His forefinger scraped across the buttons; a ragged digit with a yellowing bone popping from its end like an old screw. It made tiny hollow clicking sounds as it tracked against hard plastic.
Past the channels.
Click. Click.
The settings.
Click. Clink.
Over the volume control.
Click.
Right to the top left corner of the controller.
“That’s it, Ed.”
Ed’s finger hovered over the on/off button. The button. But Mom was coming down fast behind us.
He had to this now. If she interfered, he would lose his handle on life, reverting in a split second to a piece of driftwood on the couch. I knew it, just as I knew that, for the first time since he’d turned, Ed was not truly dead.
The last of the wooden steps croaked out their warnings behind us. Ed’s finger hovered like flying saucer over the power button. A piece of his ear, already hanging on disintegrating string of ligament, snapped and fell, landing on the coffee table with a wet plop.
“Do it,” I said. “Come on, Ed.”
“Ed?” My mother called from the foot of the stairs. Her hair was a panicked hive screaming from her head in all dir-ections. “What are you doing?”
“Come on,” I snapped. “One more step.”
“Ed!” my mother cried.
Ed’s eyes flicked from me, to the sound of my mother, and back again. Aware.
“Come on…”
“God damn it, YOU GET AWAY FROM MY BOY!”
CLICK.
The images on the screen were sucked out of existence. One second a Dodge truck (built Dodge tough!) was motoring through Rocky Mountain wilderness, the next there was nothing but forty-six inches of inky black staring at us from the living room wall. The room’s dim lighting was now solely supplied by the glow of streetlights filtered by the drapes.
“Damn it!” my mother snapped. “You know your brother was watching that, right?”
“Not anymore.”
“Well why’d you have to turn it off?”
“I didn’t.”
Mom stared at Ed like he had finally become something monstrous. His finger was still jammed down on the button, as if making sure the TV was not just off, but would never turn on again.
Mom’s face twisted with unpleasant, indignant disbelief. “But…but that’s not right.” She cinched the belt of her fuzzy pink housecoat around her waist, hands shot through with the shakes.
Ed moaned then—a loud unfamiliar bark of a moan, and Mom took a jerking step back towards the stairs. This was not routine. This was not part of the plan. Her arms snapped across her chest, and her hands squeezed at her elbows as if they were a pair of stress balls.
“You see?” she said, her voice cracking. “He’s upset. He needs his shows.”
“I don’t think so.”
Ed moaned again, but it was more impatient than angry. His finger stabbed at the TV, and I finally noticed the edge of what sat forgotten on one side of the stand—the old MacBook. For the first time since he’d turned, I could really imagine Ed’s voice speaking from the slack face in front of me. Come on douche-bag. I don’t have all day.
“I know you don’t, Ed,” I smiled, and handed him the laptop.
I knew I’d have to wait awhile, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t wait to read what he was going to write.
A. Garrison is a twenty-seven-year-old man living in the mountains of North Carolina, writing and landscaping. His work has recently appeared in various zines, anthologies, and web journals. His website is http://synchroshock.blogspot.com.
When we think of gifts, many ideas come to mind. In receiving gifts, perhaps we imagine a dozen roses or a piece of jewelry or a simple date night; maybe we imagine tickets to the big game or a ratcheting screwdriver set. In giving gifts, we consider, “What do they want?” or, “Can I afford that new camera he showed me in the catalog?” or, “How much do I like this person?” Sometimes, if the recipient is an important part of our lives, we sacrifice that daily designer cup of coffee for home-brewed or pass on that just released video game in order to upgrade what we could originally afford. But we usually want our gifts to be perceived as something unique and thoughtful. The same thing goes for receiving gifts; we want the unique and thoughtful. In the upcoming story, Aaron Garrison presents us with the gift of his unique and thoughtful tale.
The Gift
By: Aaron Garrison
Standing on the high school’s sun-hot roof, Will looked warily over the ledge. It was a long way down, three stories plus an embankment, with a jagged palisade of rocks waiting at the bottom; he wouldn’t be too happy if he fell, would probably die. Which wouldn’t be so bad, of course...but then that would leave Brenda, alone. He steadied.
