by Alex Kimmell
Other Boy Three
Jeremy squeezed Jason’s hand. Hard. He’d been trying to wake him up for as long as he could remember. Yelling didn’t work, so he poked a finger into his cheek again. Little round red marks were still there from last time. Jason was breathing, so he didn’t think he was dead. Dead people didn’t breathe. Did zombies breathe? He wasn’t sure. Mommy never let him watch scary movies or play any video games with the letter “T” on the box. Other Boy was on the far side of the floor, on his tummy. Jeremy couldn’t see his face the way his head was turned. The back of his hair was all sticky and black, and he smelled like poop. So he kept Jason’s head on his lap like a shield. Jason would protect him. That’s what big brothers did. Other Boy coughed. Jeremy’s whole body flinched. He started smacking his other hand against the top of Jason’s head. “Please wake up. Wake up. Wakeupwakeupwakeupleasewakeupleasewakeupleasepleease.” Jason’s chest continued to rise and fall, slow and calm, up and down. Other Boy grunted. He didn’t move, but Jeremy could tell he was waking up. He looked around the room. Nothing but white. White walls. White ceiling. White floors. No windows. No doors. Nothing but three boys covered in dirt and fear. “Wake up, Jason. You have to wake up now. Now now now nownownownownownowplease wakeupnowpleasepleaewakeupnowpleasepleasewakeupyouhavetowakeupnownowpleasenow.”
Jeremy’s lips were shaking so hard that everything came out in a wash of spit and muffled mumbles. His eyes filled over with tears, so he couldn’t focus. He didn’t dare take his hands off of Jason to wipe them dry. He blinked hard and fast. Through the building whiteness, there was a dark shape where Other Boy was still laying down. It rolled over, and something like a face stared back. Teeth were too big. Compared to the whiteness all around, they looked a dingy greenish yellow. The boy stretched out his hand, and Jeremy kicked at it, trying to keep him away from his brother. “Jason. Wakeup-wakeupWAKEUPWAKEUPUPUPUPUPWAKEUPWAKEUPPLEEEEEESE.” Other Boy sat up stiff-straight. His legs out toes up cracked broken nails jagged exposing ripped cuticles infected and swollen. Other Boy licked his hands and brushed long, thick hair from his face, splattering black ooze to the floor behind his back. His hand dipped fingers into his front shirt pocket, slowly removing a clean, shiny blade. A reflection of Jeremy cowered back from within its silver sheen. “JASON. WAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUPWAKEUP…”
Jeremy didn’t stop screaming for his brother while Other Boy dotingly took Jason’s hand away. The stream of “wakeupwakeup-wakeup” lowered to a hoarse whisper but continued uninterrupted as the boy lifted Jason’s body from his little brother’s lap and set him on the floor. Jeremy rocked back and forth, no longer able to see through the thick white froth collecting around his eyes. “wakeup-wakeupwakeuppleasejasonjasonjasonwakeup pleasewakeup” Other Boy swung the knife as a conductor’s baton in time with the repeating words. One… two… three… four… the blade entered the epidermis just behind Jason’s left ear, making a long, slow incision so shallow it did not draw blood. After the circle traced around the ear entirely, the boy wiped the blade on his palm and carefully placed it flat on the floor next to his right leg. “wakeupwake-upJasonwakeupplease” The boy reached down, pinched the edge of one of his jagged toenails, and pulled. It came loose with a low-pitched, wet sucking sound, sliding free into his waiting palm. Inserting the edge of the nail into the fresh incision, Other Boy slowly made his way around the circle. Further and further around, he wiggled the yellow nail back and forth. “jasonwakeupwakeup-wakeupnownowpleasewakeupnow”
Other Boy took his time. It was a long and tedious process. He made no mistakes. When he finished, there were no rips or tears. He stood looking down at the loose skin. He smiled, popped the nail into his mouth, and chewed. A few crunches later, he swallowed with a satisfied gulp and removed his clothes.
