Nightmare Magazine Issue 21

by Nightmare Magazine

  “No.” She grabbed my hand, holding on with surprising force. “I want to see Rachel.”

  The doctor looked at me, apparently expecting support. I shook my head. “I told her she could stay home if she wanted to.” Although not in the house, dear God, not in the house; not when mold could grow on a ceramic bowl that had already been bleached and boiled. We’d have to burn the place to the ground before I’d be willing to go back there, and even then, I would probably have avoided contact with the ashes. “She said she wanted to see her mother, and I try to accommodate her wishes.”

  The doctor hesitated again, taking in the obvious physical similarities between Nikki and I, and comparing them to dark-skinned, dark-haired Rachel, who couldn’t have looked less like Nikki’s biological mother if she’d tried. Family is a complicated thing. Finally, he said, “I don’t want to discuss Ms. Riley’s condition in public. If you would please come with me . . . ?”

  We went with him. For once, I didn’t feel like the people still waiting were watching with envy as I walked away: they had to know what it meant when someone arrived and was seen this quickly. Nothing good ever got you past the gatekeeper in less than half an hour.

  The air on the other side of the door was even cooler, and even cleaner. The doctor walked us over to a small waiting area, guiding Nikki to a seat before pulling me a few feet away. Neither of us argued. We were both in shock, to some degree, and cooperation seemed easier than the alternative.

  Voice low, he said, “Ms. Riley’s condition is complicated. We have been unable to isolate the fungal infection. To be honest, we’ve never seen anything this virulent outside of laboratory conditions. We’ve managed to stabilize her, and she’s not in much pain, but the fungus has devoured the majority of her left arm, and patches are beginning to appear elsewhere on her body. Barring a miracle, I am afraid that we will have no good news for you here.”

  I stared at him. “Say that again.”

  Dr. Oshiro visibly quailed. “Ms. Riley . . .”

  “Outside of lab conditions, you said. Is this the sort of thing you’ve seen inside lab conditions?”

  He hesitated before saying, “Not this, exactly, but there have been some more virulent strains of candida—the fungus responsible for yeast infections—that have been recorded as behaving in a similar manner under the right conditions. They had all been modified for specific purposes, of course. They didn’t just happen.”

  “No,” I said numbly. “Things like this don’t just happen. Excuse me. Is there somewhere around here where I can go to make a phone call?”

  “The nurse’s station—”

  “Thank you.” And I turned and walked away, ignoring Nikki’s small, confused call of “Mom?” at my receding back.

  I just kept walking.

  • • • •

  The phone at the lab rang and rang; no one answered. I hung up and dialed again: Henry’s home number. He picked up on the second ring, sounding groggy and confused. “Hello?”

  “What did you do?” I struggled to make the question sound mild, even conversational, like it wasn’t the end of the world waiting to happen.

  “Megan?” Henry was waking up rapidly. Good. I needed him awake. “What are you talking about?”

  “What did you do?” All efforts at mildness were gone, abandoned as fast as I had adopted them. “How much fruit is Johnny’s orchard producing? Where have you been sending it?”

  And then, to my dismay and rage, Henry laughed. “Oh my God, is that what this is about? You figured it out, and now you want to yell at me for breaking some lab protocol? It can wait until morning.”

  “No it can’t.”

  Henry wasn’t my teenage daughter: he’d never heard me use that tone before. He went silent, although I could still hear him breathing.

  “What did you do? How did you slip her the fruit?” I was a fool. I should have realized as soon as I saw the mold . . . but maybe I hadn’t wanted to, on some level. I’d already known that it was too late.

  God help me, I’d wanted my last perfect night.

  “Maria from reception. We had her meet your wife in the parking lot and say she’d bought too many peaches. It was going to get you to come around to our way of thinking, but Megan, the fruit is safe, I promise you—”

  “Have there been any issues with contamination of the samples? Mold or fungus or anything like that?”

  There was a long pause before Henry said, “That’s classified.”

  “What kind of mold, Henry?”

  “That’s classified.”