“Careful, Will,” she said from beside him. “Easy does it.” She chewed her lip, showing a glint of braces.
Will aligned with the open window and took to the ledge, his back to the drop. Doing a reverse push-up, he gymnastically lowered himself onto the window’s lip, securing first one sneaker, then the second. From there, he meticulously ducked through the yawning window. The room was dark, and wonderfully empty.
“I’m in,” he called to Brenda. She said something, but he couldn’t make it out due to the earplugs.
Will studied the gloomy classroom. The far wall was consumed by two blank marker boards, below them, the teacher’s desk. A broad phalanx of smaller desks dominated the room, eerily unoccupied. It was one of the science rooms, but not chemistry. He needed chemistry. He cursed, but he couldn’t really complain; he was lucky to have found an open window at all, much less one in the science wing. He’d just have to go in the hallway and find chemistry. That was all.
Before he left, Will scrounged for anything that could serve as a weapon, however crude, but there was nothing, not even a textbook. He cursed again, looking hesitantly toward the door. His heart raged in his chest, loud in his ears—again thanks to the earplugs. They’d been Brenda’s idea, and though purely aesthetic in nature, they were worth it. As to why she’d been carting around cotton swabs in her purse, he could only guess.
Will snuck to the windowless door and pressed his ear against it. He heard nothing, then remembered: earplugs. He was tempted to just pull them out and deal with the mess, but he didn’t want to impose that on Brenda. The whole trip was for her sake, after all.
He cracked the door a cautious few inches, and the hall beyond was pitch black. There were no windows in the hallway, and the power was still out—not that he expected it to come back on. No, electricity was in the past, like bellbottoms and nickel milk. He fished his pocket, pulled out a keyring, and snapped on his penlight, carving a little toenail-colored circle in the black. He cut it left and right, and the coast appeared clear, though the hall elbowed just to his right, limiting his view. He considered popping his earplugs for just a second or two, long enough to ascertain any movement from deeper in the hall, but that would send the putrid slime-stuff coursing out, so he just chanced it and broke from the science room, deaf.
There was a panicky moment when, disoriented from his unorthodox entry and the darkness, he couldn’t place himself in the building. Then he got his bearings and started left. Chemistry was only one door down. He tiptoed.
The door opened to a room identical in construction to the first, except with a dozen lab carrels lining the walls, each outfitted with a gooseneck faucet and chemistry paraphernalia. The room faced east, so it was considerably darker than the last, the sun in the west. He’d never known the school to be anything but ubiquitously lit, and now, in the new gloom, the chemistry room assumed a whole different attitude, forbidding, haunted, a place of madmen. Easing the door reverently closed, he fanned the light over the room, and it appeared empty—of them, at least. These desks offered various things, books and pens and coats; apparently class had been in session when everything went to hell. The hanging cabinet in the corner looked in order, its punitive skull-and-crossbone
s staring back at Will as he touched it with the penlight.
Still walking on eggshells, he navigated to the teacher’s desk -- Mr. Murray’s, in this case—and opened the pencil tray. There was a screaming second when he didn’t see the key, and then it came under his light, gleaming. He snatched it and proceeded to the hazard cabinet, stealing a quick look over his shoulder—the door remained closed. He wished he could lock it.
The cabinet opened to the expected shelves of chemicals, all the acids, and other no-no substances the state felt needed to be under lock and key. After frantically parsing the rows of glass, Will selected a small liquid-filled bottle, stashed it safely in his pocket, and made for the door. It remained closed, and he looked to be home free. Then something caught his eye from across the room: a brown paper sack, sitting over the very last desk. Its bulging sides described a sandwich.
Will’s stomach roared. It was going on six o’clock, and with lunch so disastrously cancelled, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He froze by Mr. Murray’s uncluttered desk, training his wee flashlight between the door and the sack. Now that he had what he’d come for, there was a criminal sense of urgency, his bowels nervous, his throat tight...but he was still so hungry, as was Brenda, probably. He thought it over for another couple seconds, long enough to have gotten it and been out by now, and at last took the few steps to the back row of desks and claimed the sack. It was soft, gravid, a little greasy. His stomach leapt.
