The Men Upstairs (11 page)

“Let me in, you sons of bitches!” I shout so loud my throat is instantly raw.

I wait a few seconds, and when the door doesn’t open, I hit it again. Still nothing. I’m holding the hammer in my right hand, and I shift it to my left for a moment and hold it together with the knife. I try the knob. I don’t expect to find it unlocked, and it isn’t. I take the hammer in my right hand again, and I slam it against the door a half dozen times, putting all my strength into each blow. When I stop, I’m breathing heavily and the surface of the door is splintered where I hit it, but it remains closed. The Spindlekin are too caught up in their reunion with their Desiderata to hear me. Or maybe they do hear me, they just don’t care. Why should they? They’ve gotten what they wanted, and I’m no threat to them. Or so they believe.

I go back downstairs and run through my apartment to the patio door. I throw it open and race outside. The rain’s coming down harder now, but I barely notice it as I pound up the wooden stairs to the Spindlekin’s deck. The blinds are closed, and I can’t see through the glass. I don’t know if the door is locked, and I don’t give a damn. I raise my hammer and smash the glass. The first blow knocks out enough glass for me to reach through and unlock the door, but I keep swinging until there’s enough room for me to get through. My right pants leg snags on my way in, and I feel a sharp pain as the skin beneath is cut. I nick the back of my hand as well, and it hurts so bad I nearly drop the butcher knife. But I focus past the pain, shove my way through the blinds, and enter the Spindlekin’s lair. Blood drips from my wounded hand onto the carpet, but I ignore it. The reptile house stink is so strong in here that I nearly gag, and the air feels greasy and heavy as it goes in my mouth and settles in my lungs. I wonder if the stench comes from the Spindlekin themselves, or if they’ve somehow altered the atmosphere in their apartment to suit them better, to make their temporary environment as alien as they are.

Just as I saw the night I spied on them, their apartment is bereft of any furnishings, but the walls and ceiling are now covered with brownish-black smears which I hope aren’t made from fecal matter. The smears resemble distorted letters from a language I don’t recognize, the same series of letters over and over, written both large and small. I don’t need a translation, for I can guess what the letters spell out:
Desiderata.

The apartment’s layout is a mirror image of my own, and I start toward the bedroom. I still hear muffled grunting, but it doesn’t seem as loud as it did downstairs. A second later, I understand why. A player has left the game. Mr. Mustache comes charging out of the bedroom and down the short hallway toward me. He’s naked, and his erect penis bobbles like some absurd toy as he runs. I expect his organ to be monstrous somehow, grotesquely large or twisted into some malformed shape. But it looks almost disappointingly normal, as does the rest of his body. No scales, no bony ridges, nothing strange at all, and for an instant I fear I’ve imagined the Spindlekin’s alieness, that for all their oddity, they’re merely human.

Mr. Mustache’s features are contorted in a mask of rage, and the lower half of his face is coated with a thick viscous liquid, his mustache matted down and soaked with it. There’s so much of the stuff that it drips from his face in ropey strands like dog drool. I expect him to rush me, but I’m surprised when he stops several feet from me and opens his mouth wide.
Too
wide, his lower jaw stretching and lowering until it reaches his chest. The burning smell of overheating electronics wafts forth from his open maw, and I remember smelling the same thing the first time I encountered him, on the day the Spindlekin moved in.

He takes a deep breath and a deafening cacophony of noise erupts from his distended mouth. It’s the same sound I heard before, a combination of crashing metals, high-pitched whine, and deep, pulsing thrum. Pain explodes in my head, as if white-hot pokers have been jammed into my ears, the blazing metal searing through my brain, gray matter sizzling as they penetrate deeper. Waves of solid sound continue crashing into me. It hurts so much that I can’t think, can’t remember my own name, am not even aware that I’m a man called Richard. My entire universe is Noise and Pain, nothing more.

