Detritus

by Kealan Patrick Burke

  He injected the cherry-colored elixir up his nose, and then hers, following it with the DNA he'd pinched from the parasite, after adding something from a tiny vial. Ophelia's stomach heaved, pressure coiled tight around her head, and her vision blurred as the world tilted sideways.

  "Marta's in there?" she slurred, pointing to the fire-engine red, gothic cathedral Xian had indicated.

  He nodded. "My spidey sense is tingling."

  "You don't have spidey sense."

  He frowned at her. "Let's not get stuck on particulars."

  After the cloaking serum took effect, they slipped out among the masses, toward the towering cathedral. Ophelia tried not to stare at the parasites dressed in flesh suits. Men with blue tubes sprouting from scalp and nose cavities; women with three orange heads, and six breasts straining their t-shirts; babies with tails like chameleons that turned color when they cried.

  The cathedral stood before them. A bloodshot, disapproving eye that dared they enter. Xian kept a nonchalant stance as he pushed the rubbery doors open and beckoned Ophelia follow.

  Inside, another surprise greeted them. While the building wore the appearance of a church, the interior was clothed in business management aesthetic from head to toe. Cooing potted plants sat at the end of the hallway. Beyond this, a mass of grey cubicles stretched as far as they could see.

  "Other way," Xian said, turning on his heel and walking toward the opposite end of the corridor.

  They rounded the corner and found another hallway lined with sturdy, steel doors. Xian touched each one as they passed it. He stopped at one five doors down, flexing his fingers against the metal, and announcing, "Ahah!" After running his fingers down the seam to look for locks, he twisted the knob, which easily turned. "Something's up."

  "What?"

  He cast a concerned glance her way. "No protection. They want us to come in. That can't be good."

  "I had a feeling back in the basement." Ophelia chewed the side of her mouth. "I think we're being set up."

  Xian nodded, rubbed his stubbly chin. "Do you remember how to deactivate their glamour when they're not in your head? Marta's definitely not alone in there, and they rarely wrap around your brain when they have you in this world. No need, really."

  Thinking back over her training, Ophelia frowned. "I remember bits of the chant, but that's about it." She shook her head in frustration.

  Before they opened the door, Xian went over the deactivation procedure with her. He had her repeat the chant twice, and draw him a diagram in the air before they could continue.

  Ophelia gave him a glare. "I'm not completely inept, you know."

  A creak sounded, as Xian slid the wood away from the jamb. "One can never be too careful."

  Inside, Marta sat shackled to an office chair that aspired to be a throne. Intricate scallops adorned the seat, rising high above its back. And standing between these spires was a shadow man. His fingers snaked out from smoky hands, plugging into Marta's orifices. Thumbs squirmed in her ears, index fingers seeped into the corners of her eye sockets, middle fingers wriggled up her nose, ring fingers conspired to stretch her mouth open wide, while the pinkies crawled down her throat.

  Ophelia gasped. Marta was grey and sweating. Her limbs jittered as the shadow man milked her terror. Her blue eyes streamed a thick, yellow fluid.

  Xian held her back when she made to dash in the room. "Be careful. He has her in a precarious position. We need to negotiate."

  "Negotiate?" Ophelia snapped. "Bullshit. He's going to kill her."

  Xian nodded. "He could kill her, if he feels threatened."

  "Don't talk about me as if I'm not present," the shadow man hissed. "Come in. Your pitiful attempt at cloaking might work with the masses out there, but I can see right through both of you."

  As she stepped over the threshold, Ophelia spied movement near a row of towering filing cabinets. A streak of shimmering blue flashed forward, then watery breath came at her ear. As she turned to face this hidden visitor, the shadow man lashed out with a long tendril, attacking Xian, who held up his doctor's bag in defense.

  "How's it feel to be trapped, huh?" A fish-headed woman pointed at her with a rainbow fin. "To watch your loved one lay helpless, while you're helpless. You imprisoned my sisters and brothers. You've got my son in your brain."

  "He crawled in there. I didn't invite him."