  “How fast does it grow?”

  “Megan—”

  “Does it grow on living flesh?”

  Silence. Then, in a small, strained voice, Henry said, “Oh, God.”

  “Did it get out? Did something get loose in the orchard? Who decided testing genetically engineered food on human subjects was a good idea? No, wait, don’t tell me, because I don’t care. How do I kill it, Henry? You made it. How do I kill it?”

  “It’s a strain of Rhizopus nigricans—bread mold,” said Henry. “We’ve been trying to eliminate it for weeks. I . . . we thought we had it under control. We didn’t tell you because we thought we had it under control. We didn’t want to trigger one of your episodes.”

  “How kind of you,” I said flatly. “How do I kill it?”

  His voice was even smaller when he replied, “Fire. Nothing else we’ve found does any good.”

  “No anti-fungals? No poisons? Nothing?”

  He was silent. I closed my eyes.

  “Who decided to give it to my wife?”

  “I did.” His voice was so small I could barely hear it. “Megan, I—”

  “You’ve killed her. You’ve killed my wife. She’s melting off her own bones. You may have killed us all. Enjoy your pie.” I hung up the phone and opened my eyes, staring bleakly at the wall for a long moment before realizing that the nurses whose station I’d borrowed were staring at me, mingled expressions of horror and confusion on their faces.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said. “Maybe you should go home now. Be with your families.” There wasn’t much else left for them to do. For any of us to do.

  • • • •

  Rachel was in a private room, with a plastic airlock between her and the outside world. “The CDC is on their way,” said Dr. Oshiro, watching me and Nikki. Anything to avoid looking at Rachel. “They should be here within the day.”

  “Good,” I said. It wasn’t going to help. Not unless they were ready to burn this city to the ground. But it would make the doctors feel like they were doing something, and it was best to die feeling like you might still have a chance.

  The bed in Rachel’s room was occupied, but where my wife should have been there was a softly mounded gray thing, devoid of hard lines or distinguishing features. Worst of all, it moved from time to time, shifting just enough that a lock of glossy black hair or a single large brown eye—the right eye, all she had left—would come into view, rising out of the gray like a rumor of the promised land. Nikki’s hand tightened on mine every time that happened, small whimpers that belonged to a much younger child escaping her throat. I couldn’t offer her any real comfort, but I could at least not pull away. It was the only thing I had to give her. I could at least not pull away.

  The doctors moved around the thing that had been Rachel, taking samples, checking displays. They were all wearing protective gear—gloves, booties, breathing masks—but it wasn’t going to be enough. This stuff was manmade and meant to survive under any conditions imaginable. They were dancing in the fire, and they were going to get burnt.

  All the steps I’d taken to keep my family safe. All the food I’d thrown away, the laundry I’d done twice, the midnight trips to the doctor and the visits from the exterminator and the vaccinations and the pleas . . . it had all been for nothing. The agent of our destruction had grown in the lab where I worked, the lab I’d chosen because it let me channel my impulses into something that felt
useful. I hadn’t even known it was coming, because people had been protecting me from it in order to protect themselves from me. This was all my fault.

  Dr. Oshiro was saying something. I wasn’t listening anymore. One of the nurses in Rachel’s room had just turned around, revealing the small patch of gray fuzz growing on the back of his knee. The others would spot it soon. That didn’t matter. The edges told me that it had grown outward, eating through his scrubs, rather than inward, seeking flesh. The flesh was already infected. The burning had begun.

  “Mom?” Nikki pulled against my hand, and I realized I was walking away, pulling her with me, away from this house of horrors, toward the outside world, where maybe—if we were quick, if we were careful—we still stood a chance of getting out alive. Nikki was all I had left to worry about.

  Rachel, I’m sorry, I thought, and broke into a run.

  © 2014 by Seanan McGuire.

  Originally published in The End is Nigh,

  edited by John Joseph Adams and Hugh Howey.

  Reprinted by permission of the author.

  To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight.

