“Listen,” Cole said, swallowing hard, trying to quell the movement within him. “I have a job. I have a house. I don’t need your saving.” He swallowed again. “I just need to leave.”
“I’ve heard these lies all before,” Leslie said, pouring a glass of water and handing it to Cole. “And, eventually, all of you realize that no one is convinced.”
“But it’s true! I’m not helpless —” Pain sparked across Cole’s chest, and he barely held onto his glass. The parasite was awakening. He had to leave, but his limbs felt like stones.
“Your bandage is turning bloody again. We should probably get you to the hospital.”
“No!” Cole said, throwing the glass to the ground. “No hospitals.” His gut writhed and flipped over. He tried to subdue it by muttering to himself while Leslie continued.
“You need to go. Trust me, it will be okay.”
“It won’t be,” Cole said, trying to stand. “You don’t know.”
“I know you’re in trouble. I know you’ve been hurt badly and you need to see a doctor. After that, we can talk about the rest. First you heal the physical, then the psychical. There’s something terrible in you that needs release. Only then will the changes you need come.”
Cole’s heart pressed hard against bones as if there were no longer room for it. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’ve got to let me leave. I don’t know if I can stop it.”
“Stop what?” Leslie said, and before he could answer Cole’s body went weak and he dropped onto the bed. He could no longer fight the thing twisting inside of him and he closed his eyes and succumbed to it completely.
He opened his eyes and smiled, sweat creeping down his neck. The homemade patch of gauze and tape pulled at the tiny hairs on his side as it moved, and from beneath the pad, hidden by the lifted sheet, slipped the thick growth, its circular lesions flexing open and closed as it got a sense of the air. “I think I need your help,” Cole whispered, and as Leslie approached Cole lost control of his own body. The growth unfurled across the bed.
“It’s going to be okay,” Leslie said and put his hand on Cole’s bare shoulder. Then he looked quizzically, and for the briefest second, at the thing lying unspooled on the bed before it darted at his face. Sheets tangled in the thing’s length as it wrapped itself around Leslie’s head, its coils sliding against each other as its narrowest end pushed into his throat. Leslie struggled as it choked him, beating it with his hands while Cole watched on with detached fascination.
When it was done, feeling returned to Cole’s limbs, but emptiness formed at his center. Leslie lay unmoving, his pudgy legs jutting from loose pants. Cole threw a sheet from the bed over the corpse and dragged himself to the basket to retrieve his clothes.
The long appendage then started to slowly move, withdrawing back into the long slit along Cole’s side. As it retracted, he felt a pressure in his chest, as though the thing had grown too big to be housed. He took a deep breath, allowing his ribs to spread, and there was a sharp pain as the thing retreated to its cage.
Cole was buttoning his sleeves and shirt while he carefully descended the stairs out of the building. His discomfort kept him from being able to walk too quickly, but he could not keep from smiling as he went. In his pocket, he found the crumpled photograph of the office, his own blood smeared across the faces of everyone there. He laughed through the pain.
Leslie was right: there was something different in Cole now, some peace his passenger had brought. He’d never experienced anything like it before.
And he knew just the people he wanted to share it with.
• • •
Cole stood naked before his bedroom mirror, inspecting himself in the golden afternoon light. Bags sat beneath his tiny eyes, dark and heavy from the blood collected in his face. The rest of his skin was jaundiced, the color of the wound spreading its infection. He touched its puckered lips and they split slightly for him, as though taking breath. He carefully spread the opening wider with his fingers and started to quietly hum a song he hadn’t heard since childhood, a song his mother sang as she rocked him in her arms. He wished he could see inside himself — see the creature that hid there, coiled and waiting to strike — but the pain was too great. All at once, it flowed like a torrent through his body, and his legs bent beneath the weight. He staggered to the couch and lay down as the world began to spin, and he squeezed his eyes closed and waited for the spasms to pass. He was running short of time.
He must have passed out, because he opened his eyes to oncoming dusk — the shadows stretching through the house like a net. Amy possessed his thoughts, and he had the vague recollection of having dreamed about her, yet the thread of it slipped away from him. He could not remember when he last ate and tried to force a slice of buttered toast into his stomach, but almost immediately his insides revolted and it came back up as a bloodied mess.
He wiped his mouth and pulled the bloody photograph from his pocket so he could focus on those who had mistreated him. He had power now, power he could use to make them understand, but he did not know how long it would last. Already, he could feel it consuming him, leaving him hollow and empty while his passenger continued to grow to fill the void.
Amy would be a problem. She was not safe, not as long as she was near. The two Garys, Mick, Mark — Cole cared nothing for them. Let the thing inside have them. Amy, though, she deserved more. She deserved all he could give her. He only had to manage the pain for a little while longer, subdue the hunger of his passenger, then he would have revenge over those who had wronged him. It was exciting, the feeling of justice coming due — a warmth that quickly infiltrated his head until he swam in it, and he had to sit down to keep from falling.
He touched his side gingerly, and within him there was a stirring, a response. His senses dulled every time it moved, and he continued to press his fingers against the opening, caught by the web of stars that filled the edges of his vision. Images of Amy danced through his mind.
