by Pete Kahle
This prison, Alzheimer’s, is a disease no one would wish upon their worst enemy. It is rampant here at Resty Acres, perhaps the disease du jour, and believe you me when I say it is as powerful as it is heart-wrenching. A fear of mine, I’ll admit, but no longer my number one. No, that place is now reserved for the impossible proved possible, for the stuff I used to know as make believe.
I have looked evil in the eye, my friend. I am afraid to say it does not blink.
A meeting was called concerning Emil’s disappearance, the entire residence escorted into the auditorium before lunch three days after the search had been called off. The smell was there, of course, as it always is. And don’t think we are immune, because we aren’t. We know it’s there, hanging over and rising from us like an invisible prophet. The death smell is what I’m referring to; the yellow smell of the elderly, of chemical and approaching death. In a room such as ours, with over two hundred seniors… well… you get the drift - no pun intended.
Dr. Hamilton is the guy who runs the show here, the Big Tuna as it were, and has so since before my children decided me a member. He’s a slick one, is Dr. Hamilton, him and that new-age ponytail of his. I didn’t always know he was this slick, and only came to after this meeting. Oh yes. Indeed. It was when he started in on how Emil had been battling what I had previously called the disease du jour that I really began to see the situation for what it was: a railroad, as in we were being.
Emil Dimpton never had any such disease. This is true. This I know.
We were then informed that stronger security measures would be in place by week’s end. This in light of the “now recurring” and “very unfortunate” theme which had found its way into the “very heart” of Resty Acres itself; that with Emil’s disappearance as well as Vera’s, lest we forget Hickman and Robalard, (whom he did not mention by name, just so we are clear) that the board had gathered---in the eleventh hour, I’m sure---and voted unanimously on a new mandate, one which was to be “swift” and “immediate” in its “execution” and “implementation.” Ah. How nice. They care! They really, really care.
What I said was this: “Dr. Hamilton?”
“Walter, yes; you have a question?” Not Mr. Meade. Walter. There you go.
“Yes,” I said and paused, momentarily wishing for the deadwood to work once more. I wanted to stand as I said my piece is all. No reason why, just did; just something which happens to me from time to time. Mostly I’m good with what my situation is, having come to terms with it moons ago, but still, as I’ve said… it happens… momentary lapses. “I have known Emil for six years.” I continued. “In that time I have never seen any of the symptoms you associate with Alzheimer’s. How could this be? Are you sure is what I’m asking?”
I half expected to see something register in Hamilton’s eyes at this, a darting flash of guilt perhaps, some glaring sheen of hate. What I received instead was something quite the opposite. Squatting to his knees, the man offered me a tenderness I was up until that point unaware he possessed. He said: “Walter. He was someone you probably saw on a regular basis, was he not; your friend, maybe? This never makes us the best judges, on our best days. I am a trained physician and Alzheimer’s the field I specialize in: I would know. Emil was suffering. Silently. And it was coming on fast towards the end, before he went missing. It comes to no surprise that many of you failed to notice.”
And the slick bastard had me, honestly; hook, line and ponytail. It was when he threw in the wink, there at the end, that two things became very clear, very fast. One was that it had always been an inside job, just as Emil had suspected from the get go. Two was that I had just made myself a target.
Now… it is not like any overt changes occurred once Dr. Hamilton let me in on the little secret Emil had been silenced for. No long looks from across the room when I saw him in one of the lounges or many of the hallways or anything like that. Neither was there hissing or the producing of fangs, just so you know. Everything remained as it was before the latest disappearances, Resty Acres reverting back to what it has always been - a retirement home, the kind which serves Jell-O after each and every meal.
I was neither hounded nor touched is what I mean to say. Even though I now knew, and knew that Dr. Hamilton knew I knew, I remained alive. And don’t get me wrong, I do not know for certain that Dr. Hamilton is the vampire Emil spoke of, only that he is part of the conspiracy residing here.
Days passed; weeks. And as most of you know I tried to get you word, calling as many of you as I could. Do you remember that, Barry? Do your brothers and sisters? How do you recall the times I called and tried to convince you of the plight I faced? What did they tell you when you called back to inquire about the state of your father’s mental health? What I think they told you; what I believe they tell all who inquire about the darkness which goes on here; do they apologize and tell you it is senility setting in? Perhaps a bit of the early Alzheimer’s even? We’ll do some tests though, yes, yes, a batch of them, and get back to you with the results. Did it go a little something like that, Barry? I’m pretty sure it did.
Do you see how slick this makes them?
Do you?
Human beings are complex individuals. This has been said before. We are also simple, and at times stupidly so. Like many of us, not much scares me anymore. Some things yes, like disease and war, but none of it gutting me as completely as it had when I was a boy.