  Ophelia remembered what Xian had told her in the hall. She put a lid on her simmering anger and focused her will. Third tendril lining their torso, Xian had told her. It'll stand out on their body. There'll be something unique about it. Grab this and pull with all your might. Speak the words�…

  And she did. Fish-head howled through rubbery lips, throwing her head back as she caterwauled and shrank to one third her size. When Ophelia finished the chant, the deactivated parasite floated up from the floor to glare at her with pulsing tubes.

  "Here's the deal," Ophelia got in the parasite's non-existent face. "Your son gets out of my head, and his brother gets out of my girlfriend. You stay the hell away from me and Marta for the rest of our lives, and I'll quit collecting. Just straight up banishing and sending your babies back to you from now on. Oh, and I want my armoire back."

  "The rest of your lives?" The parasite scoffed. "I can't promise anything there. The children have minds of their own. But, so long as you stick to the rules, I'll do my best. And your armoire will be in your basement, once you cough out my kid."

  Ophelia looked over her shoulder to Xian, who had also deactivated the parasite plugged into Marta. Her mentor now propped up her limp girlfriend, while the parasite hovered behind the chair.

  Xian stepped in. "Wait a moment. If she spits him out here, you could trap us in this world. Guarantee us safe passage home."

  The parasite shivered with visible anger, mimicking a coil of frenzied vipers. "Fine."

  Ophelia stepped back as nausea cramped her stomach. Intense pressure built in her head. Her nose filled with water as the parasite detached itself from her pineal and wriggled across her brain, working his way into her mouth. She fell to her knees, a fierce headache slamming her forehead as the parasite, wrapped in a ball of mucous, spread her mouth with his tubular fingers and pulled himself free. He floated to his mother, and the pair cooed to one another softly, while the third drifted over to join them.

  "Remember your promise," Xian said, making his way toward Ophelia, but directing the words at the gathering of parasites.

  "You know we will," the mother growled. "You'll find a vortex waiting for you in the hallway." She would have to honor the deal. It was a cardinal rule of their world. Bargains with humans were legally and astrally binding. She'd been trumped, and she obviously didn't like it.

  A swirling black hole opened in the wall opposite as they left the office. Before they walked through, Xian stopped Ophelia. "Speaking of promises..."

  Irresponsibility had nearly cost her the lady she loved. It was time to overcome this obsession. It was time to swallow her fear of her power.

  "I won't forget. No more collecting. And let's resume my training Tuesday evening. How's six o' clock for you?"

  Shrieking Gauze by Edmund Colell

  James adjusts his hospital nametag, and then pulls his gloves on as he approaches the bio-medical waste container. Wearing his dark sunglasses, he looks through the waste he deposited while on duty.

  Where's that incision packing from earlier?

  He reaches into the container and removes soiled sheets and used nightgowns. Soon he finds needle tips, thermometer covers, and — most importantly — bandages.

  Have seven of those, he thinks toward the Band-Aids. Three, toward some patches.

  Finally, he finds some incision packing pieces. He pulls the first up to his face and stares at it. While staring, he hears a low droning. He stares at another and hears wavering chirps. The colors of blood and pus produce each sound. Everything he sees produces sound. When he was a child, before he had sunglasses, overloads caused hi
m to have seizures.

  As he pulls up the third piece of packing, he hears a scream. He jumps back and shuts his eyes, listening for distress outside. Then, as he reopens his eyes to the packing, he hears the scream again. Pulling a plastic bag from his pocket, he lays the packing pieces inside without looking at them again.

  His phone vibrates in his pocket. Closing his eyes, he flips it open and says, "Hello?"

  "Hey, are you done yet?"

  "Yeah, just come around to the back. I'll load the incinerator and see you in a sec, Earl."

  * * *

  As James crawls into Earl's car, he catches Earl looking at the plastic sticking out of his pocket. "You did it again, didn't you?"

  James shrugs his shoulders. "No one's said anything about it."

  "You better hope no one does. I'm pretty sure they can fire you for that shit. It's unsanitary."