  Seanan McGuire was born and raised in Northern California, resulting in a love of rattlesnakes and an absolute terror of weather. She shares a crumbling old farmhouse with a variety of cats, far too many books, and enough horror movies to be considered a problem. Seanan publishes about three books a year, and is widely rumored not to actually sleep. When bored, Seanan tends to wander into swamps and cornfields, which has not yet managed to get her killed (although not for lack of trying). She also writes as Mira Grant, filling the role of her own evil twin, and tends to talk about horrible diseases at the dinner table.

  DON’T GO

  Łukasz Orbitowski

  (translated by Agata Napiórska)

  One

  —Don’t go—she said. Leaning on the door frame as if she was about to fall down. I understood that she was worrying about me. She could’ve stopped me, but she didn’t. Only the words: “Don’t go.” A lump in her throat, no strength to say more than this. And I left her standing there in her white t-shirt and washed-out jeans. This is how I remember her in that moment.

  Two

  I can’t say that girls are any easier now. I think we were just unlucky. Me and Bolo. Other guys already had it covered—sports jocks with deep voices. I don’t know what was wrong with us. Fourteen year old virgins from a small town, trying to get under girls’ bras or between their legs. Maybe we were just trying too hard. We played Nintendo, roamed in the forests, and spanked our monkeys like it was a race.

  For a long time, we paid no attention to Zośka. Maybe it was because we’d always known her. We’d lived in the same neighborhood all our lives. She was much taller than us, and had manly hands with short, stubby fingers. She wore boy’s clothes and was always kicking a ball around and telling mucky jokes. She was massive. Once the roof of a shed collapsed when she stood on it.

  One day everything changed: I noticed her leaving her block in a very short dress. She’d dyed her hair black and wore a new bra. Our mate Zośka had become a woman. The race was on. We followed her around like lap dogs, but she only laughed at us. She was two years older than us, and to her, we were just brats.

  Spring came and the town’s thoughts turned to the disappearance of a young child, his picture covering the streets. The third boy to go missing. But we had something else on our minds. Zośka’s legs, arms, lips—and what she could do with those lips. We took her to the cinema, played games of pool, and we couldn’t wait for the summer so we could swim in the quarry. Zośka in her swimming suit—now that would be something! Bolo asked me to back off, he even begged. He tried to bribe me with ten of his best mixed tapes. I think he really loved her.

  Three

  Our only fear was Mr. Scar. He lived in a big, dilapidated house on the outskirts of Rykusmyk. His shaven sideburns made him look like an old soldier from American movies. He always wore a short denim jacket and dirty shoes covered in mud. He didn’t have a family, and nobody knew his age or if “Scar” was his real name or just a nickname. He barely ever visited our town. He used to drive an old Russian four-by-four, buying gas bottles, sweets, and many fish-hooks. I really don’t know what was wrong with him, but his cold stare could make you feel terrified.

  Mr. Scar had just one eye. He lost the other whilst working in the mine—the screwtop of a mineral water popped into his face. His teeth made him look like a monster, and so people were surprised when he appeared in our local shop with a smile like from an American sitcom. As a gift to Zośka, Bolo promised to steal his new false teeth. I didn’t want to be outdone, so I promised to bring his glass eye. Zośka laughed at us and, as always, didn’t take us seriously. But whilst I was leaving, she finally realized we were pretty serious. “Don’t go”—she said. But I left.

  Four

  Mr. Scar’s house was next to the forest. The ground floor was made of concrete, but the rest of the structure was made of wood. And it had begun to rot. The chimney was falling apart, roof tiles were in disarray and there was no light in the windows. You could get there via an old stony road, but we didn’t want to be noticed, so we chose a way through the surrounding fields. We laid flat on our bellies. Bolo took out some binoculars and scouted ahead, then passed them to me. Seen from a shorter distance, the house seemed even more obscure and abandoned. If it wasn’t for Mr. Scar’s car, we’d have been certain the house was actually abandoned and we had just made up the whole Mr. Scar thing. In that case we could have just gone back home.

