Keeping Molly

by Hayes, David C.

  “Molly! No!” Alan screamed, but she didn’t hear him or, if she did, she didn’t care.

  Monty went down on one knee, then the other. Molly had nearly finished off his left shoulder and was starting on the right when Monty finally gave up and lurched backwards.

  Alan went back to the door handle and finally got it open, but it was too late.

  Molly held Monty’s head in her hands like a vice and bit into his throat. She pulled back and with a sound like rubber tearing, blood sprayed the patio and stereo. She gulped the piece of Monty down without even chewing.

  As she tore away another hunk of Monty’s neck, Alan dove and tackled her. It was a difficult, but he managed to pry Molly away. Monty didn’t move. Blood poured from his open wound.

  Alan struggled to hold Molly down, surprised at how strong she was… especially for being so ill. Alan rolled on the ground with her, unable to pin her arms. Molly bit at him, but Alan was able to dodge her successfully enough. Alan finally managed to pin her down on her stomach, wrapping her up from behind. She struggled, but he did his best to hang on.

  As the Monty in her stomach quelled the hunger, Molly calmed down. Her breathing slowed, and her eyes began to clear. She blinked rapidly, clearing some kind of fog.

  “I’m all right,” she said as she stopped struggling. Alan refused to loosen his grip. He wouldn’t budge. “I’m all right!” she said again, loudly this time.

  “Are you sure?” He asked.

  Molly remained quiet and completely relaxed her body. Slowly and cautiously, Alan began to loosen his grip. Finally feeling safe, he let her go and got to his feet. Molly slowly rose, stumbling at first. She looked over at Monty.

  “Oh my God,” she said quietly. Alan stepped in between Monty and Molly, blocking her view.

  “You’ve got to get inside, baby,” he said. Molly tried to look around Alan, but he kept blocking her view. Finally, she grabbed him by the shoulders and looked past him at Monty. What was left of her neighbor looked like road kill.

  “Oh my God… Oh my God…”

  Alan grabbed her by the shoulders and forced Molly to look him in the eyes.

  “You’re sick and you have to get back inside,” he said.

  Molly looked back at Monty’s corpse and she saw the blood streaming toward the pool. Like the Mr. Peepers incident, her eyes rolled backward and she collapsed. Alan caught her, preventing her head from smacking against the concrete. Exhausted, and with some struggle, he managed to pick her up and moved toward the house.

  Alan opened the French doors and carried Molly in and gently laid her down on the bed. Alan studied her as his eyes glassed over with tears. He dropped to his knees. Alan laid his head on Molly and cried.

  It took a few moments, but Alan managed to pull himself together. He sniffled, wiped his nose on a sleeve and took a deep, calming breath. Alan turned toward the French doors. He had relegated himself to the task at hand.

  Alan stood over the remnants of Monty. He looked the hefty man over and contemplated what came next. Alan had seen his share of movies and, after the news broadcasts, he had the sneaking suspicion that there were quite a few people contemplating the very same issues right now. He nodded his head, the decision made, and grabbed Monty’s hands. Alan pulled him toward a grassy area. Monty’s head lolled back, exposing the large open wounds. Alan fought back retching long enough to Monty’s massive girth onto the grass. Upon arrival, he let Monty drop.

  As was still breathing heavily from the exertion as he walked toward the small tool shed. He reached the door of the shed and dug into the pocket for his keys. Finding the right one quickly, Alan inserted the key and the lock turned it and walked into the shed. Alan switched the light on and scanned the small room.

  The shed was longer than typical, and had a small garage type door at one end. It was dusty and dirty with tools and pool supplies scattered about. Alan looked through the room, and settled on a shovel. Leaving the shed he locked the door¸ more through habit than security, and headed for the grassy area..

  Alan stood over Monty’s corpse, again. He looked the body over, contemplating the proper way to tackle the situation but his mind blanked, he just stared. There, really, was only one way to get this done, Alan thought, and that’s to start at the top and work my way down. After taking a beat, Alan lifted the shovel and brought it down hard, burying the shovel in Monty’s neck. Alan took one foot and stepped on the shovel, like he was planting sod, and pushed the shovel the rest of the way through, severing Monty’s spinal cord..

