by Brian Hodge
Charlie spun away and staggered outside, leaning himself against the rough steel surface of the dumpster. The 98 degree weather felt welcomely cool against his doused skin, and helped to suppress his gorge. Pacing his breath, he waited a few minutes, then located a bottle of water in the cooler and sucked it down.
For one man, Charlie thought, it would take all day and night to clean up this mess, as the driver so indicated. He wondered if he should just blow the job off, take the food and slip away back into the obscurity of the real world. But then what? Hell, it’d take him at least thirty minutes to walk out of the industrial park, and a homeless man carrying a small cooler in a private park might raise suspicions.
Seventy-five dollars.
That’s a lot of Shitty-Kitty.
“The cats,” he said. “They need me.”
So he grabbed a shovel and went back into the warehouse, emotionally determined to get the job done. At once the oppressive heat whacked him, sending putrid air back into his body like a blast from a furnace whose coals had been replaced with human flesh. The mound loomed, like a giant squid on an ocean’s bottom, he the ancient sailor aboard Captain Nemo’s Nautilus, harpoon readied for attack. He circled around the left side, three feet of space allowing him passage to the rear of the structure; the mound sloped upwards to near-ceiling height on the right, surprisingly retaining its orange color, looking like some odd spread of woodland fungus.
Using the shovel’s blade, he poked at the heaving mass, testing its resiliency. It sank down to the brace and parted the sludge, making a fart sound. With two hands, he pulled on the handle. Like a drift of snow a green-gray-orange slab separated from the mass and plopped to the cement foundation in a gelatinous heap. A foul-smelling odor burst up. The heap farted again. Peering at the cut-away, he could see that some of the oranges beneath the surface had retained their round shape, looking like sickly tumors. The flies, seemingly unhappy with this disturbance, soared about his head like fighter planes.
Jesus, how am I gonna do this? He thought, looking back out toward the bright slice of light in the doorway. Feeling sick again, he paced back toward the front of the warehouse.
His foot caught a puddle of slime near the base of the mound. With only three feet of space between it and the wall, he had no room to fall on solid ground and like a football player leaping into the end-zone, landed face down into the heap. He struggled to free himself, arching his neck up in order to gasp for air, arms attempting to push his body up, but succeeding in only plunging bicep-deep into the muck. He twisted his torso around, keeping his face above the mass which seemed to want to swallow him like quicksand. The mound shifted, miring him, securing its hold. He kicked his legs, which still remained free but found no grasp as they slid on the greasy surface. Soon, they too began to settle into the muck.
Charlie was stuck.
He twisted and turned and dug and grasped, tiring himself to the point of exhaustion. Eventually Charlie could do nothing but lay helplessly and wait.
And wait.
The hours slid by. In due time the maggots and slugs found him. They crawled on his slime-coated skin, delighted with their find. Horseflies and mosquitoes and palmettos buzzed freely about, like helicopters around a disaster.
Time passed on. He slept periodically, only to be awakened by a bee sting or the hardened flutter of a palmetto’s wings. Darkness loomed, the light from outside fading to gray, the room barely illuminated by the pallid glare of the single bulb from above.
Just enough light.
To see the rats.
It reflected off their eyes, beady oil-drops glistening as they contemplated the warm breathing flesh before them. They scurried along the edge of the structure where the wall met the floor, only feet away, climbing over one another, squeaking euphorically as they came closer to him, closer, their twitching whiskers dappled in gray sludge, sharp claws scratching the cement, teeth bared in utter anticipation.
Charlie had been here for a long time, he knew, and the hours of inaction numbed his muscles, making it difficult to even flinch. The rats accumulated as if word had been dispatched of found treasure. Their bodies were pulsing lumps of black hair, amassing, fidgeting, squeaking. Soon, they became uncountable, a throbbing wave disappearing into the darkness. Charlie thought it best to stay still, to remain dead and pray they’d soon move on to the sweeter source of decay surrounding him.
