Fetal Bait Apocalypse: 3 Collections in 1

by Joel Arnold

  His sons inched closer as he took another excruciating step.

  Soda.

  He circled the perimeter of the performance area to the concession booth. Down here, the crowd sounded different, like hundreds of birds squawking in a deep canyon. Between the metal benches, in the empty spaces between seats and floorboards, a thousand luminous eyes surveyed the arena. The performers seemed to move behind a wall of murky water. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a clown pull off what looked like great hunks of taffy from its face. But his main focus was concentrated on the figure in the shadows.

  He knew her name.

  Aria.

  When she smiled, William’s mouth went dry. His tongue felt like a sponge wrung out and left to dry on hot concrete.

  He’d dreamt of her for as long as he’d tilled his fields. Dreams that were warm and moist, dreams from which he awoke next to his wife, next to Connie, with a sense of guilt and longing.

  How many nights had he slipped out of bed to stand trembling in the bathroom, the lights off, his reflection ashen and dim in the mirror? His hand stroking feverishly below…

  Every time he finished, he felt as if his soul had been yanked up through his throat. He’d slip back into bed next to Connie and face away from her. Otherwise, he couldn’t fall back asleep.

  Aria. But how could this be her?

  He knew it was her the same way he knew when to plant the fields in spring, the same way he knew when to harvest in the fall. He felt it. Felt it inside him like a hornet trying to work its way through the valves of his heart.

  She reached out and touched his forearm.

  “I can help you.”

  He barely nodded. A part of him was angry and wanted to ask, Can you pay off the bank? Can you save our farm? But instead he looked into the shadows of her cloak and knew she could help him in a more fundamental way.

  “Do you want to be helped?”

  William gasped “Yes.” He stepped forward and lost himself in something wet, deep and cold.

  Suffocation. Numbing blackness.

  How long can a man drown in oblivion without collapsing in on himself? His soul shrank and unraveled for an eternity until the woman from his dreams unfolded from him like shadows melting into daylight.

  Then — so many years later…

  His hands gripped the rough, flexible rungs of a rope ladder, and he found himself climbing up, up, up toward a canvas ceiling. A flock of silhouettes danced and cawed impatiently overhead.

  William reached the platform.

  Razor wire stretched out long and sharp and cold before him. He was no longer in Riverbend.

  “Ladies and gents, raise your eyes to the skies — “

  A calm settled over him like a morning fog.

  William Farini was now part of the circus.

  They traveled by train, by truck and bus, over endless valleys, plains, mountain passes. Images came to him like bits of remembered dream, images of meals shared with the other performers, sitting in somnambulistic circles, chanting in fevered monotones. But every time he became aware of himself — fully aware — he was on the platform high above the middle ring of the Big Top. The pain he felt as he stepped onto the razor wire was a balm to the guilt he felt for betraying his family.

  The woman from his dreams had helped him, all right; helped him ignore reality and turn away from the pain that life brought. But to never face the hardships was to never live. So he welcomed the sharp pain of the wire, the razor blades, because that was something that reminded him of what it was to be alive.

  Soon, he felt a new weight on the balance pole.

  “John? Frank?” His tears blinded him. He struggled not to fall.

  “Father?” his sons said in unison.

  Months, years later, Connie waited on the opposite platform, a beckoning mist that solidified bit by agonizing bit with each performance.

  Maybe this is the way, he thought, to get my family back.

  Maybe this is my penance.

  He had yet to fall.

  Was it even possible to fall?

  He looked down at the net.

  Faces swirled hungrily in the sinewy threads, weaving and reweaving, an undulating sea. Connie waited on the far platform, standing the way she used to stand on their front porch.

  And now, so many years later…

  His sons inched closer, their weight on the balance pole intense on his palms. Razors sliced into his feet. Blood dripped through the net into the open mouths of the clowns below.

  He was so close.

  John and Frank crept toward him, their bodies shaking, eyes wide with fright.