  I thought someone like Mr. Scar should have a dog or something. I saw the remains of what looked like a dog house and many random things were just strewn around—rabbit cages, some wooden boards, and old car parts. I looked at Bolo. He was trying hard not to look scared, but I knew he was. I think we both waited for the other to say: “Let’s go home,” but neither of us did. And then it all began.

  If I could say anything about Bolo, it would be that he was an unhappy kid, as was I. We only became friends because there were no better options. Bolo’s shoulders were narrow, his belly was soft, and his legs were crooked. He spoke slowly and was always uptight, like he was constantly defusing a bomb. And I thought he would never be able to manage his life, even if the golden fish appeared to fulfill his dreams. Nowadays he’s a timid shell of a man with two kids and a wife who doesn’t love him and who he doesn’t find attractive.

  I know he keeps thinking about that night, and that he regrets what happened.

  Five

  We crept around the house. Mr. Scar lay in his bed. There were three glasses on his bedside table: one with his glass eye inside, one which contained his false teeth, and one with vodka in it. It was dark and the objects within the room formed dark shapes. Bolo wanted to enter through the door, but I noticed a window was open on the first floor. I helped Bolo to climb inside, and once he was up he pulled me in through the open window. The floor creaked. I looked around at the furniture; it was so old it could probably remember WWII, and all the pictures were of people who had probably died years ago. The room smelled odd, something old, like a mixture of sweat, cheap perfumes, and death. I don’t think Mr. Scar spent much time on the first floor. He probably settled downstairs and didn’t bother venturing upstairs.

  There was a chair and an old wooden rocking chair in the corner. The carpet was full of cigarette burns, and there was a broken coal trolley next to an old oven and many canvas book covers. I was surprised that there was an old typewriter on the heavy table. And a violin without any strings. Next to the wall there were many tools: fishing rods, a couple of axes, and some baskets that smelt of fish. We were careful not to damage anything.

  When we got to the kitchen, there were a couple of buckets on the floor and a table with a plastic tablecover. I kept checking on Bolo and looking around. He walked like an ape, hunched with his arms dangling toward the floor. He was trying to catch the air with his nostrils, and
squinting his eyes as if to hide them from sight.

  If you asked me to recall some memories from that day—apart from the steel door and the knocking we could hear from the other side of the building—it would be the hazy dusk, the horrible smell, and sweets wrappers all over the place.

  I felt like I had discovered Mr. Scar’s weakness. He obviously loved candy: Snickers and white chocolate, but above all, he loved cola-flavored jelly sweets.

  There were piles of jelly sweets wrappers next to a badly burnt oven and a sink full of dirty dishes.

  Standing silently in that fucking dimness, we were able to hear Mr. Scar’s snoring from the other room. We decided it was now or never. Bolo and I were desperate to just snatch what we wanted and run all the way back to Zośka. Bolo went first. Mr. Scar was lying on his back, wearing only underpants and a tank top. His veins were bulging, and he had small but strong-looking muscles and many scars on his arms.

  I was right behind Bolo. He was almost there, right next to the glasses that contained our prizes, when suddenly Mr. Scar sat up and looked around through a sleepy haze.

  Six

  We scurried behind the door. Mr. Scar just sat there for a little while and mumbled to himself. Finally he lay back down and went back to sleep. I checked on Bolo; he was shivering. There was another door behind him on the other side of the room. We didn’t know what to expect there, but there was no chance for us to go back the way we had come. At this point we were so afraid, we’d stopped thinking of the eye and the teeth. Bolo crawled to the door. I followed him.

  The room we entered was small and darker than the rest of the house. The blinds were drawn and there was lots of stuff on the windowsill, but the floor was clean. There was no furniture apart from a little stool. A second door on the left led back to where we’d already been—the part of the house with the burnt oven and the stairs. In the middle of the floor was a trap door, no bigger then a square meter but locked with a shiny new padlock. I checked it thoroughly. Bolo kept pointing at the door on the left, while I concentrated on the padlock, struggling with it in my hand.