Wake the Wicked

by Christian Baloga

  Quentin continued upward until he heard a bang, then a painful holler, "Don't let go, you asshole!"

  By the time the fat men situated themselves, Quentin caught up to them. "You guys need help?"

  "Yeah, throw this guy down the fuckin' steps," said a man with a white beard and a beach ball stomach gesturing with a hand toward his partner. His flabby cheeks jiggled with each step.

  "No, how 'bout I throw you down the steps and hope to Hades this fuckin' piece of shit couch drops on your head," yelled the other man, trying hard not to lose his balance as he fumbled to open a door on floor eleven.

  "Here, let me help." Quentin squeezed past the men and the couch and propped open two connecting doors. "It's my floor anyway."

  After they entered, Quentin grabbed his bike and followed them. They moved at a slug's pace, one foot, then the other; more bickering. One foot, then the other, more bickering. He was patient for a while, but the first chance he got, he slid past them.

  "Right over here." A girl in the hallway motioned to Quentin. It sounded as though she sucked down a helium balloon. She looked familiar. "You can put it right in here, on the left side," she said, smiling.

  "Uh, I was only helping them open the door," Quentin replied, locking eyes with her. "I could help more if you want though, I'm not busy." He felt butterflies in his stomach as he covered the throbbing wound. He hooked his thumb onto his pants pocket. A bleeding brown pus wound wouldn't make for a good first impression.

  "Right there please," she said, motioning to the men lugging her couch. She held open the door for them, then moved closer to Quentin.

  "You're into psychedelia, right? I think we should hang out for a while." She smirked and waved her long dark hair to one side.

  "Yeah, I'll be there. I mean, yeah we should," he said, taking no notice of the first question. Nervous, he began fiddling with his fingers until they turned sticky. He looked down. Brown ooze had smeared over his hand. He was bleeding.

  She laughed. "How about right now? Oh, and I've got Band-aides, too. Take a seat." She waved toward the brown couch in a small living room.

  Embarrassed, he smiled and walked in. Incense whirled through the air and into his nose. The ghost white walls were smothered in artwork surely painted by someone tripping on acid.

  She came out of the bathroom, handed him a Band-aide, then sat on a mustard yellow papasan chair across from him. Quentin licked off the remaining brown ooze and quickly wrapped the puncture.

  "Hey, can I ask you something? It'll be way weird if I'm right, though," she asked, holding up a rainbow glass pipe and a lighter to her mouth. She inhaled a long breath. The hot smoke wormed its way into her lungs. She twirled her finger in the air, signaling it was still good to hit, and passed it to Quentin.

  After loosening her mouth and relaxing her lungs, she asked, "Were you at Fernview Cemetery last week?"

  Surprised, he let out the smoke in one quick blow. "That's why you look familiar." He rolled backward, coughing and laughing at the same time. "This stuff's good." He passed it back to her. His mouth felt as dry and hot as the ash in her pipe.

  "I'm Rennin, by the way," she stated, holding out a firm hand.

  "I'm Quentin. I live next door, room 113." He grasped her hand. "Happy to meet somebody like you."

  "Somebody like me?"

  Quentin paused and stuttered, "Uh, I mean somebody into chillin' out. The wife isn't into this kinda stuff, you know?"

  "What a shame." She walked to the kitchen. "So where is she?" she asked, returning with a glass of beer. She read my mind, he thought, gulping down the entire thing with one tip. "On a business trip for the next couple days. My dad died right before she was supposed to depart, so she decided to leave after his funeral instead. She wanted to be there for me, you know?"

  "Sorry. More beer?"

  "Would love more," he said, handing over the empty glass. "You know, how about two more please?" he asked, faking a big smile.

  "It may be the weed talking, but I think you're turning green." Rennin put the two glasses on a table in front of him and plopped herself on the papasan. "Green lizard, green lima bean, green pastures, green puppy ween." Her voice became higher pitched as she continued.

  Quentin chugged down both glasses, paying no attention to her. The beer made him feel full, but not satisfied. There was something odd about this burning thirst. And a few minutes later, his eyes started to lower and his breathing became shallow.

