Monsterland (5 page)

“Is that for me?” the old man asked softly.

“It’s the best burger we have.” He leaned down to confide. “I like it better than the fish, but if you’d rather—”

“I didn’t pay for it.” He looked up at Wyatt, his eyes piercingly direct. “Do you know who I am?”

Wyatt searched his face but couldn’t place him. He was painfully skinny, his cheekbones jutting from his face, the creases lined with the red dust of the valley. He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. My name’s Wyatt. Don’t worry about the cost. My treat,” Wyatt said as he placed the food on the table. “I’ve got another for you when you leave… for later.”

“No, no, this is fine, I mean exceptional. You’re very kind.” He looked at the group in silent communication. “What’s your last name?”

“Baldwin, sir. My name is Wyatt Baldwin.”

“Baldwin. Baldwin. I knew a Baldwin once.”

“It’s a pretty common name, sir. And you’re probably thinking of Alec, Stephen, or Billy—the family of actors. No relation. What’s yours?” Wyatt held out his hand.

“If you touch that guy, I don’t want you touching my food!” Nolan shouted.

Wyatt ignored Nolan, reaching forward to take the grubby hand. “Don’t pay attention to him.”

“You’re very brave,” the man said quietly. “Do you always shake a stranger’s hand?”

“If we’ve shaken hands, I don’t think we’re strangers anymore. Besides, I’ve introduced myself.”

“Indeed, you have,” the man said, coming to his feet, straightening up. He was so tall, Wyatt had to put his head back to look up to him. He didn’t look old or frail after all, Wyatt thought. His black eyes swept the room, coming back to rest on Wyatt. “Vincent Conrad,” the man replied, taking Wyatt’s hand in a surprisingly strong handshake. “Forgive my filth. We’ve been knee deep in your red sand, getting the park ready. The werewolves…” he said, as if it were an apology. “You understand.” His deep voice filled the room, and Wyatt was awed by his presence.

Wyatt’s eyes widened with excitement as he looked closely at the man’s lined face. He was dirty, his hair scraggly, but the eyes—Vincent Conrad in Instaburger? Wyatt thought wildly. This was unbelievable. Wyatt smiled broadly; that’s why he looked familiar. His face split into a wide grin. He pumped the older man’s hand enthusiastically. “Dr. Conrad!
You look so…different. I can’t believe it.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket. “Do you mind if we take a selfie? No one is going to believe this,” he said, his voice cracking.

Vincent smiled, leaning toward Wyatt’s shoulder to squeeze into the frame.

“How’s it going down there? Are you ready for the opening?” Rapid-fire questions popped out of his mouth. He was standing right next to him, the most famous man in the country, now the planet. He had treated Vincent Conrad to a double double. Wait till I tell Carter, Wyatt thought, his eyes bright with the excitement. “Man, what I would give to go to the park tomorrow,” Wyatt said wistfully.

“Really?” Vincent turned to look at him full in the face. “What would you give?”

Nolan burst out laughing, “Yeah, and I’m Tom Brady,” he sneered. “Eww, you did it. You’re touching that vermin’s hand.” He tossed his half-eaten burger in the trash. “I’ll never eat anything you touch ever again.”

The large group stopped talking at once. The room was silent, except for Nolan’s rude laughter. Vincent snapped his fingers and then held up four fingers.

Sharice fiddled with different envelopes. Vincent turned a baleful eye on her, and her search became frantic. Dropping her sheaf of papers, she rushed to him, slapping four silver strips into his palm, uttering an apology.

Vincent walked with deadly calm to the table in the rear. Nolan’s laughter died on his lips, his face puzzled.

“Ah, the cool kids. So you don’t believe that I am Vincent Conrad?” he asked with menacing calm. “I wonder, what will it take for you to believe? Do you like to be scared?” He leaned down, his face next to Jade who sat frozen in her chair. Theo
edged away from the old man. Keisha stared him straight in the face. He wagged a finger at her. “You don’t seem afraid of anything?” He peeled off one ticket, letting it float onto the greasy tabletop. “One ticket for Diana.”

“My name’s Keisha.”

“I think you are the fair Diana, goddess of the hunt,” he said, considering her appreciatively.

Keisha picked up the ticket to look at its contents. Nolan snatched it from her slender fingers. “Hey!”

“Holy shit, this is a ticket for the grand opening of Monsterland!” Nolan looked up to reconsider the older man. “You really are Conrad.”

