I grimaced and—pausing a moment to brush down my seat—slowly lowered myself into my chair.
Chang clasped his hands on the desk and grinned. ‘Okay. All right. Here we are. Finally. You and me. Ready to confess your sins, Mr Pratt? I imagine you must be practically fit to burst, in that regard.’
‘Can we just please get this over with?’ I said.
He nodded solemnly, as if that was exactly the reaction he’d been expecting. ‘As you wish.’ He reached below him to some place I couldn’t see and pulled out a little black box, like a remote, but that wasn’t a remote.
It was a tape recorder.
He hit the button.
‘Whenever you’re ready.’
I looked down at the recorder, its steady red light.
I didn’t want to tell Chang about Belmont Grove. Despite already not having said a single word on the matter, I’d still had dozens upon dozens of emails from people just like him, who had somehow managed to deduce my involvement. If I went on record with Chang now, whatever the outcome, one thing was for certain—these fuckers would never leave me alone. I’d be hounded. From today until the day I died, from other conspiracy-theorist whackjobs also looking to make a name for themselves by getting that “exclusive scoop”. I’d be like this generation’s Neil Armstrong—legendary, but for all the wrong reasons.
Of course, if I didn’t give Chang what he wanted, I’d go to prison. I’d go to prison, and become entertainment for the other inmates, who would no doubt nickname me something awful, like “Swallows Whole”—for reasons that should not need explaining. And if I could say only one thing for my aspirations in life, it’s that I never wanted to know what another man’s balls tasted like.
And so I told him. About everything. About Mr Stewart and Baxter & Klein. About Carter’s group and the whole fiasco up in Massachusetts. And, of course, about the Phonies. I spared no detail, however small or seemingly irrelevant. And the more I told him, the better, strangely, I felt. It was like confession. I was unburdening myself, purging myself of all the ridiculous crap that had been weighing so heavily on my soul this past year.
Did it feel good, you ask? No. Not even close. I was still speaking under duress, after all.
But it felt all right.
When I was finished, I glanced up. He didn’t have a clock anywhere I could see, but I sensed some time had passed. Maybe an hour, or so. I wondered how Frankie was getting on, if I’d have been able to sense if he’d died yet, like how it works in Star Wars.
‘So,’ I said, with a sigh. ‘That’s it. Now you know.’
I was like a new man. Changed, like a Transformer, only not really—though that admittedly would have been freaking awesome.
Chang stared at me across the table for what felt like a very long time.
When he was finished, he said, ‘Do you think this is a joke?’
I blinked.
I hadn’t been sure of exactly what reaction I’d been expecting, but certainly “anger” wasn’t it. Of course I didn’t think it was a joke—how could I? I’d almost died—a dozen times, if I remembered correctly. If it was a joke, I wasn’t the one making it. And I certainly wasn’t laughing.
‘Um...’
‘Do you really expect me to believe that “aliens” were responsible for killing all those people?’ He looked furious, his greasy cheeks now glowing and vibrant with anger. That, or sunburn. But at this time of year? What wattage were those lights, anyway? ‘What—do you think I’m an idiot?’
I wasn’t sure how to answer that without making him even madder.
I raised my hands like I was being held at gunpoint instead. ‘But... it’s the truth, I swear—besides, isn’t this what you wanted?’
‘Don’t lie to me, Pratt!’
He was on his feet now, leaning over the table and jabbing at the air in front of my face with his bloated, sausage fingers. Frothy spittle flew from his mouth in a fine spray, showering me like those times back when you were a kid when you’d look up into the rain, even though that’s probably really dangerous.
Holy fuck—he’s got rabies! Don’t let him bite you, Dan!
‘I know it was the government, Pratt!’ Chang went on. ‘What was it—some kind of experiment? The government testing out chemical warfare on its own citizens again?’
I almost choked on my own spit. ‘What? No! Why would they—?’ I paused. ‘Wait—they do that?’
Man, this day just kept on getting worse and worse.
‘Tell me!’
Spit continued to fly. He was like a goddamn spitting-machine. If he didn’t settle down soon, I’d need an umbrella.
‘But I—’
‘You’re working for them, aren’t you?’ he continued, face now the colour of an overripe tomato. His eyes were bugging out of his head, like one of those insects that do that for some reason. It occurred to me the guy looked fucking insane. ‘WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!’
Plump hands found my collar, tried to pull me onto my feet. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I was manhandled—only not in that good, consensual way people are always writing songs about.
‘TELL—!’
Suddenly, there was a cry and a whooshing sound.
Before I knew what was happening, I was released from Chang’s grip, falling backwards into my chair and almost toppling the fucking thing over.
When I was certain I wasn’t about to go spilling backwards, I looked back across the desk.
Chang was gone.
I blinked. ‘Uh... Chang?’
Maybe he went for a lie down, or something...
I peeked over the table. ‘Wesley, hey. Are you—?’
It all happened in the space of a few seconds.
Just as I was leaning over to check on him, Chang suddenly sprung up from behind the desk.
I recoiled like a startled cat, arms pinwheeling, shit flying out of my asshole at such terrible velocity it could have punched right through a bunker door.
