by Tony Burgess
“Can we get him out of there easy?”
The doctor reaches in and plays with the hook-up below. She nods.
“Yes. Why?”
Dixon rubs his lips hard. They must be numb. He has no feeling in his mouth. That’s the impediment.
“We’re going to change some things. No more phosters. Too much hype. I don’t want things haphening we can’t control. Who phrought the saws? Is that on any of the phosters? How did all this shit haphen?”
Y sighs. The doctor fiddles with my bottom.
“The new rule is we keep things calm. I got an idea.”
Dixon looks into my face. A look of surprise.
“Ha! How’s it going, phal? I almost forgot that was you in there. Listen uph. I want to try something. Next time, we phring the Oracle out and we phass it around.”
Y’s head is deep in his hands, elbows on the lower scoop of the wheel. There are white strands of hair bending up from the crown. He is several ages as far I can tell.
“It’ll calm them. Give them something to be careful with. I want an orderly burn. We made no fucking money in Pheeton and we might even get phulled in.”
Y starts the truck. Y knows why Beeton failed.
“Beeton was crazy before they met us. Pond Head’ll be better. Smaller. More churches.”
Dixon slaps Y on the shoulder.
“That’s right, son. Phond Head. But not too soon. Let’s phe missed for a while. Let ’em wonder if we’re real for a while.”
We don’t turn south to Bond Head. We head up towards the 9th. We’re looking for trees or a house. I’m surprised to see cars on the road. Not many, but some. They look normal, timeless. Some lone drivers. Male mostly. One car full of a family. I try to read faces but they blow past too quickly. Cars and trucks at farmhouses. Cattle. It’s as if nothing happened. Could be the way this part of the country lives. Nothing is supposed to happen here. You can see too far. A small fishing boat for sale. The trailer tires flat. The posted price on swollen cardboard. If terrible things were approaching they would be seen hours before they arrived.
The truck slows and we pull up a dirt driveway. We lurch along its length and stop under a willow beside a massive red brick farmhouse. We sit in silence. The house is still. Thin pale leaves drift down and attach to blood clots under the wipers. Dixon shoves Y’s shoulder. Y shoots a look then opens the door. He walks cautiously around the front of the house. Dixon rolls his window down.
“Go knock.”
Y is tense. He takes the steps, counting.
“Knock!”
Y knocks and waits. Again.
“Ophen the door! Yell for ’em.”
Y doesn’t look back. He slowly draws the screen open, then the inner door. We hear his voice but not what he is saying. Y steps back out and waves. Clear.
“Okay. Well. This is a nice place.”
Dixon isn’t getting out just yet.
“Maybe we should retire here.”
A Rottweiler, moving like a barrel down a sluice, bursts through a hole in the backyard fence. It doesn’t bark until it sees Y, then it makes a killing noise. Y stops in mid-step.
“You gotta kill that!”
“Help!”
Y runs for the truck. The door locks, clunk.
“Kill the damn dog!”
“What?”
Y reaches the car with the dog. It springs up and grabs Y by the jaw, dragging him down.
Dixon roots through the glove box and finds a road flare. He opens the driver’s window and drops it.
“Shove this down its throat!”
Dixon rolls the window back up and waits. We hear the intense hiss of the flare igniting and then the dog cry out. Dixon waits, then rolls down the window.
“You there?”
The dog appears around the front of the truck. It doesn’t appear to be wounded but it ain’t a killer no more either. Not for now. It slinks back through the torn fence.
Dixon opens the door.
“Okay. Okay. Good job. I’m sorry. We got a doctor.”
The farmhouse smells of cows. The floors curve and the walls bow. Discoloured shapes on the ceiling form a map of the world. If you stare long enough you can see places you want to go. The doctor takes Y upstairs. He’s going to be okay. Some punctures on his scalp. A burn up his arm from the flare.
Dixon sets me up on the table as he goes through a pail he found inside the front door.
“This is the house of Phauline Hartenpherger. Lived alone. Oh. Wait. No. One kid at least. Goes to, went to, Byng Elementary school. This interest you at all?”
I say nothing. I pretend not to notice. I am still a prisoner.
Dixon opens, reads, and drops papers to the floor.
“Child support. Good for you, Pheter Harten-pherger. I got married, you know.”
Dixon is sharing. He’s proud.