  “That’s it,” William said. “Steady now. Steady.”

  The last of the sun blazed through the Big Top’s entrance like a fire dying in a bed of ash.

  He took another step. A razor sliced through his middle toe.

  So close.

  “William.”

  Connie looked whole. Solid.

  Was this the night to end thousands of such nights?

  How long had it been since he’d seen her like this? So whole. So real. If only he could reach her. He’d never been able to reach her before. She always disappeared like a moth into a flame.

  But tonight.

  Tonight.

  He prayed silently to the Ringmaster.

  You can have my feet, my flesh. Just give me my family.

  At last, his sons inches away, Connie a mere step away. Joy replaced the pain surging through him.

  One more step.

  Her touch was electric. The first time he’d felt her fingers on his face in decades.

  His sons draped their arms around his shoulders and clung fast to him. He stepped into Connie’s arms.

  He let the pole drop. It shattered on the ground like an icicle.

  He stepped firmly onto the platform.

  At last.

  At last.

  He closed his eyes. His family clung to him, their lips kissing him, their tears wet on his skin.

  When he lost his balance, they dropped as one mass into the writhing net below.

  The audience rose like a great beast and roared.

  Confidence

  Traffic crawled, an endless line of chrome and glass. Jill glanced in the mirror. Jesus! She slammed on the brakes. A horn sounded behind her. She examined her face. How could she have forgotten? She’d been in such a hurry to get to the interview, she neglected to put on her make-up. She grimaced at the wrinkles, the crow’s feet, the black bags beneath her eyes. No way could she go into an interview like this. Not without her Esteem.

  The Esteem lady, Betty Briar, had assured her it made her look ten years younger. “Just look at you,” she beamed, holding up the mirror for Jill to admire herself.

  Jill turned her head this way and that. She did look younger. The dark circles that hung around her eyes like permanently tattooed shadows were gone, or at least covered up. And her crow’s feet had disappeared, the skin at the corners of her eyes supple and fresh. The hi-lighting pen that the Esteem lady applied forced attention away from her saggy jowls and gave the impression of strong cheekbones and full lips.

  Hell, she looked great! And looking great gave her that boost of confidence she needed to make it through the day. When she was laid off two weeks earlier, the loss only stung temporarily until she studied her face in the mirror. A fresh layer of Esteem, and nothing mattered any more; the mortgage, the outstanding loans, the high cost of insurance, the daycare…

  She looked fantastic!

  Besides, she’d been getting some great interviews — this was her fourth this week. If only she could nail this one, the pay would be even higher than her previous job, and the company was known for its great benefits. Getting laid off was the best thing that ever happened to her.

  The traffic inched forward. Not far to go, but—

  Damn it, how could she have forgotten her Esteem?

  She looked at the dashboard clock. Did she have time to race back home a
nd throw on a fresh application?

  She’d been in such a hurry to leave. Her husband had a meeting and couldn’t take Allison to daycare, couldn’t even get her ready, and Jill forgot that four-year olds weren’t always the most compliant creatures in the world. How many times did she have to ask her to finish her Froot Loops? Then she noticed a typo on her resume, so she had to correct that and print out a couple fresh copies, and—

  Dang it, Allison, finish your Froot Loops!

  So it was a rush to daycare, Allison crying and needing to be held and reassured that she’d have a fun day, then rushing into busy traffic…

  She hadn’t even grabbed her extra make-up bag!

  Maybe she could talk Betty into making an emergency run. They were tight, weren’t they? Tight enough to do each other a favor once in a while? She really wanted this job.

