Aftertaste

by Andrew Post

  “Let me do something for you,” he says. “Let me make it up to you.” He pulls, sudden and rough, and her shorts come down some more. It’s like he thinks she’s playing a demented game of hard-to-get, and he demonstrates his intentions by opening his mouth and flopping his grotesquely long tongue up and down. The pale worm-shape, beside it, tangling and untangling, lashes about. She almost vomits.

  Hands on her hips, he tries pushing his mouth closer. It’s all she can take and puts a foot on his chest and kicks with all of her strength.

  He weighs considerably more than her, so instead of pushing him away she actually launches herself backwards, through the makeshift wall she was backed against. Her shoulder collides with a standing pillar of debris. Something heavy somewhere above them … shifts.

  “I’m going to die if I don’t get out of here, Jolby,” Galavance pleads. “Just let me go, I swear … I swear I won’t bother you at work ever again.”

  “It’s all right, babe, I’m actually glad you’re here,” he replies cheerfully with a shrug, and then winks. “Chev’s out doing something and, I mean, I always wanted to do it in this place. Look at all these rooms, all this space. So much more space than our place where we can get crazy.”

  Galavance loses all track of what she wants to say to Jolby for a moment, because over his shoulder behind him, she can see Zilch, still impaled on the broken stud, move. The lid of his one remaining eye is fluttering, and he’s attempting to sit up but is quite literally nailed in place, like a pinned insect.

  “Galavance?” Jolby says, leaning to put his eyes in the path of hers. “You said we needed to talk. And even though I don’t think we really have anything to talk about—I think everything’s just fine—I’ll listen, I’ll be happy to listen.”

  She looks at him squarely. “Did you cheat on me?” Something blunt as a hammer might just shock him back. No talk about jobs or anything of the bullshit that had piled up between them—the truth, the heart, the thing that made a relationship work. She questions, for the first time, directly to him, the trust binding them together.

  His face flips through a series of expressions. Surprise. Mild anger. Frustration. Disbelief. Guilt. And then a non-expression, blanked. Acceptance, clarity? But maybe not, given what he rolls out next.

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Jolby says. “That hurts, babe. Like, really hurts. But if you were like me, you’d see that pain can’t find you when you’re swimming deep. It’s like dreaming. Down under the water, nothing hurts. It keeps the air from reaching the cut. Don’t you want that, babe?”

  “No, Jolby, I don’t. I want to know what you did. I don’t care if you’re sorry, I just need to know that you know what kind of pain you caused me.”

  “Gal, I … I messed up.”

  Behind him, Zilch locks eyes with Galavance over Jolby’s spotty shoulder. He remains quiet as he awkwardly attempts to lift himself off the wooden spike driven through his back, with only one working arm.

  Jolby stops in his shuffling tracks for a beat. His hands come up and touch the sides of his head, roughly where his jaw connects to his skull. A half-inch of worm pulls itself between his lips, and Galavance watches his throat swell as he swallows. When he looks up at her again, any trace of blue in his one eye is gone. The green has absorbed any scant shade of human flesh, and he is completely a were-amphibian once more. Looking down at himself, he smiles proudly, then cocks his eyes up at Galavance and the smile broadens, bad thoughts communicated, wordless.

  When consciousness floods back to him, Zilch finds himself unable to get up; the odd angle at which he’s lying and the piece of wood he’s been speared onto, naturally, make this difficult. Wiggling around does nothing but give him internal splinters. A few open-handed smacks crack it somewhat, but freedom still feels impossible—all the while, twisting to look over one shoulder, he watches, helpless, as the were-amphibian closes in on Galavance. She kicks him back and he reels, nearly stumbles, but recovers, determined and patient.

  The thing advances another step, hands out as if meaning no harm, while the look on its face says otherwise.

  Zilch wrenches his upper body to one side, then the other. The spike of wood cracks again, louder, fragmenting. Digging in one heel, he presses off, taking the snapped-off piece with him. Thumping himself on the chest as if trying to dislodge a belch pushes it out his back, landing slicked end to end with red Zilch fluid. The buggies go to work, mending what they can, but with so few of them left, the yawning cavity in his chest only reduces itself to a sleepy pucker.