  Alan took a step back, realizing the job ahead. He was torn up about it, confused by the situation, but completely aware of what he must do. He looked back toward the house and vowed, then and there, that no one would take Molly from him. Even if this was going on all over, how could the police understand? No, this had to be done.

  With another sigh, he lifted the shovel up again, this time dropping it near Monty’s right shoulder. With a few hacks, the severed the right arm rolled to the side. Without the benefit of a properly working heart, blood simply oozed from Monty’s body and into the grass. Alan made a mental note to hose it down once he was finished.

  He worked his way around each limb. The legs took quite a few more jabs than the arm but Alan worked as quickly and efficiently as he could to dismember Monty and dismantle the torso. Hacking, chopping, separating. Monty was soon dissected into as many little bits as Alan could muster. Alan stopped to survey the damage that he had done. He laid the shovel down and headed for the house, it was time for phase two. Alan returned with a handful of garbage bags. He unfolded one, grabbed it by the edges, and shook it out to open. He choked up on the handle of the shovel and bent to the mess. One scoop at a time, Monty was disposed of.

  10

  The front door startled Alan as it slammed. He shoveled the last chunks of Monty into the final garbage bag, dropped the shovel, and pulled the drawstrings on the bag tight when he heard singing.

  George was back, and he was drunk.

  “I’m home!” George yelled, half singing.

  Alan looked back at the house, eyes wide. He panicked and quickly gathered up the trash bags. Tugging with all his might, he dragged them toward the back gate.

  “I said, I’m home!” George stood in the foyer, wobbling. He looked around for a moment, taking it all in. When he received no response to his arrival, he shrugged and stumbled off into the kitchen.

  Alan managed to lug the bags to the back gate. Shaking, he dug for his keys and fumbled with the lock. He looked back forth, between the house and his keys and the gate, to make sure that George didn’t come outside. Finally! The gate swung open. Alan lifted the bags as high up as he could, which wasn’t more than a couple of inches from the ground. He could only imagine dragging the plastic bags on the ground and having them tear open. All Alan needed was Monty’s head to roll out and stare at him… or George. Alan struggled to the dumpster, used the side of the stinking thing to roll the heavy, Monty-filled bag up and in started immediately on the next one.

  George had staggered into the kitchen and, using all his available faculties, managed to snag a fresh beer from the fridge. The act of opening the pop top, though, proved to be too much as he lost his balance and fell backward on his butt, smacking into the cabinet. Miraculously, he managed to save his beer, which he triumphantly holds in the air as though he were showing a crowd what he had achieved.

  “Gotcha!” George said. He puts the beer to his lips, and, in about six gulps, demolished the whole thing. He belched, which echoed through the kitchen, before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He flung the can aside, and giggled at the sound it made when it rattled along the floor. He reached up and grabbed onto the counter, pulling himself to his feet.

  Then, a flash of recognition. Molly was sick. What kind of daddy would he be if he didn’t go in and check on her? George decided to head down the hallway to see his daughter, positive all she needed was a visit from him. He stumbled slowly, bumping into the
walls and using them to brace himself.

  “Baby girl! Daddy’s home,” he said loudly, although George would have sworn he was whispering. “Gotta check on you ‘cause Mama Bird said so.”

  George fell into the bedroom door with a thud. He grabbed onto the doorknob, steadied himself, and flung the door open.

  “Molly Moo… Hey, member we used to call you that…” George took two unsteady steps into the room, the darkness engulfed him. He squinted as he wobbled, as though it would help him see through the darkness. “Molly? It’s your pop…” The darkness only added to the effects of God knows how many pitchers of cheap beer.

  From out of the pitch, George heard a low, rumbling growl. He smiled and pointed into the darkness. “Ha! Animal sounds like your little girl again! Must be feeling better.”