“Wakeupjasonwakeupjasonpleasewakeupnownowjasonnowupnowjasonwakenowjasonplease” The boy patiently stretched the skin around Jason’s ear, making the hole larger and larger. Eventually, he slid the opening over Jason’s head and neck. Wriggling like worms, every strand of Jason’s hair slipped through its tiny hole as the skin was pried away from his scalp. For the most part it went silently, smothered below the constant stream of words from the little boy sitting next to him. Occasionally a sound like tearing paper could be heard. He tugged here and pulled there, wiggling it around the sharp bones of Jason’s shoulders. From there, it was easy. Cautious at the fingers and penis, of course, but eventually he was able to slip free every nook and cranny. Fortunately, Jason was still young, so the calluses on the bottom of his feet were still relatively soft.
Other Boy was pleased. He didn’t have to struggle too much, and the layer of skin he removed remained in one piece, without any noticeable tears or other damage. “Jasonpleasewakeupnow.” The boy turned to the frothy-eyed, shivering lump of a child and dismissed any thought of a threat from him now. He slipped into his new skin, pressed and pinched any areas that weren’t settling in well, and yawned. Tired now, Other Boy rolled Jason over and left his skinless body face down on the far side of the room. His pale skin was now clean, with red splotches here and there giving him an almost animal-like appearance. “Wakeupnowpleasewakeupnow pleasejasonjasonjason” Other Boy lay down, took Jeremy’s hand, and rested his head comfortably in the little boys lap.
“Shhh Jemmy,” Other Boy whispered softly. “Issokay. I’m right here.” Closing his eyes, Jeremy squeezed his big brother’s hand and finally stopped repeating the words.
-39-
Auden: Panic
Your eyes are dry. When you rub your tongue against the top of your mouth, it feels broken and brittle, about to crumble in upon itself. Teeth loose, with wide open spaces between enamel and gums. Swallowing is impossible. The right corner of your upper lip twitches uncontrollably. Up down up down. Updown. Up. Up. It doesn’t hurt, but you don’t like not being in control of your own muscles.
You blink against the whiteness. Small shapes in brown and blue swell from nothing in a corner across the room from you. Three small shapes. Two of the lumps are not moving. One of the shapes, the smallest one, rocks slowly back and forth. A sound comes from it. It’s a voice. A little boy. You can’t quite understand what the boy says. It’s obvious by the tone that he is sad. No. Not sad. He’s afraid.
You try to bring the boy into focus. Your eyes are too dry to see clearly. No moisture to wipe the dust away. The boy rocks back and forth, apparently trying to soothe another small person lying in his lap. Too small to be an adult, it must be a child as well.
On the other side of the room, the shape coughs. It sounds like another little boy. The rocking boy starts talking louder. Faster. He is panicked now. His foot kicks out at Other Boy. He misses. The panic intensifies. Every sound is muffled. You stretch to understand. The record spins backward, covered in static. Feedback stabs your inner ear, behind your eyes, in your nose.
Other Boy pulls the rocking boy’s hands off the sleeping child and drags him to the center of the room. Rocking boy’s voice hides beneath the static, and his movement speeds to a blur of pale flesh tones. Other Boy pulls at his foot. There is a slurping noise through the static that you can hear quite clearly. Other Boy leans down over the child on the floor, looking like he is working hard.
Other Boy stands up and breathes deeply. There is a bag hanging down from Other Boy’s hand. It’s thin and transparent. It hangs all the way to the floor and then some. Other Boy takes off his clothes and throws them across the room, against the wall. He stretches his arms up high and opens the top of the bag. He slips it over his body like a jumpsuit. Slowly, meticulously, he slides into the bag. It hugs every curve of his body. There is the quiet sound of rubber or latex stretching and slapping against skin. Other Boy presses his fingers into his armpits, genitals, the underside of his knees, and between his toes.
Other Boy turns around, looking directly into your eyes. The Other Jason smiles and walks slowly over to Jeremy. The Other Jason lies down on the floor and rests his head on Jeremy’s lap. “Wakeup-nowp
leasewakeupnow pleasejasonjasonjason” Knives pierce your heart. Needles stab your eyes. Bullets tear through ribs into your lungs. Splinters drive under fingernails.