Two rats separated from the crowd, large ones tottering back and forth, each of them the size of footballs, sniffing toward him with wet pink noses. Their tails wriggled against the concrete, aiding them to rise up on their haunches and peer at him with their eyes…their eyes that now glowed red beneath the dull glare of light. The crowd pressed in behind them, pushing the two forward, and then there were three and four and five, and soon they multiplied even further as they fell over one another, screeching and scratching amidst the tide of muck reaching out from the mound. Thick foul hairs rubbed up against the exposed skin of his ankles.
Then, a bite. One the rats at the lead of the pack took a nip from his calf. He could feel the warm flow of blood against his skin. He cried out. Another came at him, quick and determined, tearing away at his ankle then sitting up and staring at him, its teeth stained with blood.
Soon there were rats at his face, climbing adeptly through the sludge, and even here with all the sour decay surrounding him, he could still smell the sewage on their hides—the fouler odor of garbage and excrement. One climbed through the tangled mess that was his hair, getting caught up in it like a fly in a web, pulling and squeaking frantically in an effort to escape. Another crawled across his neck, taking a quick nibble then scrambling away over the mound as if afraid of getting caught in the act. Blood trickled down, drawing more rats toward him. He could feel them covering his legs, his waist, his chest. One sniffed at his mouth and he spit and screamed, chasing it away, the horrible taste of it left behind on his lips.
Charlie yelled and cried, his echoes unanswered in the dank warehouse. Those that worked in the park (union workers, he heard in the driver’s voice) had gone home hours ago, leaving the area vacant save for the mandatory security guard who was probably watching television in some glass booth near the gated entrance a half-mile away.
More rats crawled. Scratched. Bit. Lapped.
Charlie screamed, thinking this is it. My time has come. Life on the streets wasn’t so good to him after all…
There was a loud squeal. Then another, and then the rats began to scramble away, crawling over one another in a mad frenzy. Some crossed over his body, many more tumbling away, down the mound. He could hear them trying to flee, hundreds of little clawed feet scraping madly against the cement wall. In a minute’s time, they were gone. A few were still within eyeshot, moored in the pile and unable to escape. More rats squealed, seemingly meeting some kind of terrible fate.
Someone had come to save him! Had heard his screams!
“Hello!” he cried. “Please, help me!”
But there was no answer, none that he could hear.
The rats kept on squealing. Amidst the fray, he felt the light patter of feet on his torso. He shuddered, looked down, expecting another rat.
Standing on his chest was a cat, a gray tabby with a brown spot on its pink nose. It mewed loudly at him, saying, Don’t worry Charlie. We’ll help you. The cat’s mouth moved along with the words in Charlie’s mind.
Charlie smiled. “Hello there Mr Puddy Tat,” he said, giggling like an idiot, realizing clearly that he’d, quite suddenly, lost his mind. Cats don’t talk.
They do to you, Charlie.
“Who said that?”
I did. Over here!”
Charlie followed the direction from where the voice came, saw another cat, this one black with white paws, standing on the mound a foot away from his head. It had an injured rat in its paws, a bubble of guts purling from its mouth. The cat seemed to be grinning. We’re here now, Charlie. All of us. We need you to come back to the Squat.
“The Squat…” Charlie uttered, his voice weak and scratchy.
Yes, the Squat. It’s where you belong. It’s your home.
The cat leaned down and sank its teeth into the rat’s gut, ripping away a hunk of hairy flesh. Blood came out in a spurt.
Charlie did his best to peer about the warehouse, despite the bad angle and poor lighting. The cats from the Squat were here, at least fifty of them, some of them he recognized too. Many of them had dead rats in their mouths; others darted around trying to decide which ones to attack next. The rats squealed, but soon their cries for mercy were replaced by the victorious mewls of the cats. In a few minutes, the rats were defeated, and the cats lay basking in the bloody aftermath, licking their paws and purring in post-clash respites.