  "I keep everything sanitary in there. They can look the other way if I take a bandage. Isn't it better for a bandage to be in my dorm room than on their floor?"

  "I share that dorm with you, too. So what about how I feel?"

  James sees the dormitory loom into view among the sunglass-shaded silhouettes of cars and buildings. "You haven't said anything about it before."

  Earl snorts. "You're lucky I'm willing to room with just about anyone."

  James chuckles. "I hope I'm an interesting roommate at least."

  After they pull up, James looks around at the parked cars. He looks for the brightest red paint jobs but hears only whistles or cheers — nothing as loud as the scream of the packing gauze. Similar sounds sing from the red-and-blue colors of their school flag hung in the halls.

  * * *

  In his room, James opens a chest labeled 'accounting notes.' There are no notes inside. The contents of the chest include bandages and dressings covered with many blood colors in varying states of decay and coagulation. Together, they sound like a low-moaning crowd. He picks through them but still finds no match to today's gauze. He pulls the bag from his pocket and fishes out latex gloves from a box in the chest. He picks up a gray piece of construction paper and a flashlight. Setting these materials on the sink in the bathroom, he shuts the light off and removes his sunglasses.

  After holding his eyes closed for a moment, he turns the flashlight on the gray construction paper. Its sound, a soft, static noise, clears his head. His other hand feels around for the bag and picks one of the packing gauzes. He takes a deep breath, preparing to clamp his eyes shut before sliding the packing under the flashlight.

  To his relief, the gauze only makes sounds at the pitch of stern speech. Sounds slur between the white gauze, green pus, and brownish-red mix of blood and dirt. He hears vague approvals and groans among them. Despite the incomprehensible gibberish, he leans in to try listening to each component.

  Can't believe I haven't tried this before.

  As he tires of the stern-sounding piece, he puts it back in the bag and stares at the gray paper again. He breathes deep and fiddles his fingers around the two other pieces in the bag. He settles on one and hesitates as he pulls it into the gray.

  His hearing shatters. Tears splash down his face. In the midst of a violent cry, the only word is a focused and piercing 'YOU!'

  He clicks the flashlight off and rubs his sore eyes. Between the options of looking at the pure red blood once more or storing it back in the bag, he chooses the latter. With his sunglasses shielding his eyes, he leaves the bathroom. Looking at the hand he used to rub his eyes, the tears he smeared are thick with blood.

  James stares at the blood for half a minute feeling heat drain through his ears. Noises pop past his glasses.

  When was the last time I bled more than a little?

  Thinking of the answer, he returns to his chest. Among the larger bandages, he pulls out a pus-crusted gauze wrap. As his touch avoids the crusts of scab tissue and dried fluid, he finds a yellow tag with the number one drawn in marker. Out of the entirety of his collection, he still looks at this one the most even though it only croaks few sounds. Laying it back in the chest, he strides over to the medicine cabinet and removes a jar of cotton balls.

  Earl walks by with a glass of either water or vodka. He splashes some on his shoes as he double-takes toward the red streaks on James' face. "Jesus Christ," he says, "what happened to your eyes?"

  "I think I went overboard," James says. He looks away as he dabs the blood out of his tear ducts and blinks his eyes. "Please, get me a bag."

  "You're not seriously going to keep those, are you?"

  "Why not?"

  "Look, you're bleeding from your eyes because of this. It's not healthy!"

  Left with a damp and loaded cotton ball, James steps past Earl to get the bag himself. "It's more than healthy," he says, "it's therapeutic."

  Earl sputters taking several steps away. "Did a doctor say you need to look at bandages?"

  James shakes his head as he drops the cotton in the bag. He rolls up a sleeve and turns his forearm over. A white scar runs lengthwise from the middle of his arm to his elbow. "It's a lot of blood to watch running out of yourself when you can see blood screaming."

  Earl nods but holds his hands out in front of him in defense. "I remember, but that still doesn't explain why you started collecting. I know there was that one guy in high school who started collecting classical albums after he had surgery, because that helped him through it. I mean, did you look at blood and stuff the whole time you were recovering?"