The knock at the door awoke Cole from his daze. Beyond the frosted glass, a tall shadow jittered back and forth under the porch light. Cole recognized it immediately.
He felt a strange security, seeing Mark pacing there. It was as if the tall man knew what plans Cole had for him and had come to give himself over to them. It made things easier.
There was no longer any hesitation in Cole’s step as he went to meet the door; he was charged with a sense of security. It was all so kismet — that Mark should choose to face him then. Everything would be that much easier. Cole could distribute his revenge in smaller doses, taking each man in his turn until he had punished them all for what they had done. The Garys, whom Cole had never seen apart, might prove difficult to contain with their added bulk, but Mick would be far easier. It would be a long time before anyone noticed his disappearance.
And Mark, of course, was already there.
Cole stepped back into the shadows, allowing the tall man to enter before turning on the lights. Mark barely noticed him at first.
“Hey. Sorry for coming by but we . . . What the hell happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look awful. Are you feeling okay?”
Cole nodded and then coughed violently. Mark stepped back, horror flashing in his eyes.
“Whoa, there. Take a breath.”
Cole knew when he was being mocked. He struggled to regain control, clearing his throat. A wad dislodged itself and Cole spit the mass into a nearby tissue. It was black and clotted with blood. He hid it from Mark.
“No wonder you haven’t been at work. That was some show,” Mark said. “You should sell tickets.” Cole tried to keep him close to the door, but Mark simply ignored him and walked into the house. “I always wondered where you lived. I imagined something smaller. What’s wrong you, anyway?”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“First you pass out in the washroom, then you don’t come back to work the next day, and now I find you hacking up
your lungs and looking dead or worse. It looks like something’s wrong to me. You should probably sit down.” Mark stretched out a hand to help. Cole brushed it off.
“I don’t need to sit down.”
“Okay, okay, suit yourself. It’s just that we —”
“Why are you here?”
Mark seemed startled.
“I told you. To check on you.”
“No, really.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Aren’t you here because you want to apologize?”
“Apologize?” Mark sounded incredulous. He looked at the door behind him.
“You should.” Cole pointed a crooked finger. “You should be very sorry.”
“Look, if this is a bad time . . .”
“Sorry for everything you’ve put me through!”
Though his side began to ache, Cole felt nothing moving inside of him yet.
“Listen, Cole. I’m going to go.” Mark turned toward the door.
“No! You can’t! I mean, not until I’ve given you something.”
“That’s okay,” Mark said, stepping away. “I’ll talk to you at work when you’re feeling better.” The pain in Cole’s ribs grew stronger, and the bones started to pull apart as the thing in him finally woke. Cole’s relief was washed away by agony, and he clutched his side as he stumbled toward the door after Mark.
“Wait! I . . . I need your help. I’m too sick to do it on my own.”
Mark hesitated. Cole could not think what to say next. He was losing control. “I think . . . I think I need to go to the hospital.” He lifted up his shirt. “I’m hurt.”
Mark’s face went white.
“Jesus Christ! I’m calling an ambulance!”
“No! It’s okay; you can drive me there. I just need help getting to the car.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine. Please, just help me.”
Cole put his arm carefully around Mark’s shoulder, the motion tearing open the wound. It stung, but Cole disregarded it as the sensation of writhing inside him resumed. He would soon show them all, make them all pay for how they had treated him. All he needed to do was start. He closed his eyes and let Mark lead him as he concentrated on the wound and the passenger within.
“You know,” said Mark, speaking slowly as though Cole’s hearing were impaired, “I sort of came to discuss something else with you.” Cole grunted, distracted by his efforts to coax his passenger out. It turtled the wound, pushing at his shirt, but would not emerge. “I haven’t really told either of the Garys — nor Mick, I suppose — because we haven’t been ready.” He stopped. “Are you doing okay? We’re nearly at the door.”
Cole opened his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m almost there,” he said, feeling the familiar twists in his stomach, and hard pressure against his ribs.
“Let me get the front door. Hang on. The thing is — Amy!” he called, and Cole looked up, clutching his soiled shirttails, and was horrified to see Amy waiting on the front step. “Cole needs us to take him to the hospital.”
“Oh my God! What happened?” she said, hand on mouth.
It all fell to pieces. Cole started to struggle and shout and pulled free of Mark’s hands, then stumbled back into the house where he didn’t get far before plummeting to the floor. His head swam; the dark spots in his eyes gathering as wrenching pain filled his body. He did not want her to see this, and he tried to scream at her to leave but his mouth would not work. He convulsed on the floor, his body in seizure, and Mark went to help him while Amy stood terrified.
Cole struggled to keep the wound closed but his palsied hands would not work. As soon as Mark came near, the thing slipped from Cole’s side and struck. It took Mark in the face, penetrating flesh and bone and brain, killing him instantly. It then coiled itself around what was left of the skull — the tiny discs attaching to cooling flesh — and twisted the body around.
