Melt

by Christopher Motz

  "Jeez, Mom. You could've stayed home if you wanted to watch television."

  "I want you to see it, too," she said. "You can't just watch game shows forever."

  "The hell I can't," he said, laughing. He thumbed the remote and turned on the TV.

  "Channel six."

  "Yes, master."

  He flicked through the channels and put the remote down.

  The President was on.

  "Oh, Mom, come on. I don't care what he has to say about anything."

  "Would you just be quiet and learn something for once?"

  Greg crossed his arms and laid back, checking out almost at once. Politics bored him to tears.

  The President yapped, people clapped and cheered... blah blah blah.

  When the camera panned out, it showed a small stage set up on the White House lawn. The scene at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was one Greg had seen dozens of times, but this time, something was different.

  The White House was in ruins.

  "Mom? What the hell is this?"

  She waved a hand to silence him.

  "What happened here last week was a tragedy," the President exclaimed. "When the British burned the White House in 1814, we came back stronger than ever and rebuilt. Just like 'The Storm That Saved Washington,' a new storm is coming to save this great nation. I am that storm."

  Christ, this guy is an arrogant windbag, Greg thought. He still had no idea what had happened in the first place. The White House had been scorched black and part of the West Wing had collapsed. Sections of the lawn had been blackened and burned.

  "We start right here, right now," the President shouted, pounding his fists on the podium for emphasis. "We start over, bigger and better than ever before. We will not go down without a fight."

  "What happened?" Greg asked.

  "Quiet," his mother demanded.

  There was a quick, short crack, followed by black smoke and a great rumble as the White House folded in on itself. The crowd stood and cheered as the Presidential Mansion crumbled.

  "What the fuck?" Greg shouted. "What are they doing?"

  "Watch your language," his mother warned.

  The President grinned from ear to ear, allowing the applause to reach a fever pitch before continuing.

  "This is just the beginning," he shouted. "The Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the Capitol Building are already scheduled for demolition early tomorrow."

  "Why would they do that?" Greg said, sitting up in bed. "This is crazy."

  "If we're to become," the President said, "we're going to become as a nation of unified individuals with one goal in mind: a fresh start!"

  "No," Greg cried. "No, this isn't right. Mom, something is wrong here."

  "Just watch," she said softly. "The best part is coming up."

  The best part? Has everyone lost their mind?

  "A special government task force was created to find the cowards who brought this nation to its knees. Cowering in dirty cellars, collecting in the sewers like rats, these people have been torn from their hiding places to pay the ultimate price for their evil deeds."

  Greg shook his head slowly, mouth agape, chest rising and falling quickly as he panted like an Olympic sprinter.

  Three dozen people - men, women, and children - knelt on the White House lawn, holding on to one another for dear life. They shouted prayers, they begged for their lives, they shielded their children from what was to come.

  The President left the stage, walked to a waiting group of Secret Service agents, and grabbed a hose from the ground.

  Just a normal, green, vinyl garden hose.

  The crowd erupted in cheers.

  He squeezed the nozzle, accidentally spraying himself, and looked for the nearest camera to offer a shrug and a smile.

  Then he turned the hose on those kneeling before him.

  The screams were instantaneous.

  Greg watched horrified as their flesh bubbled and blistered. Some tried to run only to fall and writhe on the ground in their own folds of melting skin. The scorched lawn became a swamp of molten fat, blood, and shit. The President and his Secret Service agents high-fived, hugged, and danced around like soccer players after a winning goal. The remains of the thirty-six human enemies seeped into the White House lawn like rainwater... bubbling, sizzling, steaming.

  The President raised an arm to the camera and saluted.

  "I'm not crazy," Greg cried. "I'm not fucking crazy!"

  "Oh, Greg, calm down," his mother said. "How are you going to get better if you keep over-exerting yourself?"

  "You stay away from me. Stay the fuck away."

  Brandon burst into the room with Eve hot on his heels.

  "Did I miss it?" he asked. He saw the look on Greg's face and knew the answer. "Damn. I'll be late for my own funeral."

  "You," Greg whined. "You fucking liar... it was all real. All of it!"

  "We thought you were smarter than that, Greg," Eve said. "We thought you'd figure it out for yourself."

  "You fucking monsters..."

  "We told you how things were going to be, but you didn't want to listen," Brandon said. He reached out and had his hand smacked away.

  "If you touch me, I'll kill you," Greg said.

  "No you won't," Eve said. "You can't."

  "Don't you see how things are now?" Brandon asked. "Don't you get it?"