  * * *

  Quentin was awakened by the sound of an ominous goat bleating from his cell phone—an alarm. His body twitched and his weary eyes opened to an array of colorful paintings and the beating sunlight from unshaded windows. He lifted off a tie-dye blanket draping over him and threw it to the side of the brown couch. He stood and scratched his right arm like a scratching post. Rennin was no longer lounging in the papasan.

  He brushed back his bangs. It felt unusually fleshy and thick. Am I still high? he thought, looked down at his cell, and read the white flashing numbers, 7:41 AM.

  Fuck, going to be late, he thought, and stumbled out the door, balancing himself on walls until he entered his apartment. He tried to get moisture back in his mouth by swishing spit around his tongue for a bit, but when it failed he lowered his head under the kitchen sink and sucked down cold gushing water. A few minutes later, his stomach bloated outward.

  He stuffed a white chef's coat, a pair of pinstriped baggy pants, and a matching flat top hat into a gym bag. And with his bike trailing beside him and helmet secured, he rushed out.

  The constant breeze of morning wind as he set off into the busy streets intensified the relentless aching thirst. Dehydrated; must be the weed, alcohol, both? he pondered, weaving around vehicles and hordes of impatient pedestrians.

  He locked his bike to a lamppost and entered an unadorned brown door on the side of the building. He went straight into the restroom and changed into his work uniform. He pulled down his work shirt over his head and shoulders. However, halfway down his back, the shirt tugged at something protruding from his skin. It was stuck. He scratched and prodded his back till he knocked it off his skin. It hurt as though he picked off a huge scab. The wound throbbed with a severe stabbing pain.

  "Shit, how'd I not notice this before?" he said, picking up a brown thorn from the tile floor. He tossed it into the toilet and put on his hat, which felt tighter than usual. When he nudged it down, his scalp throbbed and he was forced to let it balance on top.

  Quentin opened the stall and gave himself a once over in the mirror. The hat looked immature resting so far up. He patted it down. It didn't budge. He turned his head and noticed a tiny leaf sticking out of his hat. He peered in closer. "What the . . ." He knocked off his hat and combed his fingers through his long hair. And there, green as a moss-laden swamp, were slender vines. They had germinated from his scalp as if his skin was soil.

  "I'm still high," he reassured himself and yanked out four thin vines. They left a lingering pain and began oozing brown muck. He cradled the vines with cupped hands and raised it to his squinting eyes. The plants looked as though he'd merely plucked weeds from between the cracks of a sidewalk. He could see tiny tendrils and leaves, and a spidering brown rootlet, which began to shiver. Startled, he tossed them into the toilet and flushed. He pushed his flat top hat down. It fit, as it should.

  By mid day, Quentin's energy was dwindling, and it was difficult to concentrate on anything but his unrelenting thirst.

  "What the hell is wrong with you today?" asked a rickety woman with a wide mouth and tattered blue hat. "You sick? Hung over? You look green." She lowered her large sunglasses, displaying a set of eyes plastered with glittery makeup. "What you have, that plant virus or somethin’? You're gonna get me sick. Go home and sleep it off."

  Before Quentin was able to respond, she shooed him out of the kitchen. "And while you're home, clean that brown shit off your back before a customer sees," she yelled across the restaurant as he clocked out.

 
Plant virus? Quentin thought as he peddled through the crowded streets. His legs and arms were weak and his mind dull.

  At a stoplight, he called a local clinic. "I need to make an appointment for the next available opening. I'm having unusual symptoms."

  When he returned to his apartment, he lit a candle and stretched out on his bed. A myriad of psychedelic tunes boomed from surround-sound speakers.

  "Hey, Quentin, it's me, Rennin. Open up," a muffled voice screeched from the other side of the door.

  "It's open," he said. His nervous heart thumped as she sat next to him.

  "I'm kinda sick, so I apologize," Quentin said, raising his head.

  "Nothing weed can't fix, right?" She pulled out a bag of purple buds and a rainbow pipe.

  "Yup, I think you're right," he said, leaning forward.

  Quentin soon forgot about the hunger pangs and leaned even closer to her. She had a warm presence drawing him in.

  “You have that plant virus or somethin’?” a voice echoed in his mind. He leaned closer to Rennin. “You hear of a plant virus going around?”