Air blows up from the bottom of your lungs into your throat, where it vibrates the vocal chords, producing a ferocious trumpet noise rattling walls shattering windows knocking airliners from the sky automobiles racing through red lights sending tons of speeding metal into unprotected flesh of pedestrians ending lives in split seconds shattering hopes dreams fantasies oceans of blood gore bone marrow tendons tear ligaments shred beyond repair old worn favorite sneaker tossed into oncoming windshield purse contents land in puddle old pay stub listing illegal dependants three white lilies still wrapped in plastic surrounded by sprigs of long grass never delivered flip in the air land flat on top of a magazine stand consumed in flames…
“No.”
“Shhh Jemmy,” the Other Jason whispers softly. “Issokay. I’m right here.” Closing his eyes Jeremy squeezes his big brother’s hand and finally stops repeating ”WakeupwakeupJason.”
-40-
Emily: A Beautiful Day for a Neighbor
“Where is the basement?”
Emily shakes her head. “We…don’t have a basement.” She picks up a piece of broken glass from a picture frame, looking at the jagged edges. She thinks about all the millions of grains of sand compressed together under impossible pressure in order to create this transparent material, now scattered in shards all over the blood-stained carpet and sofa cushions. She absentmindedly starts tracing her finger around the sharp edges when Abram grabs her firmly by the shoulders.
“Emily.” The gruff command snaps her attention to his eyes immediately. “He will be back. We can’t wait. If I don’t get us inside before that man, we might never be able to get back to Auden or Dedra.” His voice cracks slightly when he says his wife’s name.
“I… I don’t know what you want me to do…”
“Do you have any padlocks in the house?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“How about a combination lock or maybe a bike lock?”
“There should be an old lock in the in the kitchen…it’s in the junk drawer. But I don’t know the combination. Auden bought it to help teach Jeremy about numbers…” Emily falls to her knees, thinking about her boys. Abram runs off toward the kitchen. She holds a hand over her mouth. Drawers are yanked open, silverware clanks together, one plate falls from a shelf onto the counter, spinning in circles before it stops, uncracked, on its top edge. Plastic bags crumple and shift. She is drowning now. Breath shallows thunder rushes over her ears every inch of skin shakes.
“This’ll do.” Abram runs around the wall back into the living room holding a small lock in his hand. The white numbers stand out against the black dial. When he sees Emily on the floor, he rushes to her side, taking her in his arms. They rock back and forth. Even though time is short, he allows her these few moments to cry. The shuddering slows to deep breathing as her body attempts to recover from the shock. Abram pulls away without letting go and looks down at the top of her head.
“I need your help, Emily.” She doesn’t look up at him. “I have to get this open.”
A tiny voice comes up to him that can hardly be called a whisper. “Why? I don’t understand.”
He looks into her face. “I have to get into my room.”
“I need… I need to splash some water on my face.”
“Yes. I think that’s a good idea.” Abram helps her stand. They both walk into the kitchen together. He sits down at the table, spinning the dial on the lock.
The cool water feels good on her face. She splashes again and again, trying to wash away this nightmare from being real. She can see Abram’s reflection in the window. Her eyes adjust to the outside light, seeing movement on top of the fence. Through the glass reflection of Abram’s transparent head, she can see the squirrel standing still on its hind legs, staring.
“Abram…” He does not respond. “Abram, I think we’d better hurry.”
“Do you have any idea what the combination is?”
Emily’s mind races to find numbers that will work. The squirrel tilts his head to the side and lets out a nightmarish scream far too loud for a creature of such small stature. Its mouth opens wide, showing grey and white television static instead of teeth and tongue.
“Oh my God.” She backs away from the sink and watches the yard turn black and brown as it fills with a flood of small creatures. Dozens, hundreds of animals descend on the small fenced-in area behind the house. All with their heads bent over at that unnatural angle. All mouths open in static, exposing fangs dripping black ooze, glinting so wrongly in the light of the early sun.
Abram spins the dial to the left and then jerks it back quickly the other way. He glances at the tattoo on his forearm and looks up at Emily. His eyes follow her stare out the window, and he sees for the first time what is frightening her so deeply.
“What are the numbers?”