  Greg looked at the window for a way out but knew the only option was to go through them.

  He lurched forward and slammed Brandon into the wall, creating a human-shaped cavity in the drywall. He wrapped his hands around Brandon's neck and squeezed. Eve put a hand on her hip and rolled her eyes.

  "He just doesn't give up," she said.

  Greg's mother shook her head and opened her book.

  "This is not how it fucking ends," Greg growled.

  "No, Greg," Brandon choked. "This is how it begins."

  Greg howled and pressed his thumbs into Brandon's throat. They tore through flesh and sank into the meat of Brandon's esophagus, but there was no blood... only dark brown clots of jelly that spilled onto Greg's hands and arms. He screamed and flailed and pushed Eve to the floor before running down the hall and exiting the hospital. He raced down the street in the direction of Ditchburn as the brown gunk swirled on his skin. He screamed and screamed and screamed as the people of Parkland came out on their porches to watch him go mad.

  Greg waited for his hands to blister as he ran into the forest, barefoot and alone.

  P-21 may have achieved victory, but Greg wasn't about to let them watch him fall.

  For whatever was left of his life, he was in charge.

  ***

  It had been twenty minutes since Greg Sullivan ran into the forest.

  Eve and Brandon knew there was no point going after him, but after everything they'd been through, they felt it necessary.

  "Do you want me to come with you?" Eve asked.

  "No, that's okay," Brandon said, kissing her on the cheek. "It's something I should do alone."

  "I'll see you back at the hospital."

  "You be good, Rambler," Brandon said as he patted his dog on the head. Rambler licked Brandon's fingers, turned, and pulled on his leash. Eve smiled and allowed herself to be led away.

  Brandon headed for Thorpe's Woods and remembered better times.

  He couldn't understand why Greg was behaving like this. At this rate, his friend would be in and out of hospitals the rest of his life.

  The ground steepened on his climb to the top of the mountain, but the paths were well-defined.

  The Overhang wasn't far.

  Brandon had no idea what to expect when he got there.

  ***

  Greg sat on the edge of the rock and looked out over what was once Ditchburn. Now that it was light, he could see what was left behind: rows of blackened foundations, blasted streets, heaps of debris that still smoked and steamed and clouded the air.

  He wrung his hands nervously, waiting for the flesh t
o bubble and peel away, but it never happened. Where the brown, alien slime had touched his flesh, nothing remained but a sticky residue. He was beyond wondering why, just as he couldn't explain why his bare feet weren't torn and bleeding from his mad dash through Thorpe's Woods.

  None of it mattered.

  He heard footsteps crunching through the brush behind him, but didn't turn. He knew who it was... he could feel him.

  "What do you want, Brandon?" he asked.

  "For you to come to your senses. Are you going to run forever? There are people back at the hospital who love you and care about you, and you're sitting out here with your ass sticking out the back of your gown."

  "Do you see this?" Greg asked, pointing downtown. "Nothing. Two hundred years of history and nothing to show for it. All it took was twelve hours to wipe it from the Earth."

  "There's always going to be a Ditchburn," Brandon said. "And there's always going to be people to fill it."

  Greg stood and wiped dust from his legs. He held his hands in front of his face and turned them over.

  "Why didn't I change, Brandon? Why am I still here?"

  Brandon sighed and hung his head.

  "Tell me! You owe me that much."

  "Greg, would you please just come back with me?"

  "Why the fuck am I still here?" Greg screamed. "Please... just tell me."

  "You already know the answer."

  "I want you to FUCKING SAY IT!"

  "Because you're one of us, Greg. You're one of us."

  Greg let his arms fall to his side and nodded. He stepped back.

  "No, don't..." Brandon said, but it was too late.

  He heard Greg hit the forest floor forty feet below.

  Brandon turned and walked back to Parkland.

  "He'll understand eventually," he said. "He has to."

  ***

  When he opened his eyes, Greg recognized the room immediately.

  Same hospital, same restraints, same bed.

  "How... did I get here?"

  Doctor Straker stood at the foot of the bed, all pretense of scanning Greg's chart forgotten.

  His mother sat in the chair next to him reading one of those romance novels she loved so much.

  Brandon and Eve stood on the other side, hand in hand, watching him.

  "What's going on?" Greg asked with a tremble in his voice.

  "You know what's going on," Eve said. "You just need to accept it."

  He looked at Brandon and cried.

  "Why are you doing this?" he whimpered.