  She checked traffic. Barely moving, but her exit was in sight. She dialed Betty on her cell phone. No answer. She left a message. “Betty, this is Jill. Jill Carole. I need a huge favor. It’s an emergency, actually. I’m on my way to an interview — remember how I told you about losing my job? Well, everything was so hectic this morning — I left without my Esteem. I need some foundation, eyeliner, lipstick—” She glanced in the mirror. “Oh, geez. I need the whole shebang. Can you meet me in the parking lot of the Johnson Building off I-94? I’ll pay double, plus throw in a few bucks for gas. I’ve got a half hour before the interview — if there’s any way you can get here before nine — I’ll be waiting in the parking lot. Please. It’s critical.”

  She hadn’t been without her Esteem since she’d met Betty three months ago at her neighborhood block party.

  Traffic eased forward. By the time she arrived at the Johnson Building parking lot, it was only twenty minutes to nine. Still — even if Betty got the message and raced here, it would be cutting it close.

  She turned off the engine, leaned back and closed her eyes. Come on, Betty.

  There was a sharp knock on the car’s window. Jill’s eyes flew open. It was a young man, twenty-something, creamy dress shirt, smart maroon tie. Jill sat up and rolled the window down a crack.

  The man looked worried. “You okay in there?”

  “Yes,” Jill said. “Just gearing up for an interview.”

  The man frowned. “You don’t—” He swallowed. “You don’t look so good.”

  Jill instinctively reached for her face. God, she could just feel her skin loosening, creasing, the wrinkles growing…

  “I’m fine,” she insisted.

  The man pulled out his cell phone and shook his head. “You need a doctor.”

  She knew it was bad, but the guy didn’t have to be insulting. “I’m fine.”

  The man hesitantly put his phone away and backed off. Talk about a confidence buster! Jill glanced at her watch. Five minutes to nine and still no Betty.

  Maybe I should reschedule the interview.

  Three minutes to nine.

  But for this job, rescheduling was as good as saying no thanks. Their schedule was packed — the human resources director told her on the phone she was one of twenty interviewees. And to cancel this close to the interview…

  Two minutes to nine and still no Betty.

  She had to get in there, had to take her shot, make-up or not.

  Come on, come on…

  She took a deep breath. Confidence.

  Her husband had always told her that it’s what’s inside that counts. But wasn’t that just a nice way of calling her ugly?

  No, come on. He’s right. Show some confidence. Talk a good game. Let your inner light shine through.

  Who’d said that? Oprah? Doctor Phil? Her mother?

  She stepped out of the car. Adjusted her dress. Tossed her shoulders back and held her head up high.

  That’s it. You can do this. Think positive!

  When she stepped into the building, the security guard flinched behind the desk. “Jesus, lady!”

  She ignored him. Stepped into the elevator and pressed 8. The elevator rose. As the doors opened, the receptionist shrieked and ducked behind a cubicle. Jill snorted and walked past. If they don’t like me for who I am, then they have a worse problem than I do, she assured herself. She’d find the conference room herself if she had to.

  She passed a deliveryman on his way out. He doubled over, retching.

  That’s just plain rude, she thought.

  She found the conference room, knocked once and entered. Barbara Manning, the human resources director, looked up and froze.

  Jill reached up and tried to push the flaps of skin back onto her face. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. Her upper lip dropped with a splat onto the large oak conference table.

  Ms. Manning opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  Jill quickly shoved a drooping eyeball back into its socket. She tried her best to smile, to maintain her confidence despite her lack of Esteem. She winced as her left ear dropped onto her shoulder. She made a mental note to get her dress in the wash right when she got home.

  She cleared her throat, dislodging her front teeth. She held out her hand, waiting for Ms. Manning to shake it. “Sanks for giving me a chance to meet wis you today,” she whistled around her missing teeth.

  Her tongue flopped onto the table.

  Confidence, Jill told herself as Ms. Manning screamed. Jill took another deep breath, the air making wet, sucking sounds as she inhaled.

  Confidence.

  Two-Minute Warning

  Beyond the goalposts at the south end of the field, the undead howled and marauded within a large cage of thick, metal bars. They climbed the walls, shook them, stepped on and over each other, clambered their way to the top of the cage that rose just beyond the tips of the goalposts, only to fall back upon each other. They reached through the cage with torn, reeking limbs, reached out to grab at the humans who passed by. The cage seethed with their hunger.