Cole lay prone on the ground, paralyzed, able to see only the horror that infested Amy, able to hear only her piercing screams and the stolen rasps of breath between. She pressed herself against the door as the thing drained the body of Mark, engorging itself, thickening. Cole tried to raise his arm, wanting to comfort her, but it would not move more than an inch. His jaw remained clenched tight, teeth keeping the tongue from use.
Amy screamed until the thing pulled itself from Mark with a sick tug and turned to her. She stopped, her eyes focused upon it, her mouth stuck in a silent wail. Tiny suckers opened and closed as if breathing. Cole mouthed “No!” but it did not listen.
The growth fumbled on the ground for purchase, then pulled itself with short jerks, dragging Cole behind bit by bit, towards Amy. He tried frantically to stop the thing but his limbs would not respond. Amy pushed herself further against the wall, her head shaking. She found her voice again, and screamed: “What have you done?”
He could not answer; his throat was dry, his mind cloudy. She burst into tears, crying Mark’s name, and then fled the house long before Cole could reach her. The growth seemed to react to her denial, tensing and rolling upon the floor, and then it began to retract its thickness, leaving a trail of bloody mucous right to his feet.
Strength began to flow back into Cole’s body, and as soon as he could, he attempted to stand. The fleshy growth dangled like a bag of sand from beneath his soaked shirt, sluggishly twisting its weight back inside an inch at a time, displacing his organs as his body reclaimed what it had birthed. He staggered against walls and furniture, leaving bloody smears in his wake as he first climbed, then dragged his weakening flesh up the stairs, coughing spots of foulness onto the floor.
Everything was wrong. He banged his head against the newels of the staircase, hoping the pain would be enough to break through the haze. His failure was written all over him in Mark’s blood, a series of stains that reflected how soiled his life had become, how many marks there were that he could not clean. They ate away at him, fed upon him, took all those things that made him who he was; he no longer recognized the man he saw in the mirror of his own childhood bedroom. That man looked far too old, too worn, to be him. He was puffy and raw, yet beneath his pallid skin a skull was faintly visible.
The mirror never before lied to Cole. No matter what he saw in any other reflective surface, no matter what lies photographs might have held, he always knew that the man he saw in that mirror was his true self, that he was better than the world, and Cole used that knowledge as a shield against the worst of its attacks. He had been able to see his strength in its cold reflective surface, hanging quietly on the wall.
It was infallible, and when he looked in it now, after all he had done, he knew what he was becoming.
Cole lifted back the covers of his childhood bed and crawled beneath them, the smell of his own sweat of little comfort as the thing continued to retreat into him, the pain increasing with each push. He brought his knees to his chin and held them, wanting a moment of solace before the inevitable happened.
It came suddenly, like a wave.
He fell out of the bed, vomiting blood upon the ground, both hands wrapped around his waist. The pain of his body trying to empty itself was excruciating. Even when his stomach was dry, the heaving continued, and it seemed as though all his muscles simultaneously cramped.
In his side, the fleshy appendage began to choke, flailing against itself, struggling to be free. He tried to grab it, but his hands were useless, and he found them covered in white, bloodless cuts.
The mass began to churn and work against the flesh. It changed direction, pulling itself from him, extending as far as it could go. All feeling began to leave his extremities — first his fingers, then his hands. The muscles failing, one by one.
The long mass pulled itself harder, extending further. Cole screamed, his knees collapsing as he lost feeling in his legs. He was unable to stand. His head spun and flickered darkness, and from the wound emerged a second thick growth, snaking out painfully, scrambling to pull free. Then, anoth
er pushed through, and from the center of Cole’s being a great mass moved. Yet, it seemed as though he also was moving. His head lost all sensation, his ears felt clogged, his sight went dim. It was as if everything were shutting down, yet despite the pain he did not feel frightened, only relieved. Part of him tried to smile.
The sound of cracking, of snapping, filled the otherwise quiet house, and what followed was the wet noise of something at last awakening, pulling free from the empty shell of its old life, born naked into a new.
THOUGHTLESS
TREES, WITH LEAFLESS branches heavy and gnarled as if they were bones, stretched up into the cold blue sky. Behind them the world was grey and white, snow still covering patches along the ground. The street was empty of traffic — no vehicles had moved since she’d started watching from the window. She touched her fingers to the glass, a halo of condensation forming around the tips, yet her eyes remained distant, her face stuck in the netherworld between emotions. She had been silent for almost ten minutes, and she showed no sign of wanting to speak further. In her hands she spun a seashell idly.
“Audrey,” he said. “What do you see when you look out the window?”
She moved her head only slightly, watching Doctor Meme from the corner of her eye. She put the seashell down and then turned to face him.
“What do I see? I see nothing. I see trees and cars and streets and buildings. I see the same things everyone else sees.”
Doctor Meme nodded, sitting on the edge of his desk, notepad in one hand. With the other, he absently twirled a pencil about his fingers. He did this without looking. “And what do you feel when you see these things?”
She turned back to the window, turned away from the thin man with the moustache that would not grow beyond a shadow, and sighed. “I feel,” she said, “I feel nothing. I don’t think.”
The sound of pages flipping in a notepad was the only noise in the room. Doctor Meme cleared his throat.
“And how long have you been off your pills?”
Beneath The Surface Page 15