“Yes, sir. After Indonesia. Her name was Phie. Like a phizza. We lived in Meaford. I had a daughter, too. Her name was Lo.”
Dixon is reading a phone bill. I wonder if you can see changes in a phone bill. Patterns. Times. Frequency of calls to the same number. Did the Hartenbergers make plans, then leave? Did they flee to the city? Did they hang themselves? Maybe they’re out back. Cold black bones on the clothesline.
“You wanna know what haphened to them? Got caught in the first raphe wave. Died.”
Dixon drops the phone bill. He straightens the pages and returns them to the envelope.
“I dropphed ’em in a well.”
Dixon reads signs on the wall. Happy Home. Live. Love. Laugh.
“You know what I love to do? Hmmm? I love a pheaceful launch. I like to sphend time with them phefore they go. Get a little carried away, sure, phut . . .”
Dixon thinks he’s different now. He wants to have a different past. If I was to mention that he has worn dead children he would think me vulgar. You don’t know anything, he’d say. Dixon wants to believe that he held out as long as he could. That if he’s a hero he’s only doing what anyone would do. And if he’s evil, it’s only the role he is forced to play. I expect him to cry. The doctor comes in and goes to the sink.
“Hi.”
Dixon is being ridiculous in this setting. The doctor turns, surprised.
“There’s beds upstairs. Lots of food in the cellar. Preserves. Tins. Some household medicines. Some antibiotics.”
“What’s Y doin’?”
“He’s checking the barn. We can kill a cow. How long are we here?”
Dixon pushes the remaining letters to the floor. He opens the fridge and gas erupts from rotting food. He gags and closes the door.
“I dunno. WasteCorph is gonna be looking for me to check in. They’re gonna have lots to say aphout Pheeton.”
The doctor has been washing her hands for ten minutes.
“Beeton was fine.”
She swipes a cloth from the oven door and pats dry her hands.
“I have no problem with Beeton.”
Dixon slumps a bit. She has cheated him. The doctor stares at me for a long minute. She takes in a sharp breath and looks at Dixon.
“I would like to have sex. Can you?”
Dixon laughs with his loose face.
“Nophe.”
The doctor is disgusted.
“Oh, that’s right. You only fuck parts of people.”
Dixon stretches his neck as if that will change how he appears to her.
“Go fuck the phoy. He can. I think.”
The doctor drops the cloth into a silver trash can.
“I will. Thank you.”
bounty.
The dog proves to be a nuisance. It circles the house in the tall grass waiting for us to come out. It grabbed Y again and he managed to gouge out an eye before it rolled off him. Dixon doesn’t seem overly worried. I think it’s a game he likes. He likes to send Y out. The doctor spends a lot of time upstairs alone. She showers several times a day. They eat beets and jam and beans. For a while the doctor tried to breas
t feed me but no milk came. I eat bean juice. There is lots of time to think here. The days are slow. If a car goes by on the road it’s a major event. We hide and shout and sit in the dark. Dixon is thinking more than anyone. He sits and stares at things. Or he finds things in the house to read. He reads grocery lists. Recipes. He hunts for journals and diaries but finds none. He sits with a receipt in his hand and thinks. He rubs and curls the receipt until it’s a ball in the palm of his hand, then he drops it. I know what he’s doing. He wants to show the relic that he cares about these people’s lives. I know he doesn’t. I know he would do obscene things to them after they were destroyed. He has been looking at me differently. This slow world is revolving us. Y comes in with the dog. It is draped across his shoulders. Headless.
“Would we eat dog?”
Dixon pushes back his chair and rises.
“Phut it on the phicnic table. We’ll clean it there.”
Y stands for a moment.
“Don’t I get a hurray or something?”
Dixon seems drunk.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
Y holds the base of the tail at his shoulder and wags it.
“I slew the beast!”
Y looks to me. I am not that type of person anymore. You don’t look me in the eyes. Methusela Syndrome. That’s what you got. Accelerated aging.
“Okay. I’ll get some knives.”