  Burke Smith stood on the sideline scanning the crowd for his wife, Sherry. He knew what section of the stadium she sat in, but could not see her among the crowd standing on its feet. Burke turned his attention back to the field. The undead had the ball and somehow they were winning. Burke’s team had not lost a game the entire season, yet here they were down by two points with less than two minutes to go. Burke watched his defense line up on the field, their helmets hiding grim faces. The undead wore no helmets. No shoulder pads. Just old jerseys, mud-caked and torn.

  Burke remembered playing football as a kid. The smell of grass, of turning leaves, the cool autumn wind, the thrill of catching a long bomb and running, running, the feel of pure joy and exhilaration…

  Now fear was his motivation. When he threw the ball or ran with it down the field, it was with anxiety, with not knowing whether the next time he was back on the field he’d be playing for the other side.

  The ref blew the whistle. The undead tramped the earth, rubbed their chaffed hands together like anxious children, formed a wavering wall at the line of scrimmage. Their center chewed on the football as if teething. Their quarterback trembled with anticipation; his tattered jersey exposing glimpses of intestines hardened from exposure, of splintered ribs, the protruding ends sharp and poking into putrid green lungs.

  “Hungh!” it grunted. “Hungh!” The center grinned like an idiot and pushed the ball into the quarterback’s bony hands. The quarterback stumbled backwards. Raised his mangled lips to the air and let out a guttural howl. He cocked his arm back to pass in one quick jerky motion and let loose with the ball.

  It wobbled through the air toward another pair of tattered hands. The receiver caught the ball and pressed it into his chest. He ran with his head held high, his jawbone exposed and riddled with squirming maggots.

  Hank Jones, one of the living, caught up to him and shoved him hard. The zombie fell face forward with an ugly crunch. Hank jumped up and brought his cleated shoe down on the thing’s back, where it disappeared up to the laces. The receiver stopped moving. The ref blew his whistle. Hank
pulled his foot out and shook off bits of shredded heart and lungs.

  The referees lured the undead off the field and into the confines of an electric fence with hunks of fresh meat skewered on long, sharp poles. Two men in blue uniforms carried the latest corpse off the field in a canvas bag. Armed with cattle prods, the refs urged the swaggering, shuffling forms back onto the field.

  Burke sighed and put his helmet on. As he jogged onto the field he froze.

  Johanson.

  Goddamn. Johanson. He knew he’d show up sooner or later, but how can you really be prepared to see your best friend on the opposing team?

  He’d been the best running back Burke had ever played with. Now there he was, hunkered down across the line of scrimmage staring at Burke with lifeless eyes. Shit, they’d been roommates in college, and now…

  There he was. Listless. Crazed. Hungry for flesh.

  There was a flash of light up in the stadium. Burke looked up. A woman ran toward the cage of the undead with a Molotov cocktail. She lobbed it and it exploded on the outside of the cage walls, spewing a rain of fire both inside and outside the cage. A security guard grabbed the woman from behind and hauled her away as humans and non-humans alike shrieked and slapped at each others burning clothes. Smoke accompanied by the smell of burnt flesh poured out from the cage. Outside the cage, the fire was quickly subdued, but inside the burning creatures tried scrambling up the cage walls, only to fall screaming back onto the others. More security guards appeared, this time with a hose. They sprayed at the cage until the fire was out. Only a few of the undead lay twitching on the ground, smoldering, but they soon arose, pieces of charred bone protruding from their parchment-like flesh.

  “It’s no different than our sex drive,” Johanson had once said. “An unavoidable biological urge to propagate the species.”

  “But why? What kind of a god…”

  …and they’d stay up late some nights talking about it over beer and pizza, their wives trying to hide their fear behind the normalcy of chit-chat and wine.