who says they don't? What if there's a queen or something? What if they're being controlled by some mother brain?"

  "Okay," Greg said. "I liked you better when you didn't say everything that came to mind."

  A quick scream shattered the night, making them both cringe. In seconds it was gone, leaving only an echo.

  "Do you believe anything Michael said?" Brandon asked. "The Tree of Mirrors... the hidden lab?"

  Greg closed his eyes and thought about how ridiculous it all sounded, but without any other explanation, he was resigned to the fact that what Michael had said could be the truth.

  "You had him at gunpoint. What would he get out of making it up?"

  "Our sympathy? Leniency? I don't know. Before tonight I would have never believed a word he said, but look around. They came from somewhere, didn't they? Whether it was a lab, a fucking meteor, or through a wormhole... they're here. Wherever they came from doesn't matter."

  "Of course it matters," Greg shouted. "If anyone survives this, they'd have to know how to destroy it or how to send it back."

  "Maybe it can't survive here. Not for long."
<
br />   "What do you mean?"

  "Like maybe our atmosphere is toxic," Brandon theorized. "Maybe they'll just die."

  "It doesn't look that way," Greg said. "It seems that they're growing."

  "I'm not a scientist," Brandon said, throwing his arms up in surrender. "The only ones who know what's really happening are Steven Gates and his cronies, and I'm willing to bet, the second things got out of control, they hightailed it right the fuck out of here."

  Greg had no idea what to say. He was completely burned out, and the more he tried to understand what was happening, the more confused he became. He and Brandon could discuss theories until they were blue in the face, but to what end? The only solution was getting out of town as quickly and quietly as possible.

  "You have to stop waving that gun around," Greg said.

  "I was only doing what I thought was best."

  "You killed him, Brandon. You killed him and you didn't have to..."

  "I'm not apologizing for trying to keep us safe."

  "And I'm not apologizing for thinking you're going off the deep end."

  "Look, I'm sorry. What do you want me to say?"

  "As soon as you shot Michael, one of those things showed up. If they can hear what we're doing, or if they can track our movement somehow, we shouldn't be drawing attention to ourselves."

  "If I have to protect myself, I'm going to," Brandon said. "It's either us or them, and with these alien-blob whatever-the-fucks running around, I'm not going to be killed by some rent-a-cop."

  Greg looked at the darkened windows of the surrounding houses and imagined he saw the terrified faces of his neighbors and friends watching them. Studying them. He knew they weren't really there, but he couldn't shake the image. He shivered and jammed his hands in his pants pockets; the rain wasn't letting up and he was already soaked to the skin.

  As they continued walking, they watched every dark corner. There was no way to tell what lurked in the shadows, and the constant rain disguised even their own footsteps. Every flash of lightning and peal of thunder slowed them down even more. At this rate, it would be daylight by the time they reached Thorpe's Woods, and it would be even more impossible to stay hidden. With that in mind, Greg quickened his pace. Once he was moving, it was hard not to break into a full-out sprint. He'd always loved Ditchburn, but at that moment he was perfectly okay if he never saw it again. What would be left to save?

  They passed the shoe store on Dunham Street, passed the empty storefront of what had once been a VHS rental shop, passed Millard's Barber Shop where old man Millard used to cut hair before his death in a boating accident five years earlier. Greg recognized it all: every house, every store, every tree. Only now, it seemed unfamiliar and sinister, draped in unnatural darkness, being taken over by creatures that had no right to it.

  Brandon kept pace at his side, panting through chattering teeth as rain ran over his face and down his back in a steady stream - two drowned rats swimming from the deck of a sinking ship with no sign of land in sight.

  As they approached the west end of town, the road climbed steadily upward to a section of Ditchburn not-so-cleverly known as the Ditchburn Heights. Once they crested the hill, they stopped to catch their breath. From here, there was a clear view of the entire downtown area, but there was very little to see. Where the soldiers had placed barricades were bright patches of light from generator-run spotlights. They were only strong enough to illuminate small sections of the street, but apart from military vehicles and scattered clothing, there was nothing much to see. Fires burned in every section of town. The bell in the clock tower over Ditchburn City Hall no longer counted off the hour. The fountain in Mayfield Park had stopped - a child's pants and shirt bobbed listlessly on calm water that had turned the color of cranberry juice.

  "There's no one left," Brandon said sadly as he sat on a bench overlooking the town.

  "We're still here," Greg replied, "and if we made it, others must have."

  It was a bit of wishful thinking on Greg's part, but he refused to believe they were the only ones left out of thousands.

  "Probably just hiding," Brandon muttered. "I hope Dad and Rambler are okay. Maybe they found Mom and escaped. Do you think that's possible?"

  "I think that's exactly what happened. I bet they're safe and they're waiting for us in Parkland."

  "I hope you're right," he said, but he had his doubts. Would they have left without him? "My Dad would have come back."

  "He said he'd find us, remember?" Greg asked.