I am an abrupt talker and always have been; loud with opinions. It tends to lead people to believe I am cantankerous by nature, and an arse-hole by choice. I am not, however, but far too old and much too tired to explain it away in the document before you. If my wife were alive she would verify the things I have just mentioned. My kids? Not so much. And that is their choice. It was always my way or the highway beneath the roof I built and placed above their heads. I was a stern parent - the need for them to know and understand respect the very top upon our list. This is all I will say about that. They know their bed and how they must lie. What I must get back to is the fear I mentioned earlier, the stuff from my childhood. It is back inside me now, a thing come home to roost. Unwilling to relent, it screams for release.
I have seen the creature at work. As Emil Dimpton believed, it does do more than drink.
I had gotten used to Flat Stan’s snoring. Not that I had much choice in the matter - he slept most of the time. When he did wake we would talk about the old days, when the grass was greener and all that jazz. During these conversations I was usually somebody else, a Johnny or Duncan, sometimes a David. This didn’t bother me, and poor Flat Stan never knew the difference. I think he did come close to the surface once, as there was a pause and then the question of how I ended up in the wheelchair. When I began to tell him my story, he asked me what I was talking about and if I thought mother would approve. At this I was back to being Duncan, the older of his two sons. This was how my relationship played with Flat Stan - two parts sleep, one part conversational window into his past. Realizing this forces me to acknowledge that Alzheimer’s is not unlike the creature which stalks me, that both are draining forces of utter destruction, time and method the only differences I can find between them.
It was the very night I came to this realization that the vampire awakened me - overrode the snores I had adapted myself to; as I rose to consciousness I came to know the sucking sounds Emil had spoken of months ago, the ones which now replaced Flat Stan’s exhalations. Poor Flat Stan - there would be no more stories concerning Johnny or Duncan and sometimes a David; I am certain the man was dead before I turned on my reading lamp. In doing so I bore witness to the thing I am writing about, to that which has been preying upon us here at Resty Acres. I can’t say for sure that it is a vampire, not in the truest sense of what I know. What I can say is that it shares a lot of the same characteristics you and I have been shown in movies and TV. Not all, but some. Other things reminded me of leeches, similar to the ones I used to fish with.
Big is unable to do it justice - the th
ing was massive, six five from head to boot. It was wide as well, as wide as it was thick it seemed. Bent over, its mouth and chin were buried deep into the middle of Stan’s chest as it drank, the throat of it bulging to the point of where I thought it might burst. You would consider me turning on the light and sitting up would have made it notice me, yes? Would think I’d be screaming my fool head off for help, no? Both of these things should have happened but neither of them did. I watched if hypnotized, stared as the vampire exsanguinated my roommate completely, listened as it sucked and sucked and sucked. It was only when the draining was complete that it turned to me, then and not a moment before. I remained silent as it regarded me, lost within the caverns of the eyes before me; they were black like oil, those eyes, black like death; nothing of white at all. It moved towards me, touched me: a finger to my paunch. “Too much meat,” it said, and the words were wet - still coated, swimming in the blood which used to run Stan. This was when my bladder let go, or when I believe it let go; I can’t say for sure, not then, not now. After this it turned from me, its attention back to Stan - of what remained of Stan. Standing over him it opened and closed its mouth, a tocking sound accompanying this. At the time I did not know it was flexing. Now, however, I do. It was readying itself, you see; ensuring the route was able.
Slowly at first, then faster, its mouth began to expand, widening to receive another set of fangs, ones which erupted first from the upper part of its jaw and then from the lower. As was the creature, so were the teeth that came: massive; large and long and sling blade sharp.
You realize, of course, that the drinking was done?
Okay. To the hole then, back into it; as this is where it went. Slowly it leaned down and re-entered the open cavity of Stan’s chest. I watched as it latched on and I watched as I heard it create a seal between its mouth and Stan’s wound. After this there came another sound, this one louder than the first, the one it had been making with its jaw. It was deeper too, coming from the breast bone it was making its way through. Once it did this, once it broke through - this is when I truly understood what Emil was trying to convince me of that morning in the breakfast room, the day in which I patronized him more than a little bit.
I am very close to the pattern weight I think.
I am only above one hundred twenty as of this morning.
I think it can only consume around that much each time, roughly a hundred pounds a pull; its maximum, give or take. Amazing, no? A vampire who does it all! No fuss, no muss, no mess, no body. This is why it chooses the elderly, I think. Not only because we are probably the easiest of prey but because of the practicality we represent; that most of us are already the size it might require, each of us the lightest of light snacks.
The organs were next, all of them, and then the bones, followed, of course, by skin. All of it going, gone, and into as it continued to feed. Stan’s body receding or deflating as it was depleted, everything being pulled up and into the supernatural vacuum it was attached to. Its throat was so engorged with the pressure it was creating that again I had the sense its neck was close to bursting. And I don’t know how… but I must have missed something, even though I witnessed it all; it did not chew is what I mean to tell you. Not once. I do not know if it expelled some sort of compound as they were linked - if this is what helped to liquefy what remained of Stan, because, as I’ve said: there was not an ounce of chewing that went on that night, none, and humans bones, last time I checked, were still as hard as they ever were. It seems a logical assumption, no? That it might produce and secrete a toxin to help with what it devours? I know, I know: Where is the logic in any of this? Quite a quandary I’ve found myself, yes? Yes. Yes, it is. I am more worried about what it said to me as it left, however, when it turned back from the door to my room once it was ready to leave. Soon was what it said to me; one word, nothing more. It was later that I noticed Stan’s bed sheets; that even they did not remain. Taken or ingested I cannot say for sure.