  With a broken spindle from the crushed staircase in hand, teeth gritted, Zilch raises it overhead and brings it down like a cartoon mallet over the were-amphibian’s head, the blow fueled more by annoyance than anything.

  Fighting to catch himself with a wide side-step, Jolby, head wavering, trips and stumbles over. His impact when he hits the floor makes the wall above them all crack and moan; in terror, Zilch and Galavance watch as it suddenly drops by a foot, raining dust and broken nails.

  Pointed Zilch’s way is the were-amphibian’s bare ass. Zilch thinks about what he considered earlier, about how it would’ve been easier to go in the other end. When life gives you lemons … he thinks cynically, balls a fist, and with a two-count heave-ho, makes himself Jolby’s ventriloquist.

  What happens after that is highly unpleasant. There is lots of shouting, fishing blindly this way and that. When he can feel he’s got a worm cornered somewhere in Jolby’s large intestine, Zilch grabs it and pulls, hard. Once free, he tosses it aside. It scuttles for the edge of the water, where the deck lies crushed.

  “Mind getting that?” Zilch says, nodding at the critter making its blind race for freedom.

  Galavance drops her bare foot onto it. It whips about, shrieking, as Galavance grinds her heel. Something pops and a gush of green shoots out its side, and it stills, able to wriggle a few tentacles but not much more.

  “Now for number two,” Zilch says, and goes back in. This one is bigger, birthed from his own gashed belly, and it’s really up inside Jolby. Snatching one tentacle, threatening to tear it, Zilch pulls, and yard after yard comes out until finally, snap. The parasite breaks free and Zilch falls over backwards. Jolby’s grunting and swearing about as much as you’d expect, maybe a little less, all things considered.

  The last remaining parasite, sensing it has to make a break for it, uncoils from Zilch’s arm and begins scurrying across the hot metal of the monster truck’s underside toward the cab’s opening—the freedom of the open swamp ahead. Dodging Galavance’s stomps, it leaps. Zilch reaches out and tries to catch its tail as it slithers away, pushing off of what he can, ducking under the axel again and—no, it slips over the edge into the cab, and with a splash, is in the water.

  But just before vanishing into the churned brown water and seaweed and debris, it’s speared with an aluminum bolt—not killing it, but preventing its escape. Stepping inside the truck’s cab, Galavance turns the harpoon gun around and as the parasite whips about, squealing and trying to free itself, she brings the gun’s grip down on it. Just then the second parasite, mustering up its energy, drops from the slanting debris above, possibly to the rescue of its sibling. As it coils itself to spring toward Galavance’s face, to force itself down her throat, she snags it out of the air and spikes it to the ground alongside the first one she’s already halfway killed. She pounds both over and over with the harpoon gun’s grip, snarling and growling with each strike.

  They’re in smashed pieces when she’s finally through and stops to catch her breath. They fall into the water in chunks, mealy strands that bob along but finally sink. She’s falling over, arms shaking from the effort she put into this Amazonian display.

  “Whoa,” Jolby says. “That was awesome, babe.”

  “Jolby, shut the fuck up.”

  “We need to get him out of here,” Zilch says and notices that despite everything, and especially given that it would appear they’d managed to sa
ve Jolby without killing him, she looks rather solemn, her arms crossed over her chest. Jolby is visibly improving by the second, returning to his normal pinkish hue. But by the look on Galavance’s face, Zilch wonders if she even cares whether he’s dead or alive at this point.

  Barely above a whisper she asks: “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I think so,” Zilch says.

  “Was that all of them … ?”

  “Yes. He’s cured—by one definition or another.”

  She only nods. Comforted by that news or not, he can’t tell.

  Galavance helps Jolby into the passenger side of her car. It had barely escaped being pulled into the wreck when 1330 Whispering Pines Lane sunk. She waits until he meets her gaze, and when he does, she can see the guilt practically radiating off him.

  “You look pissed,” he says, legs dangling out of the car.