  "He has no idea where we are. He could drive around for hours and never find us."

  "I told him we were going to Parkland. He'll be there. So will Rambler and your Mom."

  "Why would he take the goddamn dog and leave me behind?"

  "Relax," Greg said. "It was safer for us on foot than driving right into the middle of town. I'm sure he didn't want to leave you, but he was looking out for your safety. You have to know that."

  Brandon wiped his face and clenched his fists in his lap.

  "Denice was always his favorite," he said. "She always got the bigger Christmas presents, the better birthday parties. When I broke my leg, he told to me to suck it up and be a man, but every time Denice came home with a bump or bruise, it was the end of the world."

  "Boys and girls are different. It doesn't mean he loves you any less."

  "Doesn't really matter now, does it? Denice is dead. My parents are probably dead. Everyone is dead. The funny thing about love is that it doesn't really solve anything. Love is another stupid concept we've created so that we can make it through the day without screaming."

  Greg had no idea where all this was coming from, but in the years he'd known Brandon, he never heard him speak so frankly. How does a teenage boy get so cynical? What happened to him that could have made him this way? It was something Greg had every intention of asking him but now wasn't the time.

  As they silently looked out over Ditchburn's death throes, one of the light stands fell to the ground with a crash, leaving a section of Oak Street in pitch darkness. This was followed by the sound of gunfire... and then nothing.

  "My God," Greg said. "What's going on down there?"

  "Death," Brandon replied.

  Greg shivered at the tone of his friend's voice, terrified that Brandon was reaching a point of no return. Greg couldn't blame him. He too was nearing the edge, and the real fear was not knowing what lay at the bottom.

  "Come on, man, we have to go," he said, placing a reassuring hand on Brandon's shoulder.

  "Hold on," Brandon said as he stood. "Do you see that?"

  Greg followed Brandon's pointing finger and squinted into the dark. At first, there was nothing, but just as another of the emergency light stands toppled to the ground, Greg thought he saw the edge of something massive sliding down Green Street. He heard trees snapping and falling to the street, felt the ground shake beneath him as metal screeched and bricks tumbled to the pavement from damaged buildings.

  Whatever was capable of doing such damage must be enormous.

  "Oh no," Greg said. "What in the world is that?"

  "I'm not sticking around to find out."

  Brandon stood from the bench, checked the gun in his waistband, and jogged away without a word. Greg followed sullenly, wondering if his own parents had escaped Ditchburn before everything fell apart. He wasn't very close to his father, not because he didn't love the man or because of any underlying animosity between them, but because they never had much interaction.

  What the hell was that?

  As a child, Greg and his father were inseparable, but as Greg got older, his Dad was home less and less. He'd taken a job two hours away and was very rarely home on weekends, which left Greg alone with his mother most of the time. It formed a solid bond between them, which Greg was happy to have, but the bond with his father weakened as the years went by. It was Mom he talked to when he was hurt by bullies, Mom he talked to about girls he liked, Mom's shoulder he cried on when things got toug
h.

  WHAT the Hell was THAT?

  Now he felt like he was the one who abandoned them, but a trek across town was the last thing he wanted. His sights were set on getting the hell out of town, and if whatever they'd just seen was any indication of what was to come, turning back would be suicide.

  WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WAS THAT?

  As they walked up the darkened street, Brandon checked the gun over and over again, as if it was the only thing he had left to hold on to. Greg wondered what would happen if they ran out of bullets. Then what would his friend cling to? When Brandon stopped and hunkered down in the middle of the road, Greg quickly ran to his side and did the same.

  "What? What it is?" Greg asked.

  Brandon held his hand up. "Do you hear that?"

  "What? I don't hear anything."

  "It sounds like... singing."

  "Singing? Why the hell..."

  Greg stopped mid-sentence. He heard it too. Dozens of people singing something sweet but slightly out of key. There was something about it that made the hair stand up on his arms.

  "What are they thinking?" Brandon asked. "They're going to bring those things right to them."

  Greg listened more closely, suddenly recognizing the song from his childhood.

  "It's 'Nearer My God To Thee,'" he said. "I remember it from church when I was a boy."

  "I don't care what it is," Brandon said. "Who's singing it... and why?"

  "My grandmother used to drag me to church every Sunday," Greg said, ignoring him. "I hated it, but not because I didn't believe. I hated getting up early when I had so many other things I wanted to do. It wasn't so bad I guess. We'd always go to Denny's afterward and get breakfast. I guess it was sort of like a bribe," he laughed.

  "Fascinating," Brandon rumbled. "Are you done reminiscing?"

  "You don't have to be such a jerk. I know you're scared..."

  "I just want to leave," he said. "Once we get over the mountain, we can talk about your grandmother all day, but right now, I don't want to be here."

  "You're not curious where the singing is coming from?" Greg asked.

  "All I'm curious about is why everyone has lost their goddamn mind."