I can only see the tops of their heads gathered around the picnic table. They are skinning it. Gutting it. Seems to me I’ve seen cows in fields around here. Surely we could snatch one at night. Y holds the dog’s head up. Gore slaps his forehead. They’re doing this because it keeps them in touch with the mission. The doctor has taken to roaming the house topless. It arouses me but I have no penis. Some veins throb in my anus. That’s my limit. She is washing her hands at the sink. Her back is broad and white. It’s a cooling sight. They are hammering Rottweiler hide to a sheet of plywood. They want to dry it in the sun. The sun is a joke. Nothing dries in the sun. Maybe the wind. The cold, wet wind. The doctor pulls the window pane to the side. She tries to close it in a single swipe but it jams and she gives up.
“I’m not eating a fucking dog.”
The doctor dries her hands, points at me then leaves, climbing the stairs to her room.
Dixon and Y spend the afternoon outside butchering the dog and digging a fire pit. Y finds an iron pole to skewer it. I can see they are laughing. They toss guts and skin and legs and head into a barrel, then sticks. They pour gasoline in. It flares out in a massive ghost ball then dies out. They give up.
The doctor runs down the stairs and out the door. Something’s up. I wish they wouldn’t close my case. I wish they’d let me in. I can see Dixon’s serious face as he listens to the doctor. Y is bent down, probably turning the dog.
Dixon comes in first and goes up the stairs. The doctor follows him. Y tries to come in but Dixon sends him back.
“You stay outside.”
Y takes a step back but stays. Listening.
There is a small piece of glass missing now at the top of my case. In the right conditions I can make out what people say.
In time Dixon comes down. He walks in heavy steps. He is perspiring. He speaks close to the doctor and I can’t hear. She listens, then bends back to spot Y.
“Well, Dixon. It’s okay. We do our work.”
Dixon nods severely. He raps the wall once and comes over to me. He pulls the black bag over my case. I am a thin black wisp of hair. I am black crayon on a black sky. My knees buckle and I go down.
I sleep because I haven’t slept. I sleep in a closed-off dreamless airless box.
A band of light wakes me. Someone has cut an almond-shaped hole in the bag. Someone cuts another hole. These are eyeholes. They want me to see. I feel a rush of hopefulness. They are including my care. I am to be given light. Not to keep me alive. But to bring me comfort. The thought makes me dizzy. I feel my knees again. I look out one of the eye holes. The doctor’s shoulder. I can see her and she cannot see me. A vein in my anus fills and rolls on its side. The light makes a perfect cone over my eye. We are going upstairs. We are going upstairs. The topless doctor is taking me to her room. The case is tipped against the wall while she opens the door. I see the top of her breast rise under her turning arm. It’s an achingly soft surface. The breast drops from view as the door opens. She points me forward to a curtained window. Drops me on the sill and turns me. There is a wide unmade bed. The doctor removes her skirt. She rolls her pantyhose down, then drops them from her toes. She walks toward me. Her large black-grey bush is inches from my nose. I can see the lips of her vagina. The slow separation of tissues relaxing. She is hanging her hose on the rail above me. She can’t see me while I cling to the details of her hole. My lower half is bunched. Veins an open confusion. I can feel my cock springing to life on a wall. On the ground. She turns and walks to the bed, bending over to pick up her clothes. Light touches her asshole for a second then she stands again. My bottom shatters. I am filling something with something. A spasm. I feel warmth. I must be shitting. I push at it hard. I want to feel it come out. I want to feel my body express itself. I want it out.
She is gone. I stop holding my breath. I smell gas. I haven’t shit. I have farted. A wonderful changing and calming fart.
there is no upside.
I sit in this box for hours. Maybe longer. I hear a car door close outside and a man’s voice. People down below. Must be WasteCorp. They want an account of Beeton. Probably needed to bring in a clean-up crew. I’ve been on them. Different company, different war. The doctor came in once and took something she’d stashed inside her pillow. I see you, Doctor. I know you’re in trouble. SSRIs in the pillowcase. I decide that because I am non-human, a deity of some kind, that I should be able to close my eyes and see great things, visit exotic places. Even if this isn’t true, shouldn’t the mind provide? Can’t I just go completely mad and leave this? Go so far inward that I’m a new thing? I close my eyes and wait. I try to picture simple things. A shoe. A bottle. A tree. I can only manage fleeting lines and shadows.