My mind may have been momentarily turned to mush, but there’s nothing wrong with my body, and it intends to defend itself. My right arm swings the hammer at Mr. Mustache’s jaw with all the strength it can muster, and metal strikes flesh with a deeply satisfying thud. Skin tears, bone shatters, and Mr. Mustache’s jaw becomes partially detached and hangs at a sickening angle. Blood gushes—a bright, almost glowing red, and sweet-smelling, like roses coated with molasses. The worst of the noise cuts off, and only a crackling, sputtering sound remains. Sparks leap forth from the man’s mouth, as if he’s a piece of electronic equipment that’s been damaged. His eyes widen, whether in pain or surprise, I don’t know, and I think of how Liana misled me, if not intentionally. Flesh and blood the Spindlekin might be, but that’s not all they are.

He stands there sparking, limbs rigid as if electric current is flowing through his body, causing his muscles to convulse. I expect his erection to subside, but his dick gets even harder, skin swollen purple-tight, and I wonder if it’ll soon pop like an overblown balloon.

Another man comes out of the bedroom then: Metal-Face. He’s also naked, his skin covered with dark tribal tattoos, rock-hard penis included. He’s pierced all over, too—rings, studs, spikes…so much metal that he jingles as he runs. His tattoos swirl and roil like storm clouds on the verge of becoming a tornado. As he comes down the hall, his piercings extend outward from his body, lengthening, growing sharper, terminating in wicked-looking points. He’s become a nightmarish thing, a human pincushion with the pins pointing outward instead of in. He raises his hands, hated-filled gaze fixed on me, mucus-slick mouth twisted into a grimace, and I know he intends to go around Mr. Mustache, gather me into his deadly embrace, wrap his arms around me, crush me to his chest, and hold me there, pierced and bleeding, until I die.

Mr. Mustache is still vomiting sparks. They sting like hell when they strike my skin, burn tiny black craters into the carpet where they land. The sparks give me an idea. I ram my shoulder into Mr. Mustache’s chest and knock him backward toward the rapidly approaching Metal-Face. Mr. Mustache is impaled on his brother’s spikes, and he throws back his head and howls in agony, a gout of sparks shooting from his mouth like a fireworks finale to spray the ceiling. Metal-Face screams as electricity coruscates across his body, his metal spikes making excellent conductors. Still screaming, he grabs hold of Mr. Mustache’s shoulders, clearly intending to shove him away, but both of their bodies are convulsing from the electricity, and Metal-Face can’t find the strength to free himself. I don’t know how long they’ll remain like this, so I don’t hesitate. I step forward and swing my hammer. Good thing it has a rubber handle.

I do Metal-Face first, then Mr. Mustache. When I’m finished, they lay sprawled on the carpet, blood splattered around them, dicks wilted like tiny flowers someone forgot to water. Their heads are smashed, pulpy ruins of bone, blood, and brain matter. Wires are mixed in with Mr. Mustache’s muck, bits of metal and a thick black substance like tattoo ink in Metal-Face’s. Mr. Mustache’s sparks are done, and Metal-Face’s body art has gone still, the designs beginning to fade, as if they were somehow tied to the lifeforce of their flesh canvas.

Two down.

I smile grimly and wipe blood splatter off my face with the back of my hand. There’s so much gore on me, though, that all I manage to do is smear it around. I barely notice, and I don’t care.

I head for the bedroom.

I expect Gray-Hair to come running out of the room and attack me, but he doesn’t. The walls of the hallway are covered with the same brown-black alien letters as the living room, and I’m not surprised to see them in the bedroom as well. The Spindlekin’s clothing lies scattered around the room, some of it torn in its owner’s haste to get it off. Liana’s clothes are there, too. Liana is lying naked on the floor, feet flat, knees drawn up and pointed toward the ceiling, legs spread to expose her sex. Her vagina yawns open wide, and her pubic hair is wet and matted, her thighs slick with a clear sheen of mucus. I expect to see Gray-Hair on top of her, pounding his penis into her cunt, or maybe straddling her chest while she fellates him. But he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her, naked. With one hand he strokes his stiff cock, and with the other he holds a slimy flesh-colored ovoid in front of his face. Like the other Spindlekin, his mouth is coated with goo, and his hair ripples in the air, framing his head like a halo formed from hundreds of fine, white tentacles.

He doesn’t look up as I step through the doorway, my clothes, skin, and hair splattered with blood and bits of brain. He’s too focused on the object in his hand, gaze fixed upon it with a combination of raw lust and loving warmth, and if he can’t decide whether to fuck it or cradle it gently and murmur softly to it. Liana sees me, though, and her face shows a mixture of relief, shame, and sorrow.