That was four months ago. In the time between then and as I write this many things occurred. The police were called for one, and more than once at that. After the third time I was dismissed with prejudice, informed I would be charged if another instance arose. I told this officer to shove it where the sun didn’t shine and that if he felt so inclined then he should go ahead and do it, my pension would hold. Upon reflection, I realize this was wrong and ill-advised at best. I was doing exactly what I am trying to warn you about: that no one will believe and the more that I protest the more I seem unstable. Unstable leads to other words here at Resty Acres, words which begin with capitals. I have none of these impairments, however, and of that you can be sure; my faculties intact, in tune without a touch. But this is protesting, is it not? Fine. About it I will say no more. Instead I will tell you that I’m scared, that the fear remains.
Too much meat.
That is what it said to me; there in the room I shared with Stan. I know now it was referring to my weight, of the extra amount I had there. When you are suddenly paralyzed it is hard to maintain your previous body weight. Let no one tell you different. It seems you are only eating for half a body, and effectively you are, but the amount you had been used to, that doesn’t go away - never has for me, anyway.
What I am trying to get across is that everything I ate seemed to fall and hold to the centre of my being once my spine had been severed, the distribution lines breaking down somewhere along the way - the same line my spine had run upon, perhaps.
Bottom line: I had a paunch, the creature touched it. At the time it did this, I was roughly one hundred ninety pounds. It is not this I worry about, not anymore.
That I have dipped below one hundred and twenty as of this morning is what does - Emil-weight if you remember - on the day he brought me coffee.
This is what terrifies me.
Because I am unable to stop what is happening, that I have been stripped of a basic control. The creature did something to me. It must have. Dr. Hamilton would disagree, I’m told, and has expressed as much. He thinks that what I’m doing is to be commended, that it can do nothing but prolong what he already sees as a long, full life. To his credit, he kept a straight face. Have I informed you of how slick this man is? Yes, I think I have. He is not the vampire, though, as I think I have also mentioned. He is only a facilitator. Perhaps a disciple even, Resty Acres being the place he chooses to worship. I don’t know; will probably never know. Can only hope I will not die as the others have died, that I will remain uneaten. Tomorrow I will try again, after I have made copies and secured them to the mail. I will need a key, however, and that is where you come in. Can you secure it? Moreover: will you? All the guards have one - it hangs from their shirts. They are new, these keys, no longer metal but instead made from plastic, each of them a rectangle in shape.
New security measures: that is what they said.
Too much meat.
Immediate and swift in implementation and execution: that is what they did.
I am very close to the pattern weight I think.
I can see now what they’ve done: can you? They have locked us in here with it, isolating its prey. We are boxed in, all of us, the lid done closed and the sides taped shut. Better yet, you could even say we are now its Jell-O, the menu always red. It drinks us and then eats us and no one lifts a finger, not even with me screaming for any who would hear. As I have said before - this is how slick they are, how cunning and keen; running it all out in front there, just below our noses.
For the record: I hope I am loud when it comes. If I know anything about myself, I imagine I will prove to be. That is all one can ask for in this type of situation, I suppose; that in my dying I might (as Emil did for me) wake and enlighten another as to what is really going on here. Perhaps in doing so, he or she will then take up the fight as I took up the fight.
Unlike me, perhaps even he or she might prevail.
Beau Johnson has been published before, usually on the darker side of town. Such fine establishments might i
nclude Out of the Gutter Online, Shotgun Honey, Spelk Fiction and/or the Molotov Cocktail. He also managed to somehow marry above his pay grade. On top of this he received three boys he can tolerate and love. Go figure.
MEEMAW’S FROGS
By Richard Dansky
Meemaw bought Luther a couple of frogs for his birthday, and Luther’s Pa didn’t like it one bit.
“Why you got to go and buy him frogs?” Pa asked. He tapped the side of the plastic cube the frogs swam in with one meaty finger, and the frogs kicked and jerked in response. “Boy his age, you should be buying him a football or something. Gonna buy him a pet, whyn’t you buy him a dog?”
Meemaw, who was Pa’s mother and thus used to him spouting off, just shrugged and kept up working on her cross-stitch. “Luther don’t want a football none,” she said. “Luther don’t play no sports at all. Boy just stays home and reads, is what he does.”
Pa stared at the frogs for a minute. They were tiny little things, maybe an inch and a half long, all green and brown spots with bug eyes damn near popping out of their skulls. They’d come in this plastic cube mostly full of sand and water, with an ugly-ass plant in the middle of it and a little space for air up top. The cube was sealed, with just a hole a quarter-inch across to drop food pellets into. “Damn things creep me out. How come the box is filled with water?”