  “You mean the rose virus? Yeah, why? You got it?” She smirked his way and took another hit.

  “Uh,” he stalled. He felt her warmth radiating toward his body and moved closer to her. “Yeah, I think I do.” Quentin snaked a hand up her arm and locked all five fingers around her.

  “I’m all for sharing, but don’t pass that shit to me. I heard it’ll fuck you up. Makes you crave . . .”

  An unbridled hunger battled through Quentin's consciousness and he wrestled Rennin flat down on the bed. Her eyes opened wide and her pupils dilated like two giant eclipses surrounded by a thick wall of red veins.

  As quiet and as high pitched as a mouse, Rennin whispered into his ear, "But your wife . . ."

  Quentin ignored her voice. He was focused on her warmth, drawing him nearer. He ripped off her jeans and his and entered her.

  The music reverberated off the walls and stormed through their connected bodies. Quentin felt a satisfaction inside Rennin, one he’d never felt with Trish or with anybody else. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t lust. It was raw, invigorating, sustenance.

  Rennin began to scream. "You're fucking me too deep." Quentin didn't hear her. She squirmed with pain. He leaned in closer and went on with ravaging thrusts.

  "Please stop, please!" She turned, grabbed a candle from the nightstand, and bashed him over the shoulder. "Get the fuck off me!" He pinned her arms down to the bed. Fiery wax bled down his stiffened spine yet he continued fucking her in a state of hypnotic abstraction.

  Rennin's body trembled and began convulsing. Her torso thrashed up and down, synchronizing with her rapid heartbeat. Without candlelight, it was impossible to see how her eyes rolled to the back of her head and how her gaping jaw unnaturally crooked to one side in a state of stiffened fear.

  Quentin finished and his breathing slowed to a wheezing hum. Rennin's body still shivered below him, and the blare of music continued.

  * * *

  The sound of an ominous goat bleating woke him. He shuddered backward and opened his tired eyes.

  "Holy fuck," he said, looking down at Rennin. She was nothing but a mummified sack of bones, wrapped in taut weathered flesh. Her mouth gaped open, and a deep green stem attached to a dark red amaryllis extruded outward. On one of the dark red petals, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the silhouette of a human skull.

  He became nauseated by the sight of the weathered corpse and rolled over. Rennin's body, much lighter now, remained parallel to his. They were still connected from last night . . .

  Quentin pushed and kicked her away and although he had regained strength, there was a powerful resistance, yet he continued. Inch by inch, the flower crept down her mouth. The small lump slithered down her dried esophagus like a snake swallowing a mouse.

  Not long after, he was able to separate himself from her body. "I'm not high this time." He sobbed, looking down at his penis. Its brown base led to a green stem-like shaft where the dark red amaryllis bloomed. Within moments, though, it began to contract.

  "Shit, shit, shit." He threw on boxers, a pair of shorts, and a ratty shirt. "What the fuck am I going to do with you?" he asked, thumping a tight fist against his head.

  "Alright, come on," he said, as he mustered enough courage to grab her ankles and pull her stiff body to the door. "You're going back where you came from, and I'm washing my hands of the situation. Right? Right."

  He peered into the hallway and closed the door to his apartment. He neared room 111. The door was unlocked, so he propped it open with a pair of heavy boots he found in the walkway. But when he returned to his room and grabbed her ankles, the elevator bell dinged. He slammed the door shut and waited for the steps to subside.

  He tried again. This time, covering her with his bedspread.

  The hallway was silent, empty. He crept out with the corpse, which made a nasty scuffing noise as Rennin's head scraped the bottom of the dingy carpet.

  Within moments, a door opened across his doorway and Jim, a heavyset man, walked out. "Buddy, how's it going?" he asked, patting Quentin on the back, right where he'd ripped out the thorn.

  Quentin squinted his eyes in pain. His heart raced and he began to breathe heavily. I'm good as dead, he thought, looking down at Rennin to make sure she wasn't visible.

  "What's this?" Jim kicked the shrouded mass.

  "I’m helping a neighbor move in before work."

  "Buddy, you're late," the man said. "It's 8:05. You call off or something?"

