Ante Mortem (10 page)

Brautigan worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to moisten it so he could speak. Once again he was lost in a haze. All he could manage to grumble was, “Lacey.”

“
Yes, I’ll take you to her,” Lundgren said. “Of course.” He got up and walked out of the room.

“
LUNDGREN!” Brautigan screamed. No reply.

Tears rolled down the sides of Brautigan’s face. He tried to thrash his limbs, to toss his head, but he could do nothing but weep. He cried Lacey’s name. There was no response from her, either. Maybe the doctor had lied. Maybe he was alone in here.

But was Lundgren right? Would, eventually, inevitably, the suicidal urge take hold of him? And would being strapped down in this bed drive him madder still?

Lundgren came back in. He had a pair of syringes in his hand, a small bottle tucked into the crook of his arm.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at the needles. Slowly, methodically, he stabbed one into one of the tiny bottles and began to fill it with a urine-colored fluid.

“
What…” Brautigan pleaded.

“
It’s not for you,” Lundgren said. He lifted the hypo to his eyes and studied the poison inside. Then he looked at Brautigan. “It’s not bad. I’m not afraid. I almost don’t remember what it was like before… it’s like waking up.”

The doctor and Brautigan both glanced down. Lundgren had begun sawing at his wrist with the needle. He watched idly as crimson spread along the hem of his coat. “Hmm.” Then he inserted the needle into his forearm.

“
Where is my daughter?”
Brautigan sobbed.

Lundgren sat erect, and for a second Brautigan thought, hoped, prayed that the man was lucid—but he was dead, and he slipped off the bed and onto the floor.

The room was quiet. The world was quiet.

Brautigan didn’t want to cry any more.

He only wanted to die.

* * * *

From the Bowels

Benjamin Kane Ethridge

His scream was an outflow of bubbles.

He sat in an underwater silo, glowing blue fish swimming in cycles high above, radioactive halos in a murky universe. Something took the oxygen from the water and delivered it into his lungs, helping him breathe without reassurance or explanation. An aquatic plant with purple fronds clutched his arms and stroked his body with gentle kisses. His buttocks hung down inside the prickly oval cup of the plant’s flower.

He tried to speak but a hand reached through the ambling silt and placed something cool on his tongue, halting his words. It felt like a pile of broken straight razors. Their flavor made him hungry, so he rolled them around his mouth, ignoring the way they cut into his flesh. The blood made them taste even better.

A voice squeezed through the pressure of the deep: “They are the seeds. They are the brood.”

His esophagus felt like a split bamboo shaft and his stomach divided in wobbling partitions. The digestive acid cooked his lower organs.

Yes!
The hand in the watery dark that grazed his cheek had slender, female fingers. He swallowed more razors and had his fill. He squirmed inside the flower as the strain built at his sides. Bubbles poured from his mouth as he screamed at the possibility of the pressure never stopping.

Sam woke up to a fading pain in his gut. Barbara was pounding the bathroom door with her puny wrist. Slowly, he realized he was on the toilet, just like every other day this week.

Barbara’d been talking, but he only noticed her just now. “Hold your horses,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Disgust touched her voice. “Yeah? You gonna go all the way this time?”

“
Shut up.”

“
I’m leaving, Sam.” Her voice held no conviction.

“
You’ll just come back like they all do. Stop pulling my dick.”

“
Creep!”

“
Yeah, maybe I am.” Sam grabbed some toilet paper, wiped himself and pulled up his boxers. When he turned to flush, he saw something that alarmed him more than the dream. Past the toilet seat, he saw a scarlet stew of shit and blood.

He flushed. The sludge coiled into a gory cyclone and burped up clear—thankfully clear—water. It might not mean a thing. Sitting on his ass and writing nine hours a day could have baked up a nice batch of hemorrhoids, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

He went back and turned Barbara on her stomach. She didn’t look happy at all, but she also didn’t object.

Ten minutes later, he’d sweated away his frustration, but, just like earlier, there’d been no climax. He hadn’t had one since he’d written that damned story.

Barbara soon drifted off and he lay beside her, not daring to shut his eyes. An hour later he heard something outside. The noise had made his teeth click. A hollow, booming sound, loud and heavy.

Like something massive striking down on the ocean floor.

The B-porn on cable had too much plot and Sam’s legs started twitching. He thought about writing but gave up the notion for fear of more delusions. Constance hadn’t called in two weeks now. But calling her, or calling Barbara, that was showing weakness.

His hardness eventually got the better of him, so he punched in Constance’s number. She was the freakiest of his steadies: nipple-biting, hair-pulling, and an occasional finger up his asshole. He never felt right with her, never felt right without her. It was an old feeling.

