LUMP
Page 3
“What’s going on?” Tiera said, panicked. She looked over her shoulder. There was no sign of Judgment.
“I think we lost him,” Bruce said. He fumbled around in various pouches on his belt.
A scrape like a blade on a whetstone pulled Bruce from his search.
“Run,” he said again. They reached the outer caves and tore toward the opening.
“This way!” Tiera yelled, catching a glimpse of white light.
Bruce’s BMW was parked just outside in a clearing. Tiera stopped at the passenger door, Coo at a back door. Bruce ran around to the driver’s side, patting his vest, his pants. He scrambled to look through all his pouches again.
Finally, he looked across the car at Tiera, and then at Coo. He looked past them at the dark form emerging from the cave and seeping into the forest clearing.
He panted, breathless after their run.
“What are you waiting for?” Tiera yelled at him.
“Unlock the doors, Bruce!” Coo said, after a panicked look over his shoulder. He jerked on the door handle.
“I can’t,” Bruce said. He took a couple of breaths and swallowed hard. He looked at his friends for the last time. “I’ve lost my keys!”
Marci Loves My Boots
I HATED MARCI ROGERS, but not as much as I hated her friends, Georgia and Vicky. When it was only Marci, she was at least civil. When Georgia and Vicky were around, I was a slime ball, and they made sure I knew that.
I made the mistake, years ago, of telling Georgia how I felt about Marci. She told Marci in front of me. I think I saw a hint of a smile, but her expression turned to disgust.
“Him? He likes me?” She flipped her golden hair. “Gross.” The three girls walked off, but Marci looked over her shoulder with a soft expression.
It wasn’t until Marci started dating Brett Jones that my hatred began. She flaunted her relationship through the halls at school and out on the grounds, and at the mall, and at the movies, and everywhere they went. She showed up wearing his letterman jacket and his class ring on a chain. Georgia and Vicky laughed and hugged her. They saw me watching and they pulled Marci away, giving me dirty looks.
Brett Jones was tall, handsome, chiseled. I would never look like him no matter how hard I tried. In fact, I was the exact opposite of him. I heard him talking to some buddies in the hall about getting into Marci’s pants and how easy it was. I felt my face flush, my fists clenched at my sides, but I kept walking. I followed him after school. He lived close enough to walk home. When he entered the wooded trail that led to his neighborhood, I pulled out the hunting knife my dad gave me before he left us. It was old and rusted, but it was sharp.
In an upward motion, I plunged the knife into his rib cage. He gasped, turned toward me, his mouth opened and closed like a fish. He reached out and I kicked him in the chest, knocking him back onto the knife.
I dragged his body home. I lived close by, too. In the basement of my house I skinned him. It was almost an erotic experience, slicing the flesh from his muscle. I looked up at the walls where I had various other skins stretched and tanned. A cat, the neighbor’s yapping dog, my little sister who was ‘kidnapped.’ My mom will never know the truth. I locked the basement every time I left so she couldn’t get in. She thought I was an anguished teen, full of angst and other teen feelings. Really? I was doing Marci a service. He talked about her like she was nothing to him. He fucked her and told his friends.
I made Brett Jones into a pair of boots and wore them to school. Marci told me she liked them. By the end of the day, her face was filled with worry. I saw her on her cell phone, leaving Brett a message at least a dozen times. I chuckled silently, knowing his cell phone was in my basement, ringing away.
North by Northwest
“NORTH BY NORTHWEST,” the old man said. He pointed.
“That’s south,” I said. “North’s that way.” I thrust a thumb over my shoulder.
“North by northwest.” Again, he pointed to the south. “You wanna take that road.
Don’t stop there, you’ll be sorry you ever did.”
I climbed into the taxi.
“North by northwest?” He nodded in the rearview mirror. “Don’t go there much no more,” he said. “Hafta charge you extra for that one.”
I didn’t answer. From the rear window I watched the old man and the small town disappear on the horizon.
I fell asleep on the way. When the taxi jolted from the smooth highway onto a bumpy road I woke up and rubbed my eyes.
“Where are we?” I asked, groggy.
“North by northwest,” the taxi driver answered. The taxi stopped.
“Is there a hotel?” I rubbed jagged sleep from my eyes.
The driver pointed to a building just outside the window.
“Thanks,” I said. I grabbed my bag, paid him, and stepped out into a cool and starless night. He drove off no sooner had I shut the door, leaving me in a cloud of dust.
The building before me listed to one side as if something large and invisible were lounging against it. The wood siding was missing in some places, shutters hung at precarious angles. The windows were all dark. A breeze sent tumbleweed rolling in front of me and a swirl of dust blew by.
I knocked on the door. It opened a crack and an eye on a wrinkled face peered out.
“Can I help you?” A grainy voice asked.
“I need a room please,” I said.
The eye seemed to peer around outside. The voice whispered, “Where are the birds?”
I looked over my shoulder. I looked up at the sky. I took a step back and looked at the roof.