  "No, no. I'm going in late. It's fine, really. Just helping my neighbor first," Quentin said, peering down at the bedspread.

  "Who the hell lives over there anyway? Must be a cute one if you got off your ass." Jim chuckled and began lifting the bottom of the cover.

  "Get the fuck out." Quentin pushed him away and continued dragging the corpse.

  "Wow, man, sorry. Just looking at the mannequin," he said, backing away, arms raised in defense.

  "I promised to be careful with it. That's all," Quentin said, spotting a few dark brown strands of hair unfurling from beneath the cover.

  At that moment, he was caught off-guard by a woman’s voice coming from inside Jim’s apartment. It sounded like Trish.

  "I don't know what it is. It's not mine; I'm helping her move. Got to get goin'." Quentin slid the blanketed mass into Rennin's apartment and slammed the door shut behind him. With eyes shut, he leaned against the door until he was able to tame his racing thoughts.

  Then, he dragged her into the living room and onto the dark brown couch. The tie-dye blanket was still draped in a messy ball so he switched it with the bedspread.

  He bunched the bedspread in both arms and walked out of her apartment.

  "So what was it?" Jim was still standing outside. It seemed like he was waiting for Quentin.

  "A mannequin, you were right," Quentin said in a dry voice as he slammed shut the door of his apartment.

  I'm as good as fucking dead, he thought, pacing around the room. Call the police—that's out. They'll rule it as a rape-murder-case. I’ll be trapped in bars for life. He raced around the room. Gonna let this pass, gotta let this pass.

  He packed his clothes and left for work.

  Quentin weaved in and out of usual traffic. I feel amazing, though. Energized. Best I've ever felt, his mind raced, his hair of vines rippled in the wind. He opened his mouth. Not even thirsty, no fucking thirst. He smiled a toothy grin. The relentless hunger had been dissolved.

  He canceled his doctor's appointment. But days later, the hunger pangs unleashed havoc again and his body became weaker by the hour. His appetite for food had dissipated. And for fear of what he may have to do to relinquish the thirst, he forced himself to drink gallons of water within short periods of time. It did nothing.

  Over time, Quentin had exhibited a deeper pallor of murky green skin. More vines had sprouted from his scalp, but worse, were the mob of thorns covering his en
tire back like a pubescent boy with obnoxious acne. He’d given up tearing them off. There were too many now and they oozed for hours if torn off and stained his chef's coat.

  Trish will be returning home sometime tomorrow night, and this frightened Quentin. The hunger dominated thoughtful reasoning and his mind, left in this chaotic state, brewed irritability.

  He picked up a frame after frame with photos of his honeymoon and threw them at walls, at the floor, and out the window.

  Quentin understood Rennin's body would be found in time, and he'd be sentenced to jail or put to death, and he’d eventually have to explain to Trish he cheated on her with the dead girl next door, but what he feared most was the hunger he had to fuck Trish dry, as he had with Rennin.

  Quentin sat cross-legged with a tablet over his legs, fingering and tapping through dozens of websites. He read the title of a blog post, "Homemade Weed Killing Recipe."

  "Salt, vinegar, liquid dish detergent," he read. "Check, check, check."

  Quentin raced around the kitchen, gathering and mixing all the ingredients in a bowl. And he applied the concoction to his scalp and back. The affected area seared his skin. Blisters erupted. Moments later, the area began to wrinkle and redden until the pain was too much. He jumped into the shower, rinsing with frigid water. He carefully patted his scalp and back with a towel. Most of the thorns flaked off without much effort.

  The concoction tamed the outer areas, but it didn't slow his inner thirst. Quentin needed to take care of this from the inside out by cleansing himself to get rid of the infection.

  He combined two entire bottles of dish detergent, a gallon of vinegar, and an entire container of salt into a round plastic bucket. His arms ached as he swished about the ingredients with a large wooden spoon. The concoction left the air sour and the fumes burned his eyes and stung his nasal passages.

  Once the salt dissolved, Quentin closed his eyes and raised the bucket to his open mouth and chugged. It was like lava tunneling down his throat. A stream of tears raced down his face, blinding him. It was impossible to breath but he kept going until the bucket was half drained.