He twirled back to the door, intent on at last rendezvousing with Brenda on the roof, and then stopped dead: a dark manshape crowded the open doorway. The sight sent Will into a split-second shock—why hadn’t he heard the door open?
Then he once more remembered: earplugs.
The guy in the door made no reaction to Will’s movement. He just loitered in the jamb, swaying clumsily to some unheard music. Will experimentally trained his light on him, and the guy remained inert. He wore a blue and yellow lettermen’s jacket, unzipped to reveal a white tee-shirt bibbed with yellow liquid. Disgusting streams of fluid wept from his ears, pooling in his clavicles and feeding into his shirt. Will could smell the fetor from across the room, a musk of bad eggs and sauerkraut. It reminded him why he’d put the earplugs in.
The guy took one queered step inside, arms flaccidly at his sides as though carrying invisible baggage, and Will jumped back—not because of the guy’s advance, but because Will recognized him. It was Terry Bowls, varsity football. They’d played together last season, knew each other on a nodding basis. Of course, it wasn’t Terry anymore. Will had to remind himself of that.
The not-Terry took another step, clearing the doorway. His shoulder barked the door and he staggered bonelessly, like a sick animal: dead yellow eyes behind half-masedt lids, mouth lolling stupidly. His skin showed a metallic discoloration, like flecked paint in the sun. No, not Terry anymore.
Will froze, as if confronted by a wild animal—which wasn’t too far off, he supposed. He stole a look around, hunting any species of weapon. There were some pencils and pens—worthless. Some books—getting warmer. Then, on the nearest chemistry carrel, a foot-tall glass flask. Bingo.
Will and the thing that was once Terry stared each other down, Will frozen amongst the desks and Terry just inside the door, doing his sedate dance within the tiny O of light. Will though to tell Terry to stay away, and had to stifle a laugh—he might as well hold his hands to a wrecking ball.
Then everything happened at once: Terry’s nostrils flex-ed twice—first only partially, then opening wide, like a man scenting his morning coffee—and in a sick burst of energy he charged Will, arms in a strangler’s pose. Will exchanged the sandwich for the flask, then unlimbered it at his side, waiting, a batter expecting a pitch. The flask was assuringly heavy, the glass thick and dense.
Feet from Will, Terry’s mouth dropped into a hungry grimace, the teeth foul, the stink a living thing. He was probably moaning, but Will didn’t hear, from the earplugs—they all moaned, from what he could remember. Then Terry was in spitting distance and Will swung, connecting with the ghoul’s unyielding skull.
Terry spun wildly, shifting away from Will as though meeting a wall. However, he rebounded with frightening resilience, inches from Will, seen only fitfully in the broken light. Will answered with another brutal swing, returning Terry to the floor, and the flask was suddenly lighter: the cellar had shattered, leaving an incised tube. Will held it to the light, dark blood dripping from its toothy at its end.
And still Terry moved. Seemingly unfazed, he lurched snakelike over the floor, for Will’s feet, that terrible mouth open and ready. Equally fast, Will punted him away, no different than a football, a pulpy thud in the arch of his foot. Terry’s head flew truculently backward, a head-banger on the upswing, and a sick spray of ear-fluid splattered the immediate area. The stuff puttied to the floor, thick like mucus, unmoving from its landing spot. Terry ended up on his back, sprawled in an unhorsed T, and Will seized the opportunity.
Dual-wielding the broken flask and the penlight, he pounced on the supine Terry, planting his knees over the filthy shoulders. Terry at once started squirming, devilishly strong, but Will, at a solid two-twenty-five, wasn’t going anywhere. Without forethought, he flipped the flask sharp-edge-down and, with a wide, savage arc, stabbed Terry’s head, Norman Bates-style. There was a sickening sense of give, too much to have been anything but an eye-socket, and Will drove it as far as it would go, nearly to the hilt, thinking only of Brenda, Brenda, Brenda. Will felt a torrent of warmth down his front, and Terry stopped squirming.
