The Scream (10 page)

"Hello? Yes?"
Be calm
, she thought.

The voice on the other end was crisp and female and professionally compassionate. "
May I speak to a Miss Jessica Malloy, please?
"

"This is Ms. Malloy."

"
Miss Malloy, this is Lenore Kleinkind at the Susquehanna Women's Services Center
."

"Yes." Small voice, sounds of throat clearing. "I've been expecting your call." She paused. "So . . . what's the verdict?"

"
Miss Malloy, your blood test results are positive
."

Silence. Oppressive. Muted bullhorn in the background, wailing something about saving children from-

"
Miss Malloy? Are you there? I said
-"

"Yes, I heard you. The test results are positive."

"
Yes
."

The remainder was brief and to the point. Miss Kleinkind, pointing out, in accordance with recent federal regulations, she was obligated to point out the many services available. Further, suggesting that Miss Malloy come in for a consultation. Ms. Malloy agreeing to come in the next morning and informing her that there was only one service she currently required, and that she required it immediately. Miss Kleinkind saying very well and arranging for a time.

As Jesse listened and cried, she thought back to the other times in her life she'd marched down this very same road. Once, when she was seventeen and stupid and a little too fertile to ride bareback. Her parents had paid for it, thinking they were sending her on a weekend skiing trip. It had passed like a very bad dream into the closet of her soul, and hardly rattled at all.

The next time was four years later and a whole world wiser. She had quite literally fucked up, putting a little too much faith in the glowing advertising claims of a certain brand of contraceptive sponge. She fell into the unlucky twentieth percentile, who were almost certain to never appear on the box looking happy and carefree.

She'd refused to allow herself to view it as anything other than an invasion of her autonomy, and further refused to
submit to the biological conscription at a time when her career looked so promising.

All the same, she had done it with a little more penitent awareness that time: bargain-shopping through the Village Voice classifieds for the best price, ultimately opting for a local anesthetic. It was cheaper, and besides, that way she saw exactly what was going on from start to finish.

Sounded good at the time, anyway. The procedure was performed by a petite Korean physician at a service on East Thirty-seventh Street, who was very concise and competent. As they prepared the local, the matronly nurse advised her to "hold my hand." She wondered why.

She found out soon enough. The procedure was competent and expedient and modestly professional.

And, to no one's real surprise, excruciatingly painful.

That was okay, though. That was to be expected. And seeing it had helped, somehow, to accept the responsibility. She needed to see it and hear it and feel it, as the suction pump pulled and pulled and . . .

She became very cautious from then on: multiple methods, more caring selection as to partners. A lot of introspection. She was resolved that that would be the last time.

Which was exactly what was so unfair. She had been cautious. A little overathletic, maybe, but still . . .

The rubber had broken. It happens. The sperm were heroically inclined. Unfortunate, but to be expected, knowing Pete.

But the cap . . .

Her cervical cap had come dislodged. It shouldn't have. It was new and a perfect fit right down to the centimeter. The odds were astronomically in their favor against that's ever happening.

But it went and happened, just the same.

And now, as the late summer afternoon peaked and the unfairness of it all became moot, Jesse savored the flat taste of bile that accompanied the title of the only service she would be requiring tomorrow afternoon. A strangely brutal word, with harshly backlit consonants that raked against her insides like a rusty coat hanger.

Outside, the chorus was dying down.

"Holy, ho-lee,

Holy, ho-leee . . ."

Jesse cried.

Mark Schimmel was just pulling the last trash barrel into position when the jet-black van screamed into the BP Gas 'n Go. It was 5:56 in York, Pennsylvania, which was checkout time for the second shift, and Mark had no intention of wearing his goddamn green regulation grease monkey jumpsuit for one second past six o'clock. In this kind of heat, it was a goddamn pressure cooker. It was insane. It ran against every civilized notion of human decency.

Unfortunately, however, Big Joe Glandular was there, and Big Joe was district supervisor. He was also a complete bastard, but that did nothing to mitigate his authority. Enhanced it, in fact. He had proven that by firing Sally, docking Alan back to beginner's wages after nearly ten years of dedicated service, and single-handedly turning the lives of all who worked there upside-down.

Not to mention zeroing in on the mysterious cash shortages that had plagued the station for the last four months.

Which was not good news for Mark Schimmel: he of the skinny build and bold beak nose and twenty years of age. Oh, no. Not when he'd been generating an extra three hundred dollars a month that was entirely off the books. The odds against getting caught were great (he was very careful, making a point of visiting everybody's shift every day and-trusted buddy that he was-only pilfering five to fifteen bucks per shift from the cashbox in the back). It wasn't fear of reprisal at all.

It was just that he'd come to rely on the extra income.

Rather heavily, in fact.

So, with Big Joe on the premises, it was important to be cool. Everything by the book. Hence, the keeping-on of his miserable BP uniform. Hence, the orderly blocking-off of the islands on his side of the station. Let them get gas on poor old scapegoat Alan's side for the next four minutes.

But did the black van get the hint? Hell, no. It howled in off Queen Street from the direction of I-83, neatly circumvented the trash barrel in the center of the outside lane, and screeched to a halt in front of the #3 Regular pump, engine idling high and heavy, stereo blaring.

