by Weston Ochse
“Then he sticks his tongue out at us, only it ain’t his tongue but this muthafuckin’ green-skinned maggie what decided to pop its head out at us and wave. Jesus is a one-armed dictator, but I had to go Nazi on his ass, you know? You understand? I had to."
"I understand."
Sissy moaned beside him. Buckley leaned the shotgun against the wall and placed his other arm around her.
At the mention of the green-skin, Buckley finally understood. Bennie had been killed by a swimmer—those nasty things that crept through the pipes only to inject themselves up an unsuspecting ass. He’d seen them at work once, and it hadn’t been pretty.
“Was he sitting on the--”
“Yeah,” Samuel replied, “But it wasn’t like he was using it or nothing. He was just sitting.”
“And there was no salt in the water.”
“Guess not.”
“Damn,” sighed Buckley.
The bucket of salt in the bathroom had only one purpose. When someone used the toilet, they were to add salt to the water so the next person wouldn’t have an uninvited guest. The plan was golden. The only problem was that someone had forgotten to add the salt and this wasn’t one of those things an I’m sorry could fix. It wasn’t as if a guy left the toilet seat up so a young lady got her ass wet on the rim. This was about death, and someone made the gangbanger be that way by forgetting.
“But Sissy sure jumped in with the salt. I held the bastard down as he was jerking like he O-Deed. I tried to cut the damn thing out of him, but never did find it. Hid in his chest somewhere. Might still be there for all I know.”
Buckley glanced at the girl, ready to deliver a what the fuck were you thinking, but stopped as he saw that the fear in her eyes had been married to a deep and lonely shame. If he had to guess who’d forgotten the salt, he’d place his money on Sissy. By the way she stared at Bennie’s dead body, he’d also place his money on the fact she’d never do it again. What was condemnation in a city of the dead, anyway? They all knew they were gonna die. All that remained to make life interesting was the knowledge of when and where.
Buckley squeezed her shoulder tightly as he shook her. “You done good, Sissy. Hear me girl? I said you done good. Things happen and there's little we can ever do about it. Now, go on out and fill up the bucket again, I need to figure out exactly how we’re gonna get rid of this body with ten thousand hungry maggies hanging around outside like Mormons at an all night exorcism.”
She stared for a few more seconds, then pried herself free from Buckley’s steely grip. She grabbed the bucket and stalked away, a new hardness to the set of her jaw.
Chapter 12
What if they never came back?
That thought had been repeating in her mind like an incantation of evil. She begged for it to stop. She'd even screamed aloud, but somehow her internal voice boomed over everything, drowning out reason and hope.
What if they never came back?
What if they never came back?
Step on a crack. Break your mother's back.
On and on like a jump rope song for the damned.
She hurled herself to the ground before the door, seeking a space beneath the door. "Mommy? Daddy?" She sobbed. "I'm ready now, Mommy. Come and get me. Please, Mommy. Don't leave me alone."
She listened for an answer but heard only her heart as it played the backbeat to the words she didn't want to hear.
What if they never came back?
What if they never came back?
Step on a crack. Break your mother's back.
Step on a crack. Break your daddy's back.
Run little girl. They ain't never coming back.
CHAPTER 13
Within minutes of Sissy returning with a full bucket from the kitchen, they’d packed Bennie’s every orifice with salt as if it were stuffing and he was the world's first gangbanger-shaped Thanksgiving Turkey. No sooner had they finished, then they wrapped him up in the black shower curtain. With the help of a roll of duct tape, Samuel sealed the package in three broad stripes of silver.
“That should hold him for a bit.” Buckley croaked, holding back the pain. Still, his voice betrayed him drawing the stares of both Sissy and Samuel. Three times during the operation, maggies had bored through his skin. Once on the thigh, once in his left armpit and once under his left breast. Each time, he’d bit his lip, the pain mounting. And each time, he’d successfully managed to corral the damn things before the others noticed, all the while holding them as they tried to eat through his hand. Only by shaking them like caught flies was he able to stun them and keep them from bleeding him to death.