He was twelve. Driving to the theater. Upholstery smelled of sex and malt liquor. Pat Benatar sang on the radio. The greatest moment of his life had been a blink before the Cadillac wrapped around the telephone pole and everything tore away. But as his mother sucked on her boyfriend, Sam saw something vital in her eyes; she was content, at ease with her pains. Had her mouth not been occupied, it may have worked up a smile.

Later, watching the sheeted bodies roll away on their gurneys and listening to a stammering, although well-meaning, police officer, Sam Ruthers decided to find that happiness his mother had. Maybe he’d have it longer than the single moment she’d be given.

Call him sick, but remembering his mother blowing a guy was a fond memory, the greatest memory.

The phone rang for a fifth time.

Another ring, but this one cut short as a watery recording played. He slammed down the phone.

Constance called around lunch time the next day. Hearing her voice almost made him choke on his cheeseburger. He was too tired to deal with freaks this early. Hot freak, but freak nonetheless.

“
You called yesterday?”

“
Your voice’s echoing.”

She hesitated. “Parking structure outside the library.”

“
You haven’t called in like two weeks.”

“
Sorry.” It was a small sounding word. “Want some company this weekend?”

Weekend
? He couldn’t sound desperate and ask why she didn’t come over sooner. Weak.

“
Maybe I will, but I have to finish some editing. I’ll give you a call later. I gotta run.”

“
I do love you. You love me, right?”

The words tickled his lips. “Yes, of course I do.”

And an hour later he told Barbara: “Are you nuts? I love you more than television. Take some time off and come over tonight.”

“
It’s been a shitty day,” Barbara answered, too languidly to expect an explanation. “So what about all your other little tramps? They on the disabled list?”

“
There’s only one tramp for me. Hey, I gotta run. See you tonight. There’s some kid at my door.”

“
Don’t be mean. Love ya.”

“
Love ya more.”

A frail kid stood outside, holding a cardboard box full of candy bars. Obviously none of the candy had been filched. “Good afternoon, Sir. I’m selling these delicious treats. They were donated to the South Malden Middle School fundraiser, which helps the—”

“
Save it, partner.” Sam took out a loose twenty from his back pocket. “Give them to your friends or something. Better yet, eat ‘em yourself.”

The kid walked off, swinging his box. Sam’s eyes darted out to the street.
Something moved
. The manhole cover had lowered.

“
Kid?”

The boy turned with a frown.

“
Is there something out in the street?”

The middle-schooler examined the street with more attention than it warranted. The boy shrugged. “There’s a smashed paper cup.”

Sam closed the door.

He might still be tired from all the tossing and turning last night. But the manhole moved. Two or three times, he crept to the window for another look. In between those times he lounged, watching TV, eating cold mushroom pizza.

When night fell, the neighborhood became a collection of floating rooftops. Sam had to convince himself bubbles weren’t wandering skyward in the racing blue shadows. His uneasiness was chased off when Barbara’s corvette bumped into the driveway. The brake lights flowed out behind like iodine wash.

He waved. She didn’t see him. God, she was gorgeous. Not as smoking-hot as Constance, but few were. He waved harder to get her attention, then froze.

Out in the street, in the iodine sea, a face peered from under the manhole lid. Long webbed fingers wrapped around the lid and its iridescent knuckles bent in a rancorous rainbow. The Nightlid had no hair on its head or face. When Barbara turned off the ignition, the red color drained from the creature’s skin, leaving behind flesh the color of marrow.

Sam leaned closer to the window, trembling. The Nightlid’s eyes were diamond-shaped stones, black as the emotionless gelatin orbs of a shark. It looked just like what he’d written.

He tried to open the window. Barbara bent inside to retrieve her purse. The manhole lifted higher and fog blanketed the street. Sam wrenched at the latch, pulling with both hands. What the hell was wrong with it? He shoved with his entire body. The window slid over.

Another arm came out from under the lid.

“
Barbara!” he shouted.

“
Hey babe.”

The manhole lid dropped; the sound was so loud Sam flinched but Barbara acted as though she’d heard nothing.

“
Is the front door unlocked?”

Sam tried to speak, but could only nod. The world grew calm and quiet, only darkness and clicking stiletto heels.

Unbuttoning his shirt so fast his fingers stung, Sam rounded the bed and approached Barbara. He briefly thought of the thing he’d seen in the street, but it was pleasantly distant in his tangled thoughts. He peeled off his jeans in a single swipe that brought them down to his ankles. His hand went to his boxer shorts, but Barbara’s deft fingers caught him.

“
Let me,” she said and kneeled. His boxers went down. Her lips parted in a wet ruby ring. She squeezed him. He put his palm on the back of her head, drawing that ruby circle closer.”You make me feel so good.
I love you
.”