Despite his earlier attempts, Charlie tried to move but could not. So he closed his eyes and fell back into a slumber, dreaming of the cats, of how they managed to get here. It didn’t matter, really. He only hoped they would dig him free of his imprisonment so he could rush to the store and buy them cases and cases of Shitty-Kitty.
“Hey…”
Charlie felt a nudge on his shoulder.
“Hey, you okay? Wake up, man.”
Charlie opened his eyes. A figure came into view. Marlins cap. Grubby beard. Tan. The driver. “Uh…” he managed to say.
“Jesus, you okay? Let me help you up.” The driver grabbed Charlie by the arms and pulled him free of the mound. There was a horrible squelching sound as Charlie ripped free of the mess.
Charlie blinked his eyes. As the room came into focus, he saw, and remembered.
It looked like a bloodbath. Hundreds of dead rats, everywhere. All of them severely mutilated.
“What the hell happened here?” the driver asked.
Charlie kept looking at the rats, wondering where his friends had gone. “I don’t remember,” he answered.
“Well…we need to get you to a hospital.”
“No…”
The man looked at Charlie with dismay. “But you’re injured.”
“No…they need me.”
“They need you? Who needs you?”
Charlie looked around. “Sorry I didn’t get the job done.”
The man waved him off. “No, don’t worry about it. As long as you’re okay.”
Charlie nodded. “I need a bit of money,” he said. “For food.”
The man reached into his pocket, handed Charlie the seventy-five dollars he promised. “Don’t worry about the job.”
Charlie nodded his thanks.
The man helped Charlie to rise. “Where can I take you?”
Charlie looked at the man. “Please take me back to the squat. Back home.”
“You’re bleeding. You need to go to a hospital. Or a shelter.”
Charlie shook his head. “They’ll protect me.”
“Who?”
“Please…just take me back to the Squat.”
The man nodded. “That’s your home, huh? The Squat?”
Charlie nodded. “Yep. They’re waiting for me there,” he said. “They need me.”
“I’m sure they do,” the man answered, stepping over the dead rats. “I’m sure they do.”
Till Death Do They Part
Carrie Sellers gave Roberta a weak grin and folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll be alright…not to worry.”
Roberta smiled, laughing lightly, and in her island accent said, “I just want to be sure you know the drill. My cell phone number is on the kitchen table. Give me a holler if you run into any trouble.”
“Everything will be just peachy.” Again Carrie attempted a smile but was certain it went awry, probably made her look uncomfortable—an unintended display of her true feelings.
Roberta’s narrowing face appeared to say, Just peachy, eh? Are you sure you want this job? Pulling an all-nighter won’t be the hard part. There’s plenty of cookies and coffee to keep your engines running. It’s the periodic check on my folks. You know, those two people you’re being paid to nursemaid?
Carrie had done this work before, in group-homes, with the elderly, the mentally ill, the disabled. But never alone, in a private residence, at night. Overnight.
She’d felt a touch of anxiety while interviewing for the position, and then again upon accepting the weekend job. They both suffer from Alzheimer’s. Each of them are now in the later stages. My father shouts out from time to time, periods of dementia, but only in the daytime. Other than that, they don’t move, speak, or open their eyes. Carrie had followed Roberta into the bedroom, and at first sight of the withered black couple nearly cried out in horror. They were in just awful condition, eyes shuttered, mouths gaping, tree-bark skin appearing as old as time itself. Roberta demonstrated on how to change their diapers (something you won’t have to do sweetie, unless there’s an emergency), then adjusted the intravenous bags with the clear plastic hoses that snaked beneath the sheets. Roberta explained, the hoses enter their abdomens via the navel.
“If something goes wrong and you can’t reach me, call the doctor. His number is on the fridge.”
“Okay.” She nodded and coughed, trying to clear her throat of a sudden dry-spot. There was no reason to be frightened of the old sick black couple, was there? She would stay here overnight, drink lots of coffee and watch the late, late, late movie. And every now and then stick her head into their room to make sure everything was just peachy before heading back to the tube.