  James shakes his head again while he pulls open a drawer and starts fingering through its contents. "Not until the wraps came off. I was too scared before. Blood feels safer to me when it's in a bandage. Maybe bandages could get me over my fear of blood."

  What the hell are you looking for in there?" Earl lays a hand on James' shoulder.

  James shuts the drawer. "Do you still have your magnifying glass?" Even as his sunglasses hide his eyes, he feels exposed. He rubs his sticky blood-tear trails and says, "Sorry, you don't need to know about this."

  Earl's hand slips off James' shoulder. He starts walking away. "Then leave my magnifying glass alone."

  "Wait," James says. "The gauze that made my eyes bleed said something."

  A twitching shock passes through Earl's face. "What did it say?"

  "A really loud 'you,' like it was accusing me, or commanding me, or something like that. And I heard other things from some other bandages when I took my shades off, but I can't tell what those ones are saying. At least, not without looking closer." Another pause causes James' courage to feel soggy.

  "Well," Earl says, "I'll get the magnifying glass and my phone for the hell of it. We'll see if you get anything out of that cotton ball, but I'll be ready in case you get something worse than bleeding eyes."

  * * *

  With the lights off in their dorm room, James removes his sunglasses and shines the flashlight on the gray paper. His eyes feed on the static gray for a short while, and then he picks up the cotton ball and holds it above the paper. Though softer than the gauze, lively voices chatter among the white and the red. As he reaches for the magnifying glass, he glances up to see Earl standing by with his cell phone in hand.

  "Just give me a sec," James says, moving the glass over the paper.

  Peering into the magnified grayness, he hears a drone like the sound of fluorescent lighting. The weight of the droning sound slows him down. Earl and the safety net of his phone keeps James reaching for the cotton. He closes his eyes before sliding the cotton under the glass, and releases a breath while he opens them again.

  "Will."

  His breathing eases by the time he hears the cotton. Red clumps bellow clear against the scraping white fibers, repeating the word as long as he looks at it. He gives Earl the thumbs-up.

  "It says 'will,'" he says. "Together, 'you will' or 'will you.'"

  Earl chuckles. "Okay," he says, picking up the rest of James' collection, "let's see where this goes."

  An old Band-Aid goes under the
magnifying glass. James squints, his hearing muffled by the dark residues of clots and dirt. To the side, as the clot stretches into red streaks, he hears different voices all saying syllables from "Information."

  Another Band-Aid says, "More."

  A third, "Need."

  James stuffs that Band-Aid away and produces a pocket notebook. He slips his sunglasses back on as he holds the flashlight on the notebook and starts writing.

  "At least three words connect one way," he says, "but the beginning can still go either way. 'You will' or 'Will you' need more information." As he finishes writing the five words down, he sighs "Either way, no shit."

  Earl flips the light switch back on and pockets his phone. "At least it's better than them saying, 'You will burn the school' or something like that. Sometimes first tries suck, but I can't stay up all night to keep watch. Besides, too many in one night will probably blind you. Or deafen you. We can do it tomorrow night if you need to, dude, if it helps you get over this bandage thing."

  Left thinking of five words with no conclusion, James taps his finger on the chest and says "Okay. Sorry for keeping you up."

  "Seriously, rest your eyes for a while."

  * * *

  In his room, James sits on the edge of his bed. The shadows and silhouettes give him enough silence to think.

  There's no way in hell I'll be able to concentrate in class tomorrow if I can't even sleep. Just a few more and I'll be all right.

  Sneaking out of his room, he pads around the living room, blind in the dark. He feels around for the chest and quiets the unlocking with his fingertips. His fingertips work hard to keep the plastic bags from crinkling as he pulls them out. With the bags, flashlight, paper, and magnifying glass on the coffee table, the only stealthy action left is to ease himself onto the couch without squeaking its springs. He sits motionless for five seconds when that fails, but pulls the paper and flashlight towards him once Earl fails to investigate.