The door opens. The doctor enters. She is fully clothed. Her bosses are here. She comes over to me and turns the box. I see the yard clearly through my hole. There are two black vans parked up the driveway. So that’s WasteCorp, I guess. Guys dressed like milkmen from another century. Smart blue capos and white piping on the legs. Not tough guys, that’s for sure. Dixon and Y are up by one of the old maples. A bald man in a black suit is showing Dix something on a wide unfolded sheet. Plans have been drawn up. Things are being done differently. Beeton shook them up, bad. The milkmen unroll a wide mesh mat. It reaches all the way to Dix and the tree. Size of a football field. Milkmen attach cables at each corner. No more coaxing folks to toe the line. No more people running off or letting go too soon. They’re going to sit them down for the show, then just burn ’em all where they sit. Y and Dixon are walking the perimeter. I can tell by the way Dixon walks, with a repressed swagger, that he doesn’t like something. He doesn’t like seeing his bosses. Doesn’t like them being here. Don’t fuckin’ tell me how to do my job. Dixon and Y have walked up into the house. The milkmen straighten out any creases in the mat, like old women showing off patchwork at the fall fair.
The doctor turns me around. I see her naked thigh through the hole. I feel my anus drop then pull in. She drags the black bag up. Her tits are fat against the glass. She opens the door. Her breasts smell like change room. I look up and she looks down. I am brought out to the bed. She lies me near the bottom then drops her legs on either side of me. I watch as she pushes against her vagina with three fingers. She pumps it then slides her fingers back and forth quickly. With her other hand she tugs her nipple, lifting her large breast then letting it fall. It is a mesmerizing and mechanical sequence of actions. No hurry. I am to watch this. She wanted an audience. She wants me to stare at her pussy. Her heavy tits. She slides a finger in deeply. A clear fluid runs down her wrist. She makes a sound. She dra
ws her knees up slowly and reaches under. Now she has a finger in her asshole and three in her pussy. She works the two holes at different speeds. The vagina is occasionally pulled and the finger in her anus drops out and turns briefly on her sphincter. She looks up from time to time to see if I’m watching. No smile, nothing, just a check. I feel a buzzing near my bottom. Peripheral neuropathy. My anus feels as if hard beads are vibrating in it. She points a wet finger at me and curls it. She wants me there. I rock slowly, moving on my corners.
Her pussy meets my face and I feel her hands on the back of my head. I cannot breathe. She holds my head tight against her. I feel my lung climbing into my throat. My lung is my tongue. I panic and shake my face. Her thighs start to close, then she shoves me back hard. I breathe quickly. I can smell her pussy. Rainwater and salt. Below that, the heavy sugar of her asshole. She pulls me in again. This time I suck. I take her entire vagina into my mouth and suck. I can breathe through one nostril. She pulls me in tighter to seal it. I lose consciousness for a brief second. When I come up, I’m gasping. I hear my buttonhole whistle and she shakes. The doctor reaches down on my body and lifts my back end. She lays me on her belly so my face hangs down over her lips. I flick. The sensation of her tongue on my anus makes me jump. She twirls around slipping the tip in and out. I feel that if this is to proceed much longer I may die. I don’t have the body to withstand this. Maybe that’s what she wants. She wants to kill me with her tongue up my ass. Before I reach whatever it is that could happen, she pushes me down. My tongue slips from her pussy to her anus and I try to breath normally as I do to her what she did to me.
There is someone else in the room. I feel the bed dip. I try to raise my head to see but can’t. The bedsprings twang under the weight of three. I feel the doctor’s finger in my ass. Deeper. Bigger. It’s not a finger. Its a cock. Someone is sitting on her face and sliding his cock into my flat, featureless body. I hear her slurping and suck his ass and balls. Her pussy rises under my chin. I am supposed to suck, too. I draw her clit in while she flips fingers inside. The cock is now fully in me and has begun to pump. The tissue in my hole is banging and open. The doctor starts to come first. She clamps my cheeks with her thighs and starts to buck. The cock in me reaches deeper and faster. I feel the fat tip punching through me into the mattress. A series of sensations run up and down my entire body, like hoops across a levitated showgirl. The hoops multiply and crash, meeting in my back then plunging dramatically into my anus. I can’t tell who is moving now. No one maybe. The air is glittery and colour is thick. Her legs fall. The cock dives forward once then slips back and out. I turn my head so my ear shell is on her pudenda. I see a tee shirt on a chair. Brown not orange.