“Dr. Conrad,” he said disdainfully. “I need you youngsters to come and take lots of pictures, and Twitter them, Facebook them, Instagram them, Kardashianize them to your many little friends. Spread the word, children.” He dropped the remaining tickets onto the table. “Let’s see if Monsterland can scare the daylights out of you.” Vincent leered at them.

“These are free tickets,” Keisha said suspiciously. “Why are you giving them to us?”

Vincent eyes bored into Nolan. “What’s your name?”

“Nolan Steward.” Nolan puffed out his chest and then reached out for a handshake. “My father is—”

“I know who your father is,” Vincent dismissed him. Conrad eyed his proffered hand and ignored him.

Jade shuddered. “I don’t know—”

“You don’t know what?” Vincent moved down to be eye level with her.

“Wyatt was nice. He gave you something to eat. Why would you give Nolan the tickets?”

Vincent’s long fingers caressed the top of Jade’s head. “Very nice. Very nice. I like a girl with heart.”

Vincent turned, opening his arms wide. “You are right! It seems as though we have left out the nerds! But…” He rose and circled the room. “Appearances can be deceiving,” he said grandly. “I have something very special in store for Wyatt of the infamous Baldwins. Perhaps you’ll invite Alec?”

Wyatt smiled, shaking his head. “I told you, no relation, Doctor.”

Conrad went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Do you have any more presidential passes, Sharice?”

Sharice of the magenta hair rifled through a large canvas bag that lay on the table, handing Wyatt a large cream-colored scroll. It looked like a diploma, with a red ribbon tied in the center. He could hear his heart beating in his chest; the room receded.

“Open it; open the scroll,” Vincent said, his voice a husky whisper. “Let’s see if you can teach me a thing or two about monsters.”

Wyatt slowly unrolled the parchment.

“Make sure you save it. It will be a collector’s item someday.”

“What’s this made of?” Wyatt asked, looking at the calligraphy.

Vincent didn’t answer him. Sharice pointed to the second paragraph. “We are only giving these out to the president and the other politicians and dignitaries coming tomorrow. You have a backstage pass to see how the park is run.”

Howard stood behind the counter, his jaw opened wide. “Backstage pass?” he asked in wonder. “How many of those did you get, Wyatt?”

“How many do you have, Sharice?” Vincent called over his shoulder.

“Four,” she replied, laying three others on the yellow Formica table.

“Excellent, one for each of the generous workers here tonight,” Vincent said loudly. Now he was in his element. Wyatt didn’t understand how he could have mistaken him for a bum. Dr. Conrad walked around the room grandly, as if he were hosting a stylish soirée. He wore a broad smile, and his hands were outstretched to embrace the entire room. The man was P.T. Barnum and Donald Trump all rolled into one package. Despite his unkempt appearance, the man could control a crowd. The room was silent, the electricity of Vincent’s presence captivating them all. “The price of these tickets is for you to tell the world about Monsterland. You will initiate the world to the wonders I’ve created.”

“Yeah, us and about ten thousand others,” Manny said.

“Shut up, Manny,” Nolan responded.

Wyatt eagerly followed him around the room, his body buzzing with anticipation. He glanced at the other people, noticing that everyone was captivated by Vincent. Fries sizzled in the oil, forgotten, the bright lights overhead highlighting the feverish glow of the older man’s eyes. Wyatt gazed at Vincent’s rapt face—a chill danced down his spine. Those eyes were hard, lit as though a fire raged on the inside. Wyatt watched the intense black orbs scanning the room, taking note of each person in there. They landed on him, probing so deeply he felt strangely violated, as though Conrad could see his deepest thoughts. He thought about Carter, and his dislike for the mogul. Wyatt shuddered, his hand closing on the scroll, feeling the soft material. He looked down at it, turned it over and wondered if it were made from a chamois, the sheepskin he used to clean his car.

Wyatt heard Melvin shrieking like a hyena as he danced in the back of the restaurant. The room filled with the stench of burning fries. “We’re going to Monsterland…we’re going to
Monsterland.” Wyatt looked at Jade and then back to Melvin, who was running around like a whirling dervish. He closed his eyes and, for a minute, thought about holding Jade’s hand as they walked through the park. Reality invaded when Melvin ran up panting, “I am so pumped.” His voice cracked. Wyatt frowned.

Manny cursed and ran to the back. “My fries!”

With an imperious wave of his hand, Vincent stepped toward the door, stopping to turn and look at the group.