  "Do you remember what I said at the tunnel?" Brandon asked. "When you turned and walked away, what did I tell you?"

  Greg coughed and choked back a cry. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I've always been your friend. I'll be your friend again."

  Greg could see it in his mind, could remember Brandon telling him those very words.

  "I... I remember."

  "Just because you've become doesn't change that."

  "Become?"

  "You're one of us, Greg," Brandon said, grabbing his hand. "You always have been."

  Truth leads to acceptance, and acceptance leads to truth.

  For what was left of Greg Sullivan, it no longer mattered.

  He screamed... down and down into the darkness.

  Into the black.

  A place he understood... cold and lifeless as the far reaches of the universe.

  Finally, he felt at home.

  A Few Words About 'Melt'

  !!!WARNING!!! This section contains spoilers. If you haven't finished reading, do not continue!

  This story is a loving homage to old school horror in the vein of The Blob and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. As usual, I've put my spin on it, but I'd be lying if I didn't give credit where credit is due. Once my edits were complete, I had a little time to relax and catch up on some cheesy horror films I'd missed. One of note is The Faculty. I had somehow completely skipped over this movie, and yet as I watched, I was floored by a few similarities to this book. I assure you, I had never seen the film before, and any of these similarities are purely coincidental.

  As I've done in the past with my novel 'The Darkening,' I've chosen to return to the small town setting with a minimal list of characters. I think it allows time for them to breathe and gives the reader a deeper look into who they are and why they act the way they do. There's something fascinating about digging beneath the surface and understanding what makes them unique. The setting also plays a very big role... especially for my main characters whose lives revolve around their somewhat limited view of the world. While Ditchburn is not a real place (to my knowledge), I've tried to add enough flavor to bring it to life... so when I finally dig the grave for the town and its residents, you'll feel a little more connected.

  While I never attempt to paint a Rockwellian way of life, I hope some of you reading this will appreciate the small details and think fondly of your own home town and childhood - minus the catastrophic events perpetrated by Wildflower Pharmaceuticals.

  It's fun and exciting writing tales with the notion that many of my characters have never seen outside the confines of their tiny universe. They've had the same friends since they were children, their parents know each other, they shop at the same corner stores and have a shared reality based on their surroundings. Their best and worst memories are there: their first kiss, first heartbreak, first triumph. Many of us lived that way, and many of us still do.

  My generation was possibly the last to remember what life was like before everyone was connected via cell phones and the Internet. Our small town was a living, breathing thing. The parks were alive with the sound of music and laughter, the carnival passed through every summer, giving us an entirely different experience than standing on street corners or gathering in the woods for spirited games of Army or tag. We lived outdoors, which is also something I wanted to convey with Greg and Brandon. They have a history in Ditchburn and with each other, but nothing lasts forever... does it?

  Now that I've gotten some nostalgia out of my system, let me tell you a little about the book.

  'Melt' was intended to be a novella from the very beginning. I'd done two others in the last few years and I've had fun writing stories that were a bit more succinct and straight to the point. One was a success, while the other was an utter flop, but I still had the intention of continuing my yearly novella release. Once 'Melt' got moving, I knew it would no longer fit into that category. There was so much I wanted to cram into these pages, and although this is a shorter work by my standards, I feel I was able to tell a great story without sacrificing some of the finer details.

  This is the first time we come across Wildflower Pharmaceuticals, a shady corporation hiding behind a web of secrecy and lies. We're introduced to Steven Gates, CEO, mastermind, and realize pretty quickly that every shadow organization needs a face. Under the guise of product testing and improving human life through pills and powders, Wildflower's motives go much deeper than what is seen on TV. While we only saw Gates for a brief moment, we have no idea what's become of him during the Ditchburn outbreak, nor what's happened to the remainder of his ragtag mercenary squad of convicts.

  Project 21 (P-21) made its way to the center of American government, but humans are a tenacious bunch. There's no telling what might happen in the weeks and months after the outbreak, but I've heard rumors of Gates's continued work with Wildflower and the Tree of Mirrors. Some doors can be opened but not so easily closed.

  My friend, Greg Sullivan, might have something to say on the matter... but who's listening?

  Christopher Motz - July 1, 2019

  About The Author

  Christopher Motz was born in 1980 and lives in small-town Pennsylvania with his wife and step-daughter. He's an avid music fan, collector of classic vinyl, and musician. The release of 'Melt' marks his sixth novel since 2016 as well as having several of his short stories appear in horror anthologies.

  You can reach Christopher
on the web at:

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