  “There’s probably a reason for that.”

  “Are you pissed?”

  “Yes, Jolby, I am.”

  “I wanted to tell you what was going on with me, but you saw what I looked like, I—”

  “Not that, Jolby. Though that wasn’t great either.”

  “Then … I don’t understand. If we’re not gonna talk about me being sick …” How much he remembers doing—like dismembering and impregnating the corpse of his best friend—Galavance cannot tell. He certainly remembers something, though, because his gaze goes distant and he holds his forehead in his hand, lips curling with disgust. Something in that noggin is taking shape.

  “That wasn’t you,” she says. “And right now, I don’t care about that, because that’s over.”

  “Okay,” he says, visibly relieved, off the hook. “Good. I’m glad you’re being so cool about this, Gal. I mean, I really had no idea I was doing any of it, it all just sort of happened. I mean, I was just hanging out with Chev one day and I started feeling weird and then I got the shits and then every once in a while, just out of the clear blue, I’d—”

  “I don’t mean that, Jolby. Would you listen to me?”

  “Gal, come on. Don’t use my name. You know I hate it when—”

  “Jolby,” she snaps, “I may be partly responsible because I was bringing leftovers home from work for you. But that’s just one part of it.”

  “Wait, what? I didn’t get it from …”

  “From what?” she says.

  “I kind of thought it was from, you know … like herpes.”

  She nearly dusts her teeth grinding them so hard. “So you were aware. You were fully aware, the whole time?”

  Jolby’s eyes dart around. “Do we really have to talk about this right now, right here? I don’t feel that great. I think I’d like to go home, lay down for a while.”

  For a moment, she wishes she could shoot lasers from her eyes. “Yes. Here.”

  “Okay, so … what? What do you want to talk about?”

  “You cheated on me. And you knew you were cheating on me.”

  “Uh …” his face goes through that kaleidoscope of emotions again. Confused. Hurt. Angry. And finally, guilty. His chin goes down but her hand flashes out quick to take it before it can reach his chest. She makes him look at her.

  “Yes or no,” she says.

  “I knew. Look, Gal, I—” Jolby tries.

  But Galavance is standing, wiping as much mud off herself as she can, then turns away. She goes around the side of the wrecked house, and has to wade out into the swamp just to get to the back. Patty floats by in the water, then a small ripple of bubbles surfaces from under the ghillie-suited regional manager and she sinks, taken by the swamp. Galavance swallows her disgust and the twinge of shame she feels for her death, and with high steps, makes her way to the side of the house where Zilch stands on the slanted roof, looking out over the water. He notices her wading up next to the place, below.

  “You’re gonna get leeches,” he says.

  “He knew he was doing it,” she says, but doesn’t want to talk about it more than that. “Anything else we need to do around here? I’d like to leave now.”

  “You and me both,” he says, coming to the edge and dropping down. “A piece of advice: with Beefy Ben and his friends sitting squashed in the driveway, plus what’s left of Chev in the garage … and your regional manager, wherever she’s floated off to … you might want to, you know, distance yourself from this place. Give it some room, to breathe, so to speak.”

  “No problem there,” Galavance says.

  His torn coat hangs open, and she can see through him. Where his heart should be is a hole, and sunshine’s coming in from behind him. A part of the skin on his chin has been torn away, pale bone showing. He runs his hand back through his mud-caked hair, and shakes his head, staring out over the bog.

  “Susanne and I used to drive past this place—before it was a cul-de-sac—all the time. Right over there. I’d drive her to work sometimes when she worked the late shift. We’d be going along the road over there and she’d roll down the window so she could hear the frogs. She’d close her eyes and put her seat back and just smile.”

  “Will you get to see her again?”

  “I don’t know. And that’s all right, if not.”

  “You don’t think you … deserve to, by now?”

  “You’re asking me that, after what you just dealt with this weekend? I’d figure you’d be done with men—and our excuses and apologies.”

  “People can change.”

  “So you’re taking the high road, huh? Shame.” He smiles. “But will Jolby change, you think?”

  “Maybe. I hope so.”

