The Canal (25 page)

They had the monster's attention now. It
unfastened its mouth from Joe's face and flung him against a wall.
Alan didn't want to see this, the ways in which Joe's body had come
untied. No need, no need.

Rose started toward the creature. "Henry,"
she called, holding out a hand as she approached. "Henry." Alan
felt tangible relief as the fiend placed all of its focus upon her.
Then the creature took a halting step backward. Was it confused by
this brazen woman? Surprised? Alan wasn't sure; the foreign
orifices and the slithering antennae made the creature impossible
to read.

Why was he here again? He'd come here for
something. Eugene. Focus. Because Eugene was right there. Focus.
Alan could see him now, Alan was finally getting his bearings. And
right above Eugene was a sewer shaft leading to the street. He
could get Eugene and he could climb. He could forget about Joe and
Rose. He could forget about the monster. He could forget about his
supposed mission, his supposed destiny, and all his righteousness.
The best Alan could hope for now was survival. If not for him, then
for his son.

Because, this? There was no stopping
this.

It was time to move. Alan scurried towards
Eugene, pausing as he stepped over Joe. The man lay in a
semi-upright position, a pulpy, bloody log. Dead. Had to be. Face
peeled back like a cellar door.

Enough.

Alan rushed into the alcove. It was a kind of
home, a nest, littered with a zoological variety of remains. You
had your skulls and your fur and you had your Eugene, seemingly
content, suckling on some sort of garbage, some kind of rubber
pouch, aged and cracked, its skin caramelized to a hard shell. A
long ago balloon. Eugene himself was miraculously unhurt, and he
filled the space with baby scents, powder and diaper. The boy
smiled when he saw Alan. Then he clapped and uttered something
unexpected.

"Momma," said Eugene, and not discreetly.
"Momma."

How momentous. How poorly timed.

"Quiet, Eugene. Not now."

"Momma." Louder. Alan tried stuffing the
balloon back in Eugene's mouth.

"Hush, Eugene, please..."

He only seemed to be encouraging the child.
Eugene began jabbering some kind of ambitious doo-wop, a
"Momma-momma-ooo-mow-mow" type noise, gearing up for something
really top of the charts, big and baritone.

"Not now Eugene, I'm begging."

Alan risked a glance behind him. What he saw
was Rose, now standing waist deep in the running sewage, hugging
the monster. She was patting its knobbed tumors and caressing its
seaweed hair. She was sobbing. She was saying: "I'll never let you
go." She was saying: "Never again." That insane woman.

"Momm--"

Alan picked up the boy and smothered him. For
a short time. Until the child stopped fussing. Alan hastily cradled
the child under one arm. He already had his foot on the bottom rung
of the ladder, was already anticipating escape. But, Eugene.
Eugene, who would not be censored nor silenced. The boy squirmed
his head free, and defiantly bellowed, yodeling deep into the
caverns, "MOMMMAAA..."

Fuck.

Assorted stalks and receptors belonging to
the monster immediately zeroed in on Alan and the child. Alan had
been mistaken earlier -- the creature did in fact possess an
emotion that he could read. The mouth was what translated. That was
universal. It angrily opened to reveal an impossible amount of
splintered real estate.

Rose, she shouldn't be doing what she was
doing. Exasperating it. The creature was trying to push her aside,
yanking on her, but the woman was persistent. "Never again," she
kept saying, hunkering down, digging in. She really shouldn't be
doing that, because whatever spell the beast had been under was
quickly fading. See the mouth, see your proof. It had opened to
Megalodon proportion, new teeth sprouting all the time. And then
the monster sprang, its gullet billowing open like a net, covering
Rose entirely and springing shut.

Enough.

Alan was already scrambling up the ladder.
The alcove was awash with the fanfare of clapping lips and
crunching bones and Rose's screams.

A claw snapped around Alan's ankle, pulling
him back to the floor. He kicked free and automatically started
climbing again, tightening his grip on Eugene. The claw came back,
grabbing both ankles this time. Alan fell, yet again. The creature
was too strong. The situation, it was becoming too hopeless.

Thub thub...thub thub.

It finally occurred to Alan that he was about
to die. That here was the end, that the war was over, and he had
lost. He was done. Mincemeat. For all he had believed, for all his
principles, he was soon to be nothing better than a casualty. Him,
of all people.

And what of Eugene? A strange notion seemed
to suggest itself, leaping from the creature's searing touch, that
here in the sewer Eugene would be spared. That he'd be allowed to
deform and undergo disease, developing macabre appetites, so as to
better sate a hunger whose demands could no longer be met by one
grotesque mouth alone.