Still, he’d kept up the front and the others were none the wiser. He told Samuel to keep an eye on the body. Very aware of the danger the maggies in his hand posed to the rest of the people, Buckley hurried back into the kitchen looking for Little Rashad. For all he knew, the kid had done what a thousand scientists had been unable to do and figured out a way to save the world. Even now Little Rashad plugged scales with his trumpet in the kitchen. Maybe. Just maybe.
As Buckley passed through the living room, he glanced at Grandma Riggs. The long finger of her left hand shot out and pinned him from where she sat as she spoke in her sing-song crack rhyme,
“Icka bicka soda cracker, icka bicka boo, icka bicka soda cracker, out goes YOU.”
“What?”
“Icka bicka soda cracker, out goes you!”
He glared at her for several long moments as she cackled more of the icka bicka nonsense. But was it? Her Patty Cake rhyme had saved them. She'd foretold the death of Lashawna and Sally. He remembered other rhymes, some meaningless and some that, in retrospect, could mean something. Did she have a gift? Or was it just coincidence? Or crack? Whatever was going on, she'd pegged him. But how? She was just a blind woman with a drug habit. What made her so special? But as he thought about it, he glimpsed a possible answer. If a person lost one of their senses, it was known that the others would improve to compensate for the loss. She'd smelled his infection just like she'd smelled the sex on MacHenry and Gert. Damn.
"Icka bicka soda cracker, out goes you."
Was it true? Could he possibly be next?
As if to answer him, he felt another piercing point of pain upon his right knee cap. Buckley shook his leg violently until the Maggie fell to the floor. There he stomped on it, squishing it to the floor with his heavy-soled boots.
Yeah. He was next, all right. Fucked he was. Fucked real good.
"Excuse me."
Buckley turned to find Samuel and Sissy lugging the wrapped body from the bathroom.
"We couldn't wait," Sissy murmured.
They dropped the long parcel by the front door.
"That should hold him a bit."
Buckley couldn't help but admire how far Samuel had come. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let’s hope so, son."
But Samuel shrugged away.
"What's wrong, Samuel?"
"Fuck that. It’s only a matter of time before we all die."
"I don’t know about that. I mean--"
"What? Like we’ll survive? Like we're gonna get out of this like there's some sitcom solution?"
"We could. Why the fuck not?"
Grandma Riggs crowed from the living room. "No. No. No. No. No. No." The word sounding like doom.
Everyone turned and watched as Grandma Riggs raised her boney arm to point a skeletal finger at Buckley. After a moment of panic, he turned to Samuel and Sissy, a grin squeezing through his shame as he tried to redirect their attention. "So what’s for lunch? Are you hungry, Samuel?"
But Grandma Riggs wouldn't be ignored. “Icka bicka soda cracker, icka bicka boo, icka bicka soda cracker, out goes YOU.”
Feeling like a child, he ignored her as best he could and sought to propel Samuel into the kitchen.
"Icka bicka soda cracker, out goes you."
Jerking his elbow away, Samuel frowned, glancing back and forth from Grandma Riggs to Buckley. "What’s s
he talking about now?"
"I dunno."
"You know exactly what I’m talking about, Mister King of Garbage Lies. You know exactly what I mean Mister Maggie Man."
"What?"
As if in slow motion, Buckley watched as Sissy leapt away from him, stumbling, then sprawling to the floor in the hallway. Samuel lunged for the shotgun leaning against the door jam, latching onto it microseconds before Buckley. Samuel brought the gun level as time resumed.
"She’s talking about you, isn’t she?" Samuel growled.
"Me?"
"Yes you. You’re Icka Bicka Soda Crackered, aren’t you?"
"I am not Icka Bicka Soda Crackered."
"You were telling us we weren’t fucked and here you are Icka Bicka Soda Crackered. How the fuck could you?"
"What the hell are you two talking about?" growled MacHenry stomping out of the bedroom.
"They got him. The maggies got Adamski."
“Icka bicka soda cracker, icka bicka boo, icka bicka soda cracker, out goes YOU.”
Buckley stomped in frustration. It wasn't fair. After all he’d done it was going to end this way. There had to be a way. There had to be a chance. He thought of a dozen things to say, but all he could do was scream at the top of his lings, "I am not Icka Bicka Soda Crackered."