“I don’t see any birds,” I said.
The door jerked open. The eye belonged to an elderly woman in a pink bathrobe and curlers.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” I said.
“Quite alright,” she answered. She looked out the door one more time before closing it and latching several locks. “Not many visitors come through these parts anymore,” she said, eyeing me oddly. “I have one room left,” she said.
“Are there other visitors?” I asked.
“No, I’ve just got the one room.” She handed me a key. “Upstairs, second door on the left. Don’t go snooping around late at night. You’ll disturb them.”
She shuffled off through a doorway before I could ask any questions.
I climbed the creaking stairs. When I reached the second door on the left I shuddered. It was room thirteen.
“I thought there was only one room,” I muttered to myself. It was apparent that there were at least thirteen rooms on this floor. I shrugged and let myself in.
The room was sparse and unfeeling, furnished with a single bed and a dresser. The bathroom light cast a cold beam down on the sink, leaving the shower and toilet in shadow. I chanced a glance in the mirror. The light made my face look gaunt and pale. I washed up and got into bed. The springs in the worn mattress jabbed my back and the frame groaned with every movement. I finally fell asleep.
A bang against the wall and muffled yelling brought me from slumber. Two voices. A couple fighting? Did they just arrive? I heard sobbing, and I went into the hallway. I tentatively knocked on the door.
The voices inside stopped. I heard footsteps and the door opened. A man with a mustache peered out.
“Isn’t it late to be knocking on doors?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I could hear you yelling through the wall, I woke up. Is everything alright?”
His expression changed from annoyance to worry. “Did you hear the birds?” He asked.
“Birds?” I said. “No, I didn’t hear birds, I heard yelling.”
“Quick, come inside,” he grabbed my arm with an icy grip.
A woman wept on the bed. She wore a Victorian dress complete with bustle, and a velvet hat with a feather sticking out of it. The man, I noticed, wore a three-piece, brown, pinstriped suit, also characteristic from the Victorian era.
“Did they wake you?” she asked.
/> “No,” I said. “I heard yelling,”
“What kind of yelling?” the man asked, his face intent on mine.
“Yelling, like arguing,” I said. “It wasn’t you?”
“We don’t argue anymore,” the woman said. “Not since the birds.”
“It wasn’t since the birds, it was after the man who knew too much came,” the man said.
The woman gasped and covered her face.
“Who is the man who knew too much?”
They both looked at me. I could hear the faint call of crows.
The woman began to cry.
“North by Northwest was once a bustling town,” he said. “A trade town. One day, a furious and violent windstorm swept through. The only thing that could be heard over the wind was the call of crows. When the storm was over, people were surprised to see a man all in black standing out in the street. He grinned at them and left as another storm smote the town.”
“The birds are constantly calling, warning,” the woman sobbed. “The man, he takes it all away.”
“What does he take?” I asked.
They looked at each other, then slowly back at me.
“He takes the souls.”
I woke up the next morning and went to check out, but no one was around. I decided to leave $100 on the counter and stepped outside. When my eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, I took a step back. All around, covering the ground, on rooftops, stationed on fence posts were crows. They were silent, staring at me. The only sound was the crunch of gravel as a man all in black stepped from the shadow of a building and grinned at me.
Parts ‘R’ Us
THE BOOTS WERE FASHIONED out of feet and nailed into the ground outside in the grass. I wasn’t quite sure what the nails were for until I approached the feet. They wriggled, toes flexing and un-flexing. I backed away in disgust.
“If I didn’t keep ‘em nailed down,” the proprietor said. “They would hop right out of here!” He stood in the doorway smoking a pipe. He was a tall man with thin gangly legs and arms, a large belly. His bearded head sat upon his shoulders with no transition between. He smiled, exposing a row of long, crooked yellow teeth and black gums. Periodontitis came to mind and I grimaced. “Oh, don’t mind them, they harmless.” He laughed a wheezing laugh that ended in a spasm of coughing.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, sobering quickly when I didn’t join his laughter. The feet-boots continued to wriggle and squirm beneath the nails.
“Just wanted to look around,” I said. The man motioned inside with a sweeping arm, and I went in. It was frigid as I started looking around at the shelves of strange items. There were face parts, each in different labeled boxes. Ears, noses, lips, eyes. The eyes made me shudder. A couple of them were turned up and they followed me as I walked by, or at least that’s how it seemed. Another shelf held limbs. Legs and arms were tossed onto this shelf. One of the arms was draped over the edge. When I walked by, it grabbed my shirt. I screamed.
The man laughed. When he sobered again, he took a long drag from the pipe.
“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” he asked.
“No,” I said. I looked in a bin of hands. “Well, maybe.” I stood up and went to the counter. “I’m looking for a hand,” I said.
“Male or female?” he asked, sucking on the end of the pipe.
“Female,” I answered. “There was a ring.”