But there was nothing more that Alan could
do. If only he had listened to his wife. Susan had known, hadn't
she, that something like this would happen? Although truth be told,
Alan was almost relieved. He felt rather giddy. There was no reason
to struggle anymore. He didn't have to feel responsible. He could
just let go. For once, float free. Relax...

Thub...thu--

And then a pop -- clean and sharp. Steaming
liquid sprayed onto Alan's jacket as the claw convulsed and drew
away. Alan reluctantly turned: the creature was clutching its chest
-- where there had been an obscene, throbbing heart, there was now
a scorched pit. The monster dropped to its knees, mewling
pitifully.

There was another pop. A gunshot, Alan
realized. Then a necklace of them until there was only the clicking
of an emptied chamber.

The...the Henry tumbled face first into the
sewage, sinking except for its hump, a wrinkled coral reef that now
discharged a foul stain, the once thriving herpe lumps becoming
still and flat.

Joe. He was somehow alive, rocking slightly,
his gun still aimed at the slumping monster. He breathed like a
dying suction pump. A problematic arm held his problematic
face.

"I was too late for...for her," he
slurred.

"That thing was, your...It was your--"

"Don't say it," said Joe, sharply. When he
talked, the jaw didn't carry the lips, which stayed hanging loose
and open. He was also leaking in ways he shouldn't. An alarming
stream from the neck. Widening pools about his person.

"He drowned long ago. Don't ever say it."

"You need help," said Alan. He eased Joe to
his feet; Joe put an arm around Alan's neck; it dripped down his
shirt. And now Joe's face was free to roam where it pleased.

"You better hurry," whispered Joe. "This
place is not healthy."

*

Alan eventually, frantically, pushed the
manhole cover loose. The first thing to greet him was liberated,
untainted air. The downpour had ended; there was a cool breeze
blowing from the canal, drying the sweat on his forehead. Alan
finished climbing out, then immediately kneeled back at the
opening.

"Eugene," he said. "Quickly."

A draft rose from below, carrying Joe's voice
with it. He was still down there, clutching Eugene in his unmangled
arm.

"Say dogs," said Joe. "You'll say it was a
dog that found your son. You'll say it's the same animal that's
been eating skin." A watery, bubbly cough.

Alan leaned all the way in, taking Eugene,
who was now silent.

"You'll say the murders belong to a man, the
old one, the last one to die," said Joe. "You'll say he was the
killer, later killed by his own animal.

"You'll say Rose escaped on her own. You'll
say that she ran, that she's probably far away by now and maybe I
went with her."

Alan didn't know if Joe would live. But then
he didn't know how Joe was alive even now, so maybe there was a
chance. Absurdly, Joe had been more concerned with how Alan and the
baby were feeling. Did they feel sick? Headache? Sore throat? No,
no of course not. Alan felt fine. Just, stop with the questions
already. Just, let's just get out of here already.

"I can tell these things will work, Alan. I
can see it -- enough evidence will bear you out. And when it
doesn't you'll lie. People will want to believe. Tell Kozar. Kozar
will help."

"I'll pull you up," said Alan, looking into
the darkness. "Come on, Joe."

Joe didn't move. He shook his head. "I'm
staying."

"No. You're not..."

"This is how it has to be, Alan. I belong
here. With...them." With my family.

And then Joe's face, the whole thing fell
away. Dropping like a rag.

"Joe," said Alan.

There was no reply.

Alan knew that Joe was right. Everyone would
want to believe. They would want this neat and clean -- all this,
erased. Flushed. Disposed of. Carried away, just like the streams
that were right now winding their way through gutter and gully,
drawn instinctively to the low point, the hidden place, into the
waiting arms of, well...

Alan sat back on his heels. Joe was right.
Joe was always right. This was how it had to be. Alan set Eugene on
the ground. Then he watched a pair of hands, his own hands,
although it didn't seem possible to him at first, push the metal
lid back into place and tamp it shut.

The world immediately became calmer, quieter.
Alan gathered Eugene in his arms and stood up. In spite of himself,
Alan shivered. Instinctively he placed the back of his hand against
his forehead, to feel the temperature there.

At least they weren't far from the bridge.
Alan could see the lights coming from Mr. Zarella's yard. Above,
through a ragged breach in the clouds, the moon shone overweight
and crisp. Tonight the heavens showed their true selves, the mask
lowered, all their drama and mystery, at last fully bared.

Alan didn't notice. He walked towards the
bridge, clutching the collar of his coat. The warmth inside
something to preserve.

THE END

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http://www.DanielMorris.info