The apartment fell silent as everyone stared at Buckley. Even the trumpet playing had stopped.
In a quiet voice, just loud enough for the others to hear, Buckley repeated the words he only wished were true. "I am not Icka Bicka Soda Crackered."
Little Rashad ran into the room carrying the glass jar. Smoke rose from the open top. A gray sludge coated the bottom. Unlike the others in the room, his smile was broad and wide.
"I got it, Mr. Adamski. I killed your Maggie. I figured it all out for you."
God was fucking with him. That’s what it was. This was one great game of let’s fuck with Buckley. He rolled his eyes and hung his head.
"Aren't you happy, Mr. Adamski? I found the secret. Aren't you happy?"
"Sure kid." He closed his eyes as Samuel cocked the shotgun. "I'm fucking thrilled."
CHAPTER 14
Buckley sat on Bennie’s shower-curtain-encased body, back against the door, hands on his knees, bound with packing twine. A semi-circle of salt had been poured around him blocking him off from the rest of the house. When they’d come for him, he'd gone down without a fight. He shouldn't have deceived them like he had. He'd put them all in danger.
"Reversal of fortune. Ain't that a bitch." MacHenry sat on a foot stool, smoking a cigar, pointing the shotgun at Buckley. He laughed softly, then took a long toke of the Havana.
"Bound to happen sooner or later," Buckley shrugged.
"I suppose."
"What happened to flame on?"
MacHenry flipped open his silver Zippo lighter and stared into the flame for a moment. When it got too hot for him to hold, he turned it off and rubbed the metal against his leg to dissipate the heat. "Flame on won't work anymore."
"What do you mean?"
"Would you believe I fell in love?"
"What'd you do that for?"
"I don't know."
"Your timing’s pretty pathetic."
"Isn’t it though? Who would have thought I would have found someone like Gert at the end of the world?"
"She was there all along, you know."
MacHenry’s eyes brightened. "That’s what she said. Said, I wouldn’t have given her the time of day, else-wise."
"She’s probably right."
"I suppose."
"It’s the choices we make."
Buckley groaned audibly as a maggie popped free under his pants leg. The way he was hogtied, he couldn't get up. So like an upended crab, he shook his legs, until finally it slid free. When it hit the floor, he toed the nasty little beast into the salt where it smoked to nothingness. MacHenry watched it play out non-plussed, then spoke as if nothing had happened. "I wanted to be a lawyer, but I drank my way out of school. Became a car salesman. Same thing in a way."
"I wanted to be a soldier."
"So why didn’t you?"
"They didn’t like my heart. Said it murmured."
"Murmured." MacHenry giggled. "Like it had something to say."
Gert stuck her head out the kitchen door. "Dinner will be ready in a moment, hon. We’re having Vienna Sausages, peas and peaches in heavy syrup."
"Oh Yum." MacHenry licked his lips in mock sincerity.
"No, it’s good. You’ll see." She turned to Buckley for the first time, her face struggling to hold an emotion. She whispered. "Anything special for you, Mr. Adamski?"
"Extra salt, please."
Gert grinned sadly. "Coming right up. Especially on the peaches."
Buckley mimicked MacHenry’s earlier expression. "Double yum."
Both men stared at each other as Gert returned to the kitchen. Suddenly Sissy's laughter brightened the world, she said something, and both women laughed. The only other sound in the apartment was Grandma snoring in the corner of the room. MacHenry leaned closer to Buckley. He laid the shotgun across his knees, the barrels pointed down the hall. "Where were you when it all started?"
Scenes of violence and devastation explode from the floor model console television. Atop the television is a gold alarm clock. Behind the television is a plain, white wall. An old woman lies on the couch. Buckley sits in a chair beside her, holding her hand. He looks up and watches as words flash on the television screen – INVASION OR INFECTION.
"With my mother. She’d been sick for a long time."
"Did she die easy?"
Buckley’s mother reaches out to kiss him with the mouth that had kissed him every morning for school for eighteen years. She purses lips that had taught him the words of love, as he grew up fatherless and angry on the streets of Wilmington. She leans forward, her eyes wild with death as maggies erupt from her skin and cascade to the carpet around her like rice at a zombie wedding. Buckley struggles, screams in panic, then pushes his only mother to the ground. He barely hesitates as he shoots her in the head. Blam. Blam. Blam.