He pointed to Nolan. “You think you are in control, Nolan Steward. You are not afraid of anything are you?” He asked in an oily voice. “Let’s see if I have the ability to scare you.”

Wyatt looked down at the invitation. It was parchment, he realized. Parchment made out of skin. It was some sort of animal skin. He felt the urge to drop it.

Vincent spun to leave, but Wyatt called out. “Hey!” Conrad stopped to turn around and look at him. He held the invitations loosely in the palm of his hand.

“Monsterland…it’s safe, right?”

Vincent laughed, his crew tittering nervously. “Monsterland is the safest place on Earth. I assure you, the safest place. And you will be the ones to tell the world.” He swept out of the restaurant. Wyatt went to the window to watch his entourage get into the large black Sprinter. He felt Manny next to him, observing as well. He smelled like burnt fries.

“Creepy sucker. Why’d you give him the burger?”

Wyatt shrugged. “He looked hungry.” He handed the manager one of the scrolls.

“Yeah, like a wolf.”

Wyatt shook his head, not really sure at this point. “No, he has this…power. You know…what do they call it? Charisma?”
Wyatt said, but, for the first time, doubting exactly what he found so captivating.

“He’s a creep.” Manny looked down at his invitation. “I don’t like him or his park. I’m sorry they built it here. Here, take this.” He slapped his parchment into Wyatt’s hand. He wiped his hands down the sides of his dirty apron as if he touched something foul and filthy.

“No, it’s worth money. Sell it.”

“I don’t want anything to do with Vincent Conrad or Monsterland. Give it to someone.”

Wyatt’s fist closed around the soft material.

C
HAPTER
5

Shonkin, Montana

T
he man’s fist
closed around the cold metal of the fence. He shouldn’t have felt anything, but the hard surface of the chain link registered, and he sighed, knowing that in some small part of his brain the infection had now ravaged his thought process. He opened his mouth, attempting to speak, and nothing emerged but the inhuman grunts indicating the virus had spread to his vocal cords. He tried again, squeezing out a word. Words were his craft—he couldn’t lose that. Tears smarted his eyes; at least they still functioned. His voice, his tool of the trade, was almost gone. He was an eloquent speaker, nimble with words, able to twist and mold concepts into believable ideas. Now he communicated with a one-note groan that no one understood, and it seemed only to gain him another portion of the bloody gruel they sent in through long pipelines. He stared bleakly through the slats of the fence. It was covered with a privacy screen, shielding the outside world from the horror that was his life. He poked the hard metal, his finger breaking off to land with a dull thud at his feet.
He looked upward with despair, the steady drag of feet telling him they heard his appendage drop. He gagged, smelling them as they approached, their disease more advanced, their bodies rotting on their frames. Most were missing parts—an eye here, an arm there. Some teetered on stumps—all that was left of their legs. Usually, by then, all reason was gone; their eyes were vacant, filmed over with a white substance; gray matter leaked from their ears, and they moved with the same mindless intent as an invertebrate—brainless creatures, waiting to be put out of their misery with a final blow to their fragile heads.

There was a fight over his finger. He didn’t even try to retrieve it. He watched in disgust as two men tore at each other for the prize morsel. They shouldn’t be fighting over flesh, some small part of his mind reasoned. They were fed regularly. Usually it was recycled food from institutions, refuse they used to feed the hogs. Someone had to feed the plague victims before they fed on each other. He stood back, some shred of his long-lost humanity making his gorge rise. He backed away as the two fighters slugged it out over his fleshy finger. He heard the splat of their soupy skin hitting each other, the splatter of diseased bone and blood flying around the corner of the compound to scatter on the hard dirt.

He traveled into the danger zone even though he was advised against it. He had to research for his job. It was safe, he was told. You could touch them. It was body fluids that were the problem, they assured him. After all, legions of people were there taking care of the infected. Two days after he returned, he woke to find his skin sagging, turning soft like warm putty. His face changed—his cheekbones jutting out, his skin hanging, shredding when touched. It hurt to breath, yet he lived. They came for him, locking him in the internment
camp to feed or be fed. For close to a year, he had lived here, never appreciating his former life, understanding what he so casually tossed away, waiting for death to claim him. All he’d ever cared about was his career, and, ultimately, it had killed him. There was no cure; of this he was sure. No cure, no hope, just the endless hunger for flesh, any meat—he could gorge to try to feed the relentless hunger that gnawed at him from the depths of hell from which it came.