  Zilch looks back out across the swamp, trailing the road across the water, Kit Mitchell Road, and Galavance wonders if he’s possibly painting himself and his wife in their car over there, cruising along late at night.

  “Say, uh—I should thank you. You could’ve just killed him instead of …”

  “Jamming my hand up his ass? Sure. But part of me thinks, looking at you now, you might’ve preferred if I’d just done him in.”

  “No. The bad stuff—the truly bad stuff, like killing Chev—was because of that thing. Him cheating on me, while really screwed up, doesn’t mean he should die.” She pauses. “So, like, are you done? You finished the job, didn’t you?”

  “I am. Just dragging my feet now. I missed this neck of the woods more than I thought I would.”

  “Do you get need to go anywhere special to, you know, check out?”

  “They prefer it if I finish back where I started. Makes less paperwork for them or something. If I could bum one last ride, I would appreciate it.”

  “No need to ask. I was gonna offer.”

  It’s not a half-beat after Zilch drops down before the house falls in on itself. Smoke shoots out of every gap it can find. One tongue of fire moves across the shingles, another spouts up to light a broken window like a jack-o-lantern. The smoke shifts from white to black. In a couple of hours, if no one comes to call in the blaze, there will be nothing left. If that happens, Galavance wonders, maybe Zilch’s employees won’t have to come out then to cover things up, make things tidy. Maybe they’ll give him a pat on the back for making that one aspect of their job just a little bit easier. He’s earned at least that much, she thinks.

  Galavance drives, while Jolby lays sprawled in the back and Zilch reclines in the passenger seat, his arm hanging out the window. She can’t be sure, but it looks like he’s listening to the frogs and crickets. They pass the swamp, and it falls behind them, growing quiet outside the car except for the rush of wind. Zilch raises the window, like he’s heard enough.

  They don’t listen to any music, and no one talks. They’re all exhausted, and with the air conditioner blowing full blast, the entire car is filled with a fug of their collective stink. But no one points fingers; they just drive.

  Jolby sits up to put his head between the front seats. “Sorry I tried to kill you, dude.”

  Zilch coughs trying to laugh. “I appreciate that.”

  “Did
I fall on something? My ass really hurts.”

  Galavance and Zilch exchange a knowing look.

  A few miles further, Jolby’s hand creeps over the back of Galavance’s seat and onto her shoulder. His fingers play with her hair, tweak her earlobe. She tolerates it for a whole three seconds before flicking him away. Her hand returns to the gear shifter, stroking the chrome skull with the ruby eyes, happy there on its own.

  “What happened to Chev?” Jolby asks.

  Between glances at the road, Galavance reaches down into the cup-holder between them and takes out a quarter, handing it to Zilch. “I call heads.” It comes up tails, and Zilch, for a few miles’ worth of driving explains, to Jolby what he did with his best friend. They soon have to pull over so he doesn’t get vomit all over the car.

  The cemetery is empty of visitors. Jolby remains in the car, by Galavance’s request, and she and Zilch pass through the squeaky gate and up the slight grade where the headstones line the gravel path.

  They come to the edge of the disturbed earth, broken pieces of Zilch’s casket still lying around in the dirt. Galavance doubts anyone’s even been up here in the past few days. One dead parasite lies near the plot, the second still bearing its griddle burns, and the third winding Zilch’s disembodied arm—which, holding by the wrist, he cradles close to his chest like it’s a priceless, autographed baseball bat.

  “So what’s the plan for Miss Petersen?” he asks her, kicking at a broken piece of casket near his feet. “Not planning on changing that to Missus Dawes, are you?”

  Galavance sweeps some hair back, finds a dead leaf in it, and flicks it away. “Nope. We’re done. I’ll break the news to him in a minute.”

  “Can’t say I’m sad to hear that. Stick to it, though.”

  “Stick to what?”

  “If you break up with him,” he says. “Stick to it. There won’t be any changing for him. I’m speaking from experience here.”

  “He might make someone a good husband someday—a very patient someone. Just not me. My patience is well past its expiration date.”