“Oh, Richard,” she says in a whisper. “What’s happened to you?”

I don’t answer. Instead I look at the object Gray-Hair is holding, and I remember my hand inside Liana, remember the feeling of my fingers brushing against something smooth, round, and slick. Remember her moans of pleasure, remember how I almost grasped hold of it and pulled it free. Remember how I lost my nerve at the last minute. I understand then what
Desiderata
is. It’s not Liana.
Desiderata
means “desired things.” The Spindlekin didn’t want Liana back for the sex she could provide, or at least that wasn’t their primary motivation. They wanted her for what her body could provide. Her Desiderata. Her eggs.

Gray-Hair speaks then, never taking his voice off the ovoid, his voice hushed and reverent, as if he’s in church.

“Imagine the strongest drug you can take, the most satisfying meal you’ve ever eaten, the purest moment of joy you’ve ever experienced, and the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. Imagine experiencing all of those sensations at the same time, magnify it a hundredfold, and you still wouldn’t come close to what this feels like.”

He lifts the egg to his mouth, presses his teeth against its spongy wet surface, and bites down. He moans in ecstasy as he chews slowly, taking his time.

“We gorged ourselves at first,” he says after he swallows. “It had been too long since we’d had fresh, and we were impatient.” He looks at me then, and smiles as if a trifle embarrassed. “We’d saved some, of course. We always harvest extra as a precaution, so we had a supply to tide us over after Liana left. But Desiderata lose potency rapidly, and they soon become unsatisfying to us, fit only to use as barter with humans.”

I think of the Spindlekin’s liquor run and their stop at the vet’s to pick up some dead animals to snack on. I now understand how they paid for their supplies.

Gray-Hair takes another bite, a bigger one this time, and clear thick liquid runs out of his mouth as he chews, dribbles onto his chest. Only a tiny portion of ovoid remains, and I expect him to pop the last morsel into his mouth, but he restrains himself.

“We could’ve forced Liana to come back to us, but the quality of Desiderata depends entirely on the attitude of their makers. They are best when made willingly.” He gives Liana a smile, but she looks away. “Even so, we were on the verge of taking her anyway, when you gave us the answer to our dilemma, Richard. Thank you.”

I don’t respond. I feel sick, numb. I want to look at Liana, but I can’t bring myself to. I keep thinking about the slick feel of the ovoid I touched, and my stomach becomes a churning cauldron of nausea.

As if reading my thoughts—and perhaps he is—Gray-Hair says, “She’s isn’t one of your kind. She’s done nothing but turn your life into a living nightmare since you met her. But you can go back to the way things were. Turn around, go back downstairs, lock your door, and forget she ever existed. Reclaim your sanity, Richard.”

It’s so tempting. I could call my daughter Emily, check in with her, see how she’s doing, maybe set up a lunch date with her. Or maybe I should hop in my car, pick a direction, and start driving until I end up someplace far, far away from all this madness. Someplace quiet, calm, and above all,
normal
. Someplace where I could forget.

But I look at Liana then, see her nodding at me, urging me to go, forcing a smile through trembling lips, tears sliding down her cheeks. No one has ever loved me this much, and I know no one else ever will.

I look at Gray-Hair. “No,” I say. “
You
leave. I killed your Spindlekin, and I’ll kill you, too, if I have to.”

“There are other options.” He rises to his feet. “With the others gone, there will be more than enough Desiderata for me. I am willing to share.” He grins, and I see bits of ovoid lodged between his teeth. “Besides, it’s more fun when you share.”

He comes toward me then, living hair waving like stalks of grass in the wind, and he lifts the last morsel of ovoid up to my face. The smell, that strangely compelling sweet-rank scent of pungent decay Liana gives off, rolls forth from the bit of egg, so strong and overpowering that my knees weaken and almost give out on me. I feel a primal urge to lunge forward and snatch the morsel out of Gray-Hair’s hand with my teeth, as if I possessed no more will or choice than a ravenous baby bird being offered a fat, juicy worm by its mother. I start salivating, and my head inches forward. But I stop myself.