‘Mother of fuck!’
There was something on Chang’s face. Some kind of furry something, small, like a—
I stiffened.
LIKE A MONKEY.
‘Get it off me!’ cried Chang, as the Novamite clamped around his head promptly began its attack, pummeling and clawing, scratching and pulling at his hair. And hissing. The fucking thing was hissing at him. What was more, it looked... different, now. Bigger. Not a lot—it was still only tiny. But definitely not as tiny as it had been before.
Well, that can’t be good.
‘Pratt!’
Oh yeah.
‘Okay! Hold on! Stand still—’
The Novamite bit down.
To this very day, I have never seen blood shoot out of a person the way it did Chang that night. Like one of those volcanoes they were always trying to force you to make back in science class—only this one worked. The word “geyser” came to mind. You seriously wouldn’t have thought blood was capable of moving at that speed. It was amazing.
I threw up my hands as hot, coppery redness began to rain down on me like I was the main attraction in the Devil’s bukkake.
Even in my horror, I took a moment to acknowledge the fact it was the second time in only twenty-four hours I had been engulfed in another living being’s bodily matter. I wondered if it was a sign of the times, what that might mean for my inevitable prison-stretch.
Oh, Jesus God, no...
Thinking fast, I grabbed a Taco Bell box from a unit next to me and flung it.
Exactly what I was hoping to achieve by this, I’m still not sure. But it was the adrenaline, man—I had to do something.
Whatever the reason, it sailed through the air, and—through some miracle or another—struck the monkey-thing directly on the back of the head.
I’d like to tell you this is the point where the little monkey-thing collapsed down dead—a limp bundle of semi-chimpanzee, unmoving on the trailer’s floor in a jumbled heap of its own crumpled limbs.
&nb
sp; Instead, the monkey-thing shot me a look, as if to say—Seriously, dude? A Taco Bell box?
Then before I knew what it was doing, it unclamped itself from Chang’s head and shot off somewhere back down towards the other end of the trailer.
There was a crash and a bang. A waft of something uncannily like wet dog.
Then—
Silence.
The monkey-thing was gone.
I stood there on the trailer’s worn, filthy carpeting, not moving, listening to what I thought was the quickly fading sound of the monkey-thing’s departure from the scene.
When I looked back at Chang, I almost puked right in my mouth.
I’ve seen some things in my time. Terrible, awful things. I’ve seen people explode. Watched celebrities getting pulled to pieces like stale bread. You could say I was not unaccustomed to the odd bit of blood and gore.
But looking at Chang then, all that stark red and hanging lengths of what I supposed was his neck-flesh, I couldn’t deny the retching feeling bubbling in my guts.
Christ, look at it. It’s like spaghetti.
‘I... I think I’m dying,’ he said.
‘Yeah.’ He was.
‘You... have to... help me...’
I’d like to tell you that the idea of simply bugging out of there and leaving Chang to his fate never crossed my mind. Truth was, Chang dying right then was probably the best thing that could have happened—for me, I mean. Not for him. I had no real reason to want to keep Chang alive—but plenty of reasons to want him dead, not least of which because he was technically the indirect keeper of my anal virginity. And besides, this was a fully grown man who lived in a trailer and spent the majority of his time on YouTube watching videos about the freaking Illuminati, or whatever. Really, letting him die would have been the responsible thing to do.
He reached for me, eyes wide and pleading.
‘Please...’
Goddamnit.
I got an arm under his shoulder and shakily pulled him to his feet. I made for the door, thought about it, then quickly back-pedaled and snatched up the tape from Chang’s recorder—because, seriously, I had enough problems right then as it was.
Then, before I could give myself any time to reconsider, I kicked open the door to the trailer and shambled out into the frigid cold.
Hey—I never said I was a smart guy.
***
So I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to tell you how I raced Chang to the hospital, how I broke every driving law known to man and risked my own life as I desperately fought to get him help, taking corners like a man possessed and shouting the occasional word or two of encouragement, things like “Hang in there!” and “Don’t you die on me, damnit!”
Truth was, I drove at a very reasonable thirty miles per hour, both hands constantly on the wheel, making sure to use my blinkers whenever making turns, and stopping at each and every light—and I didn’t say a single word. Seriously, there’s a reason we have speed limits, folks. And besides, it had been snowing, hadn’t it? What was I, an asshole?
We reached Amerstow General twenty minutes later, pulling to—what I thought—was a very reasonable stop outside the main doors.
I looked Chang over.
He was not looking good. He was very pale, for one thing. There were dark bags under his eyes and his lips had turned a faint blue. What was more, his skin had taken on a somewhat waxy quality. He really needed help. Fast.
‘Okay,’ I said, with a sigh. ‘We’re here.’ I paused, waited for him to open his door—or at the very least say thank you.
When he didn’t, I said, ‘Chang?’
I wondered if he was waiting for something, like a prompt, or a pep talk or whatever.
‘Um... good luck?’
Nothing.
I groaned. ‘Chang? Chang, we’re here. Come on, big fella. Upsy-daisy. Time to go.’ I pushed his shoulder, but he didn’t move. Christ, he was fucking deadweight. ‘Come on, wake up. Wake up, you asshole.’