Will went momentarily blank, awash with disbelief—he’d just killed Terry, Terry Bowls, the tight end; stabbed him in the eye with a lab flask, oh my God. He shot upright, reclaimed the paper sack without knowing what he was doing, and sprinted for the open door. Once in the hall, however, he stopped again, sneakers shrieking: a crowd of undulate bodies converged on the chemistry room, their incandescent eyes fixed on Will. He nearly vapor-locked from sheer surprise, but instead, just bulled the short distance to the other room and slipped inside, slamming the door at his back. He screeched a desk in front of it, but it wasn’t much.
He had to slow down after mounting the window. One wrong move and he’d be a stain on the rocks. Half outside, he first hooked the sandwich bag onto the roof, garnering an exclamation from Brenda. He then pocketed his penlight and started up, taking mincing steps onto the ledge and slowly standing. He caught one final glimpse of the room before going completely upright, and the desk was already pushed aside, dark arms germinating through the door.
It didn’t matter, though; there’d be no going back inside. He had Brenda’s gift.
***
After clambering onto the roof, Will collapsed against the ledge, panting. He’d been running on adrenaline, but now the faucet was closing, and he felt he could sleep for a day. The infection probably had a hand in this, too; he’d been abnormally sleepy the last couple hours.
Brenda dropped spryly beside him. “You okay?” she asked, then repeated herself twice, gaining octaves. She put a hand on his knee, but there was a reservation in this, mirrored by the revulsion on her face, and Will soon understood: he was dressed in blood, broad sprays crisscrossing his legs and torso, along with some of that vile snotlike gunk that had been leaking from Terry’s ears.
“Yeah,” Will huffed, “I’m fine. It’s not my blood.”
Brenda nodded, though she looked no more relaxed, her lush brown eyes wide and searching. There was some anger there, too, Will saw, which was understandable; he had yet to explain his deadly trip inside. Wild tufts of cotton poked from her too-cute ears, looking absurd, like a smile on a corpse.
She waited a politic minute, then asked, “Now, why the hell’d you just go back in there?”
Will shook his head, sending heavy tears of sweat to the roof. “Not yet,” he said, still breathing hard. “Let’s eat first.”
Eat. It registered over her whole body. “Eat?”
Will nodded to the
crumpled paper bag lying nearby. “Yeah. There’s a sandwich or something. Go nuts.”
Brenda wasted no time. She fetched the bag back to Will and sat airily beside him, tearing into it like a Christmas present. Inside was a thick tuna sandwich swaddled in a greasy napkin; heavy on the onion from the smell of things. It was cut conveniently in half, and Brenda offered him one. He almost declined, but he was hungry. And it wasn’t like she needed food any more than he.
They sat for a while, munching greedily, and then a peal of gunshots sounded in the distance, from town. Both turned to the commotion, then slowly returned to their meager meal. There was nothing to see.
“Please don’t tell me you went in there for a sandwich,” she said, when her share was half gone. “I wasn’t that hungry.”
Will shook his head. “No, not for a sandwich.”
She looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing more.
After polishing off her last bite, she said, “I guess it’s still...bad in there?”
Will said yes, despite the answer lying splattered over his person. “No improvement,” he added solemnly, and Brenda looked away.
There was a long, despairing pause, then Will said, “I saw Terry Bowls.” He instantly regretted mentioning Terry. He thought of that nauseating stab, Terry going abruptly still, an appliance turned off.
“Terry Bowls...” Brenda said meditatively. “Football player?”
Will nodded.
“Yeah, I remember him,” she said, and let the subject fall.
Another silence spun out, and Will stood and leaned against the parapet, overlooking a cut in the surrounding woods. Shepsville High was situated atop a promontory at the edge of town, commanding a view of the entire west side. Will could make out two unfriendly columns of smoke in the distance, tinted orange by the westering sun, along with some Matchbox-looking cars clogging the roads. There was some more gunfire, followed by a bassy thud that could be a small bomb. Just twelve hours ago he’d been down there, inhabiting another world.
Chivalry Is Dead Page 18