"No. She died hard."
CHAPTER 15
"Dinner’s ready."
Gert brought a plate of food which she placed on the floor at MacHenry’s feet. She handed him a fork. When he took it, they exchanged a brief but warm smile, then she spun on her heel and headed back into the kitchen. A towel hanging over her shoulder and her hair up in a scrunch seemed perfect casting for middle-aged housewife. No one would ever have known that she'd plied her trade on the corner of Main and Sixth. And no one needed to know. She'd remade herself. The world where she'd been a whore no longer existed. For all intents and purposes she was a middle-aged housewife. At least, if given the chance, it seemed the most practical conclusion to the relationship she had with MacHenry. She returned with a glass of water and a Ziploc bag filled with salt. She laid these beside the plate, offered Buckley a sad soulful smile, then once again left the room.
MacHenry pulled out a pocket knife and snapped it open. He moved the blade to the twine securing Buckley's hands. "On your honor?"
Buckley nodded, then added "I ain’t going nowhere."
Once he sliced through a few strands of the twine, MacHenry stood and waited for Buckley to untie the rest. When he finished, Buckley glanced up, rubbing the patterns dug into his wrists.
"We'd appreciate it if you didn't move out of the circle."
Buckley nodded. "Don't worry; I'll stay here with the dead."
"Sounds pitiful."
"Didn't mean it that way. Or maybe I did. I don't know. But don't worry about me. I'm not gonna put you folks in any more danger."
"On your honor?"
"On my honor."
MacHenry nodded to himself as if he'd satisfied some interior concern, then turned and shambled into the kitchen. As he passed Gert setting food on the large table, he let his hand drift across her ass, then linger on her hip. He leaned over, whispered something in her e
ar that made her blush and giggle, then took a seat. He cast one look back at Buckley, then began to heap his plate with the canned cuisine.
Buckley grasped the fork and his plate. He pushed the peaches around, but the heavy syrup stuck to them like motor oil. The Vienna sausages looked like baby's fingers. And the peas, well, he'd never liked peas. He should be hungry. A part of him understood that he needed energy, but he couldn't bring himself to be hungry. Perhaps the prospect of death was too much for him.
Finally he picked up the bag full of salt. With the plate balanced in his knees, he began to sprinkle the salt atop the food. A crazy thought pinged in his brain. If he ate enough salt, he could kill the maggies in his body. The sprinkle turned to a thin pour, then finally an avalanche as he let the entire contents of the bag cover his food. He tossed the empty bag aside and stared at the white-capped plate.
Fuck it. It was only salt. He scooped up a forkful of food and shoved it into his mouth. As he began to chew, his gag reflex tripped and it was all he could do to keep from retching. When he finally swallowed, he took a sip of water. Then he took another bite of food. By his fourth bite he'd learned the trick to keeping down the salt. By the sixth bite, his bile had risen so that it was all he tasted. Each mouthful was a battle to keep down, and he barely survived the meal.
CHAPTER 16
Dinner had been over for an hour and things were relatively quiet. In fact, a passerby, if there were to be a passerby in the fortified penthouse apartment of the Franklin Hotel, would think nothing more of the gathered group lounging around the living room, other than they seemed at peace and at home with one another. Sissy and Little Rashad knelt on the floor playing a card game called Tonk. Samuel, Gert and MacHenry sat on the couch staring restfully at the peeling paint on the far wall. Grandma Riggs smoked crack. And Buckley, well Buckley was the only one out of place. Separated from the others, he sat on a body bag, his back leaning against the front door of the apartment, a white-encrusted black man as stone-still as a mannequin in a Christmas display. His skin and hair and clothes had been covered by a thick layer of salt. Occasionally he'd blink, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes dislodging some of the crystals. But other than that, he held very still. He was doing everything he could think of to fight his infection. And he'd do anything more. There was one thing that was a perfect truth and that was that Buckley Adamski, one time garbage man, part time hero, didn't want to die. And to the credit of the others, they didn't want him to die either.