I punched his shoulder.
After several minutes of this, he finally opened his eyes. They settled on me sitting in the driver’s seat beside him and he frowned. ‘Oh—Pratt. It’s you...’
‘Yeah, it’s me. Dick. Now get out of my car. You’re bleeding all over my upholstery.’
He took a deep, rattly breath. I noticed he still wasn’t moving. ‘You were right... about the aliens... about everything—God, I’m such an asshole!’
‘Yeah.’ He was. ‘But seriously, Chang, my upholstery—’
‘Will you forgive me?’
I sighed. ‘If I say yes, will you get the fuck out?’
Before I could object, he suddenly took my hand and squeezed.
‘Thank you. That means... a lot…’
Oh goddamnit.
After a lot of effort, I eventually managed to get Chang into the emergency room, where I’m pleased to say he was quickly taken out of my hands. Then I had some questions to answer. Questions about who I was, what had happened, exactly how I knew the patient etc. Seriously, you’d be amazed the kinds of lies a person can come up with when they really have no other choice.
And so, several minutes later, “Sven Larsson” emerged from Amerstow General, covered more than a little in his “best friend’s” blood.
Once outside the main doors, I hesitated a moment before making my way over to my car—not least because it was a goddamn bloodbath in there.
I ran my fingers through my hair.
I didn’t think I’d ever been more emotionally drained. I wondered what the time was. It felt very late, though probably wasn’t. I really needed to get some sleep.
I watched the snow settling on the parking lot a while, feeling like I could use a cigarette, even though I didn’t smoke.
At some point, I became aware of eyes on me, and I turned.
There were people staring at me. A couple of nurses hovering by the main doors. Old guy in a robe, who had apparently stepped outside for a smoke, the chill night wind occasionally blowing said robe up around his head like Marilyn Monroe that one time and affording me a much better glimpse of his bare, withered ass than I would have liked.
But there were other people, too. People in normal clothing, whose presence there I couldn’t determine. True, they could have just been visitors—family members, or whatnot, coming to check on their sick relatives.
But the way they all stared—all blank-faced and expressionless, the way they refused to look away, even when I held their gazes... it was unsettling. Okay, yes, I was covered in blood, so that could have been why they were all staring—whatever.
Something told me that wasn’t why, though.
Suppressing a shiver, I pulled my jacket tighter around me.
Then I got the fuck out of there.
SEVEN
THE FOLLOWING FEW HOURS passed in a frenzy of bleach and shampoo.
I showered—fast and hard, like the kind of sex guys think all girls want, even though realistically that’s probably a statistical impossibility. And I wept. For longer than I would have liked to admit, in a manner I would have denied if confronted with. I think it was a purging-thing.
I thought about penguins. It’s not often said, but penguins are very much like nature’s joke. They’re weird-looking—that’s the first thing. They have wings, but can’t fly. They mate for life, and the female always chooses, so if you’re fat or an especially weird-looking penguin, you’re fucking doomed. Then there are all those sharks trying to take a bite out of them all the time. Face it, nobody wants to be a penguin.
And yet that’s exactly what I was—a lone penguin, trundling lost along the shores of his insignificant, yet strangely eventful life, unaware of the myriad monsters waiting just out of sight for me to turn my back before pouncing on me and tearing me to pieces like a fucking man-shaped piñata. I was nature’s joke. I had to be; it was the only thing that made sense.
When I was done crying and showering, I went to clean the blood from the Ac
cord’s seats and footwell, realising the second I started what a poor order I’d chosen to do said task in.
After cleaning the Accord and showering for what felt like the fifteenth time, I tried to get some sleep—even managed it a little, too, until I had a dream about being a separated Siamese-twin, and awoke, sweating in the dark, wondering exactly where the hell the other part of me had gone. I’ve never been able to explain my dreams.
At around 5:00am, just as the sun was peeking its head over the horizon, I went to meet Frankie.
I met him at a diner across town, just off the main highway. A glass-all-the-way-around joint, called—I kid you not—the Chili Fiddler.
Giant, flaming chili above the entrance. Two fake-as-shit palm trees flanking the main doors, for reasons I’m still not able to fully explain.
I found Frankie at a booth near the middle and slumped into the seat opposite.
He looked awful. His hair was all tousled, and there were dark stains like mud and something else I didn’t even want to think about all over his clothes. Something like oil over his hands and face, like how mechanics sometimes look after a hard day’s work. The not-so-faint odor of fresh garbage came off him in waves, so strong it made me nauseous.
I shook my head.
So many questions.
Whilst I waited for my coffee to arrive, I listened as Frankie filled me in on his progress thus far.
He’d looked everywhere he could think of that a newborn alien-monkey might go, never mind the fact he couldn’t possibly have known such a thing. Firstly, the mall (his logic here being that was where everybody went—which I guessed wasn’t totally inaccurate, when you think about it). The dump (because, you know, “reasons”). The flood drains, where the city’s homeless all like to hang out and be homeless and stuff—easy meal.
Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything Page 9