“I…I…I think….”
“Emily!”
“I think it might be 5-21-2.” Her eyes dart quickly between the glass door and window, watching the light outside disappear behind this seething mountain determined on getting to them. “But I’m not sure.”
“…21…2.” Abram pulls at the curved metal bar. “…not working!”
“Um…uh…try 7-6-1. Maybe it’s our anniversary.”
“Still not it, Emily.” The foam-lipped, clawed army outside is throwing itself one by one into the window and the kitchen door, trying to get in. A small crack appears in the middle of the sliding glass door. “Anything…what other three numbers might have meant something to Auden?”
They both glance at the second hand of the clock moving too slowly around the circle, and then look at each other. A loud BAM! comes from the window above the sink, and both of their bodies reflexively jump. The crack breaks into a longer lightning strike in the door. BAM! Another crack starts toward the bottom of the large glass pane. BAM!
“What do we do now?” Emily asks, looking around for some kind of weapon. Abram opens the pantry and grabs the broom, giving it a good shake to check its sturdiness. He points to the knife holder next to the microwave, but Emily has a better idea.
She reaches into a cabinet, sliding the remaining dishes over. A few fall out and crash to the floor. Moves on to the next filled with glasses and plastic kid’s cups. “Damnit.”
A clicking noise starts quietly. As it speeds up it grows louder and louder.
BAM!
Click click clickclick clickclickclickclick clickclickclickclickclick clickclickclick
“Emily?” Abram moves toward the door. “Whatever you’re looking for, you’d better find it fast.”
“Fuck.” The glass of the door curves inward into a giant bubble, vibrating faster and faster until it finally gives way from the constant onslaught of bodies. She opens drawer after drawer after cabinet, throwing things everywhere. “Where did we put the damn thing?”
One more drawer slides opened and, “Yes!” She pulls out an old battery-operated Ronco carving knife that somebody gave them for a wedding present. “This thing better fucking work…” She pushes the switch to ON. A high-pitched whine screams from the tiny motor inside the plastic casing, sending the two serrated blades whirring back and forth next to each other in a blur.
“Emily!” Abram’s voice shouts from the hallway behind her. She looks up from the knife just in time to watch the window cave in on itself and rain glass into the sink and all over the counter top. Shards of glass fly inward, followed by mud, fur, and nightmare howls of victory hungry for the kill.
Blood drips slowly down over the window ledge from the body of a squirrel impaled on a large stalagmite of glass left standing. The thudding intensifies against both the wall beneath the window and the sliding door at the side of the room. Quick glimpses of brown ears pop up over the bottom edge of the window with an increasing rapidity as the animals continue in their attempts
to charge into the house.
Clumps of fur held together by some revolting-smelling black fluid fall through the open window or stick to the glass and slide down slowly, leaving a nauseating streak behind. The still-unopened lock is on the table. Abram’s eyes widen with horror. The glass of the door finally gives way and crashes in on itself, sending an uncountable mass of teeth and claws tumbling down to the kitchen floor.
Some climb up on top of the refrigerator, kicking at the smooth casing for grip. Others run out of the sink onto the countertop, knocking over the coffee maker and mugs set there the night before in anticipation of the next morning’s breakfast. One makes its way to the oven, climbing over the back, twisting the dials with its back legs, turning the temperature up to 421 degrees.
“This is what Hell must sound like.” Her eardrums pound with a destructive, unnatural beat filled with so much vehemence and ferocity that she can barely will her legs to walk. She runs around the corner into the living room, grabbing Abram’s hand along the way. He runs for the stairs, but she pulls him toward the front door instead.
“This way!” she screams over the horrific hippodrome rhythm. “If we go upstairs, we’ll be trapped.”
“What if they’re out front too?” His question comes one second too late. Emily has already turned the doorknob and started opening the door.
She laughs with relief, seeing none of the animals bearing down on them when they step outside onto the lawn. Her smile fades immediately upon looking back into Abram’s eyes. He puts his hand on her shoulder and rips her back into the house, slamming the door as soon as she is clear. He turns both locks and peers through the peephole, breathing hard and fast.