“So, it’s a left hand, eh?” the proprietor said. He walked in long strides to a corner in the store where he unlocked a glass case. “Is this the hand you are looking for?” He held the hand as if he were shaking it and laughed his raucous laugh again.
“Not exactly,” I said. “That’s not the right ring.” I peered over his shoulder at the other hands in the case, each had at least one ring on it. The hand I was looking for had a two-carat diamond ring attached to it. “I think it might be that one,” I said. I could have kicked myself for not knowing my own fiancés hand. We’d been together for years, and in all the times we held hands in the park, laughing and enjoying the sun, I never thought to examine it. Of course, back then, I never thought I’d be picking through a parts shop for it.
“Ah, yes,” the proprietor said. “This one was found down by the lake.” He held the hand gently, and I was grateful for his care.
“The lake,” I said, taking the hand carefully. It was definitely hers and I was relieved that I remembered something about it. There was a mole on the first joint of the thumb. “She loved the lake.” I sniffled.
“You can have it,” the man said, patting my shoulder. I looked at him, tears in my eyes. “For three thousand dollars,” he finished.
“Three thousand dollars?” I exclaimed. “The ring is only worth fifteen hundred!”
He stared hard at me. “Two thousand,” he negotiated.
“Fine,” I said. I paid him, and he wrapped my purchase in a silk scarf and placed it into a wooden box with a glass door.
I left the store, the package under my arm. As I walked past the boots I noticed there were wires leading from each nail. I followed the wires to a young man in the bushes. He was pulling on them, making the boots dance and squirm. I scowled at him and kept walking.
The days of the past were over. The days where the dead were properly buried, ceremonies given to honor them, wakes to give friends and family a last chance to say good bye. The dead were no longer honored, they were mutilated. Parts chopped off and sold to stores like this one, scavenged, salvaged. Murder was at an all-time high. With the selling price for rare parts, like hands with jewelry, arms with tattoos, ears with piercings, one could make a profit, a living even. People always searched, looking for pieces of their loved ones. Last remnants to bury and pray for, to keep as a memory. My fiancé was killed in the park we used to enjoy so much together. The only thing I ever found was her left hand.
Room by Age
DR. DELAWARE APPROACHED me with his hands behind his back. An air of arrogance enveloped him everywhere he went.
“The five-year-olds are screaming again,” he informed me.
I sighed and went to the five-year-old storage. I peeked through the window. Sure enough, all of them were screaming.
I turned to Dr. Delaware. “What did you do?” I asked him.
He smiled, displaying a row of yellow teeth. “I only tapped on the glass,” he said.
I pulled him away from the door by his upper arm. He looked at me, shocked at my action.
“They have very sensitive hearing,” I whispered. “Tapping on the glass for them is like firing a shotgun to us.”
“Well, I had no idea,” Dr. Delaware said. His wicked smile told me differently, however.
There were twelve of them. All five years old, all transferred from the four-year-old storage room just days ago. I didn’t like that their rooms were referred to as storage. They were living creatures, not surplus objects to get out of sight.
It was about thirteen years ago when the first of them arrived. They came down with the annual rain showers as seeds. Vines grew from the seeds at rapid paces. Flowers appeared on the vines, similar to melons. The flowers grew into pods that looked like a cross between a cantaloupe and a watermelon. The color and texture of the first, the size of the latter.
When the pods split open, tiny babies squirmed inside. They looked like human babies, but instead of having the pinky peach flesh tones, they had cool flesh tones; greens, blues, purples. Occasionally one showed up with yellow skin, but it died hours after hatching.
We opened a research lab to keep the infants under control and out of the cruel eyes of the media and anyone who might object to our research. Since they only landed in one location, we built the lab close to that spot and began harvesting them annually.
As they aged, we built different rooms according to the years since they hatched. It was easier to keep them organized this way as we found, over the years, as they aged, they required different attention, environment, food, etc.
We believe that these changes are hereditary and evolutionary. Perhaps on their home planet, before they began to rain down upon us, these changes are necessary for their survival. They only “talk” from ages one to six, and it comes out in the form of shrill screams. After age six they become mute. We are hoping that at some point they will begin to speak so we may learn more about them.
I donned my earplugs and went into the five-year-old room and looked around at the purple, green, and blue children inside. All of them had their heads thrown back, faces white with anger or some other emotion, all screaming. I touched each of them on the head. I found this technique worked only long enough to get to the last one, then the first one would start to scream. As I reached baby number twelve I started to hum. I didn’t have to hum anything particular, just the humming sound was enough to soothe them. Sometimes they would hum, too, either mimicking, as children often do, or to join in.
When they all fell asleep, I crept from the storage room and back into the hall. I closed the door and peered through the window at the slumbering children.
Dr. Delaware was behind me looking over my shoulder at them.
“Disgusting creatures,” he hissed. “Why are we even continuing this stupid research?”
I turned around and looked him in the eye. “They are not disgusting.” I said through gritted teeth. “And we are doing this research because this is the first good bit of evidence we have that there is life somewhere else in this universe.”