Roberta had a hand on the doorknob when she added, “Oh, every now and then you might have to play the tape recorder on the nightstand next to the bed.”
“Oh…well…how will I know when?”
“Sometimes dad gets a bit…well…agitated. But then again, he hasn’t had an episode in over a month, and has never had one at night. Still, I think the tape calms them. It makes them happy. All should be, as you like to say, just peachy.”
“Yes…everything will be fine,” Carrie said.
“See you in the morning. About six.” Roberta closed the door behind her.
Carrie listened as Roberta’s footsteps hurried down the steps of the two-story building. It was the stride of a woman who had just left all her worries behind, a woman who was about to move on to something more important, something more enjoyable.
A car started outside. A horn honked before it pulled away. The sound of the engine faded and then silence filled the apartment.
The two room apartment.
She, in the living area.
Them, in the bedroom.
Them.
Carrie walked into the kitchen, which was really an extension of the living room. On the refrigerator was a magnetic reminder board with a phone number scrawled on it in magic marker. Below, the name ‘Dr Allis’ was written in looping script. That was the number she’d call if ‘trouble’ started, if dad got agitated. But only if Roberta couldn’t be reached. Carrie glanced sideways at the table and saw only a cookie jar on a plain white tablecloth.
My cell phone number is on the kitchen table. Give me a holler if you run into any trouble…
She peered on the floor then around the entire kitchen but there was no slip of paper anywhere, no notebook with a phone number. Jesus…Did Roberta forget to leave it? Now all Carrie had was an unseen Doctor’s number—a doctor that presumably made himself available at all hours. She would only have to call the doctor if the situation got out of hand. But chances were good that the mostly unmoving, unspeaking, unseeing couple would remain that way for the entire night, and all she’d need to concern herself with was sticking out eight hours without falling asleep.
Perusing the kitchen she found a sepia-toned photograph taped to the upper corner of the wall-oven. It showed a young man and woman dressed in hiking gear seated on a tree stump in some tropical locale. Carrie’s guess was that this was a snapshot of the elderly couple from years ago, before succumbing to the ills of Alzheimer’s. Unsmiling, they stared blankly at the photographer through a number of bends and creases, the corners
of the photo worn to white half-circles. They appeared plump and healthy and even content—nothing like the rotting, senile twig-people flirting with comas in the next room.
She heard a whisper…a wheeze.
It came from the bedroom.
Her skin crawled and her heart leapt but she told herself that there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all, and that she should expect some random noises now and again. They did have to breathe, after all, and anybody is capable of making weird noises while sleeping.
She filled a small pot with water and placed it on the stove, then removed a mug and a jar of instant coffee from the cabinets and wondered what she would do if one of them decided to wake up—if they felt the urge to call upon their daughter Roberta for some comforting. How would they react upon sighting Carrie, a stranger—an intruder—in their home?
They’re blind, remember?
She prayed like crazy that they didn’t wake up because then she would have to go in there and turn on the tape player to calm them down. They might try to move, and in doing so an arm might fall free from the confines of the sheets and then she would have to touch the rotting limb, pick it back up and tuck it into the sheets of the bed.
She tore a paper towel from the roll under the cabinet and wiped the sweat from her brow. The water on the stove had come to a boil and she carefully poured it into the mug, stirring the contents until the steaming liquid turned brown.
She sipped the coffee then sat at the kitchen table. The jar of cookies stared at her but she didn’t feel like eating anything. All she could think about was them.
Them.
She knew, at some point, she’d have to peek into the bedroom.
Instead she put on the small television that sat on the kitchen table. The nightly news was on, and she lowered the volume just enough so that she wouldn’t wake them up—so that she would hear them just in case they did.
Don’t be afraid, Carrie. This isn’t anything different than when you worked in the hospital. They’re just old, black, senile human beings, suffering from dementia and Alzheimer’s.