  At long last and breathing heavily, Alan slammed the lid of the dumpster down. He stood at the gate, calmly snapping the padlock closed, and looked toward the house. Free and clear. He took a deep breath and sighed. Nobody saw me, he thought, especially George. Alan looked around to make sure there were no lights on him. None. It was going to be okay. Alan only took two steps toward the house when the night erupted in a scream. Alan’s first concern was for Molly and he sprinted toward the patio door.

  He burst into the house and looked around for George, only a lonely beer can and an open fridge door indicated anyone had been here. Another scream cut through the house, from the bedroom, but was cut off abruptly. Alan moved down the hallway to the bedroom door, despite himself all he could think of is where he put that damn shovel. Even before Alan heard the chomping, chewing and slurping, he knew he would need it.

  Alan closed his eyes for a moment before taking a step into the room. He reached over and flicked on the light and immediately regretted that decision.

  Molly was completely consumed by the disease. He skin nearly radiated that sickly yellow. Where her skin was visible, that is. She was covered in her father’s blood. Molly looked up, feral eyes boring holes in Alan, and stepped over the mangled corpse of George protectively, not allowing something else to get at her food. She bobbed in, again and again, tearing pieces of her father away and slurping them down but never took her eyes off of Alan. The animal in her didn’t trust him.

  Unable to cope with the events of the past evening, Alan chose to do nothing. Shaking, he shut the light off and backed out of the room. He gently shut the door behind him, closing the latch with a soft click.

  Alan walked into the kitchen, sullen and confused. On his way, he noticed a small photo album that sat on the end table near the couch. He picked it up and flipped through the pages. Walking to the fridge, Alan pulled out a beer and went back to the kitchen table and sat down, never taking his eyes off the book.

  He turned each page of the album slowly, studying each happy memory with his fingertips. His stomach pitched as he turned each page. He stopped on a photo he took with Molly back in college. He smiled faintly as he rubbed his forehead where his hairline used to be not so long ago. He flipped are a few more pages until he reached a photo of Molly, pregnant and painting the baby’s room. Alan’s little smile disappeared. He turned and faced the bedroom, knowing full well what was probably going on in there. He also knew that it couldn’t go on like this. Alan stood and slammed the photo book shut. He took one more swig off the can and, set it down and headed down the hall.

  Alan leaned his ear up against the bedroom door. It was quiet and that sent a chill down his back. Alan braced himself as he grabbed the door handle and opened the door, inch by inch. He stepped in and flipped the light back on.

  As expected, George’s body was decimated. There was little left of him. Nestled around the picked over body, Molly was curled up sleeping. She panted quickly in her sleep, like an animal. Alan looked closely to see that she was cradling a piece of what used to be her father’s hand.

  Alan stepped carefully around her and walked over to the bed. He peeled all of the bedding off very carefully and slowly, doing his best to not to wake Molly up.

  Alan walked outside to the toolshed with the bedding. He unlocked it the small room and tossed the linen in. He paused at the door of the shed to shake off what he had just seen and was vaguely aware of how much better he was processing this than Monty.

  He walked back into the bedroom through the French doors and approached Molly. He crouched down and stroked her hair.

  “Molly,” he said softly, “Gotta get up, honey.”

  Molly rolled over, revealing just how horribly the disease had affected her. Alan was absolutely shocked that the change in his wife.

  Molly opened her eyes. They were yellow, but softer, not nearly as primal. She looked up at Alan.

  “Don’t feel good,” she mumbled.

  Alan smiled and said, “I know. Gotta move.”

  Molly tried to turn her head back toward George, but Alan moved quickly to block her view. He kept her oblivious of her father. Alan struggled to get her to her feet, it was as if Molly moved in slow motion.

  “Real hungry,” she said.

  Alan nearly lost it there. He couldn’t believe it, after all she had eaten. “I know, babe. We’re gonna take care of that,” he said.

  Molly burrowed her head into Alan’s chest as he hugged her tightly and they walked through the French doors. “Love you,” she said.

  Alan walked Molly into the tool shed. He gently laid her down onto the bedding, and she settled right in.

  Molly clutched at her stomach, the grumbling pangs of her obviously heightened metabolism audible. “Have to eat,” she muttered.

  “Soon,” Alan said as he backed up out of the door. Molly’s eyes closed and Alan saw his opportunity. He closed the door and locked it behind him.

  Alan walked back into the bedroom through the French doors and assessed the situation with George. He placed George’s severed parts on top of his torso and grabbed the still-connected arms, dragging George toward and through the French doors. He left a thick blood trail behind him, as if he were pulling a freshly-used painters tarp through the room. Alan had to stop frequently to pick the pieces of George up and replace them on the torso. This wasn’t an exact science.

  Alan managed to get George over to the same area where he… processed Monty and noted, grimly, that George would be far less work. He picked up the shovel and raised it up over his head as before. Before he could begin, screaming and banging from inside the shed stopped Alan mid-chop. He lowered the shovel and listened. Molly raged in the shed, consumed by the hunger again. Alan looked from George to the shed and back again and finally had to ignore Molly. He raised the shovel again, and brought it down hard enough to sever George’s head in a single chop.

  Alan continued chopping and dicing up George’s body even as he heard the sounds of sirens, lots of them, up and down the street and in the distance. A helicopter patrolled overhead and Alan thought that this may just be the end. The end of it all. He smiled, happy in the fact that he didn’t send Molly to some medical unit or a camp or something. He could only imagine what was going on outside, in the world.

  Molly’s moaning and screaming got louder and the banging increased from inside the shed. Alan picked up a garbage bag that was left over from Monty. Ignoring the sirens, the occasional scream floating down from somewhere else in the neighborhood, the ever-present helicopter and Molly’s rage, he shoveled George’s remains into the back. There was significantly less than he had to deal with before. Molly had completely ravaged George’s body and all that remained fit into two bags. He tied up the bags and dragged them toward the back gate. Molly’s tantrum did not abate and Alan did not pause for a moment as he disposed of George.

  Alan swung the gate open and stepped into the alley as before, but shadows moved in the darkness. Maybe paying more attention to the sirens and helicopters would have been prudent. Suddenly, Alan was illuminated by an overhead light. A helicopter was directly overhead, and the wind from its blades blew the area around Alan, garbage and dirt swi
rling in the air. He wanted to run for a moment, but only a moment. He had a plan and that plan had nothing to do with these people. By the time they got here, everything would be just fine. Alan looked up for a moment, unconcerned, and returned to the task at hand. The helicopter seemed equally unconcerned about Alan, as it hovered over him for only a moment, and moved on. Alan shrugged. Fine, that was even easier. He walked back into his yard and closed the gate behind him.

  ***

  Alan sat in the kitchen drinking a beer. He wanted everything to be perfect and that took time. Most of all, he needed to relax and prepare himself mentally. He had never turned the television off in the living room, and wouldn’t car if it stayed on forever. On the screen, a car commercial ended and the national newsfeed returned to the television. Anchorperson Joyce Waterman was back at the desk with a woman who looked exhausted.

  “Dr. Hufu, thank you for taking time out to speak with us.”

  Dr. Hufu nodded, “Thank you for having me.”

  “Let's get straight to the point,” Waterman said bluntly, “How bad is it?”

  Hufu took a deep breath. “From what we are seeing now, there has been nothing like this before.”

  “What about the idea that this is a derivative of mad cow disease?” Waterman asked. Hufu smiled politely and responded, “If it were only that simple. Yes, this is similar to the bovine spongiform encephalitis, but this is much more virulent. We are still forming patterns with this, but, VT-3 is actually causing massive, consuming cravings for L-cysteine protein. Any muscle tissue has this protein and, conversely, the human hair used to make the supplemental L-cysteine might have been infected.”

  Waterman barely kept her composure as she continued the line of questions. “This is disconcerting to say the least, but how can a company ethically use human tissue to make a food stuff?”