"Oh, nice," Schimmel bitched to himself. "Thanks a lot, guys. Real bright." He thought of yelling at them, then thought instantly better. Big Joe would like that a lot, you bet.
Time to play Politeness Man
, he told himself, and sauntered over to the driver's side.

"Fill it up. Regular." The driver said. He was an intense-looking guy in his late thirties, early forties, with a thick brush of red beard and very little hair up top. His voice was soft, but it cut surprisingly well through the noise of the van. His eyes were hidden behind black shades.

"Sorry," Mark said. "This side is closed. If you want-"

"Fill it up," the driver repeated. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard.

"You don't understand," Mark began, and then the smell socked into his nostrils. A ripe and rotten smell, made dizzying by the heat.

It was coming from the van.

"No,
you
don't understand," the driver said, and Mark could feel the cold gaze from behind those sunglasses with alarming clarity. "Fill it up or I'll blow your little nuts off. And I do mean now."

From inside the van, several voices made an identical sound:

"
EEYAAOW!
"

It was time to reconsider, Mark realized. Perhaps it would be a good idea to serve this guy after all. Bravery was not his long suit; and besides, he liked his nuts right where they were.

"Fill 'er up," he said with obedient pleasantry, and nearly gagged on the words. The smell was that bad. It made the reek of petrol almost heavenly by comparison. A rush of nausea gripped him as he took the nozzle out of #3 pump, flipped the handle down, and walked over to where the van's chrome gas cap hung gleaming in the evening sun.

"You wanna cut the engine?" he called out as he twisted off the cap and inserted the nozzle.

No response.

"I can't fill it up if you don't cut the engine!" he announced, and then he heard shouting, followed by the sliding-open of the side door on the passenger side. More impassioned shouting followed: some of it from the driver, none of it directed at Mark. He decided to leave well enough alone on that particular subject, set the nozzle on the second notch, and moved toward the bucket where his squeegee lay waiting.

That was when the Screamer came around the back of the van.

"
Hey
, dude! EEYAAOW!" the guy hollered. "How's the gas-pumpin' bizniz?" His voice was thick, and his gate was stumbling, as if he didn't really have control over his body. Drugs, most likely: downs, or booze, or both together.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

No, not by a long shot.

Because the guy's skin was all wrong: so wrong that it was painful to look at. It was puffy and pale and greenish, mottled, as if there were some rank disease just waiting for its chance to burst through the surface. And it was
slick
, in a way that made Mark's own flesh crawl.

It didn't sweat the way skin sweats.

It sweated like
cheese
. . .

"Oh, Jesus," Mark said, involuntarily backing away. He felt the kick of his double Wendyburger with onions, pickles, and extra cheese, reminding him that they weren't quite digested yet, they could come kicking back at him in a highly acidic and lumpy state at any moment. It did not give him happy feets. He wavered, belched a rancid bubble, and backed away some more.

"Hey, man!" the Screamer continued, grinning. His gums, Mark saw, were black as the wraparound shades that mercifully shielded his eyes from view. "You dig The Scream?"

"Uh . . . yeah." There was a lump in Mark's throat that was easily the size of his prominent Adam's apple, and it tasted very bad. There was no hiding the revulsion that grimaced across his face; but there was still the voice in his head, and it said
be cool, be cool
. . .

"Yeah, well, we're goin' ta see 'em tomorrow night, man," the Screamer enthused. "Up in Philly. Gonna be fuckin' great. EEYAAOW!" He threw his head back as he howled the last, coyotelike. The flesh between his chin and his shoulder blades pulled strangely taut.

As if it were threatening to snap . . .

"Oh," Mark said. It was in response to his stomach, which said that it was, yes, ready to kick into reverse. He clutched his belly and stepped backward off the island, stumbling as he landed one step down.

"And you know what's really cool, man?" the Screamer persisted. "They got this backup band called Cleaver, man, and they're really fuckin' great. You ever hear 'em?"

Mark shook his head no, less in answer to the question than in denial of the truth that shambled toward him now. He shot a quick glance back at the office, saw Big Joe still bawling out the new station manager, both of their backs toward him. Suddenly, the great outdoors as seen from the top of the Queen Street hill seemed monstrously claustrophobic, all that dark blue sky and rolling countryside closing in like the walls in one of those 1940s Universal Pictures torture chamber scenes.

"They got this great fuckin' song, man. It's called 'Saigon Lullaby,' and the lead singer sets himself on fire an' shit when they do it. It's really wild, man. EEYAAOW! You know?"

Mark didn't know anything but the sudden pain in his ankle as he slipped, the slowly dawning realization that things were going to get worse, much worse, in a matter of seconds.

The Screamer was reaching for the #5 Premium No Lead nozzle. "GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THERE!" the driver hollered, but the Screamer just smiled and kept on reaching.

"He just goes like this," the Screamer said, and then the nozzle was in his hand, and the lever went down, and the nozzle was over his head, pointing downward like the finger of God.

"
No
," Mark whispered.

The Screamer pulled the trigger.

* * *

In the next ten seconds too many things happened. Mark Schimmel saw them all, saw them all too clearly.

He saw the fierce Premium No Lead jet stream plow into the crown of the Screamer's head, spitting spray in the air, sending curtains of sheer and combustible fluid down the face and either side. He saw the Screamer's mouth open wide to emit another animal "EEYAAOW!"-garbled and gurgling this time . . .

. . . as Mark found himself thinking, Why doesn't he scream, I got gas in my eyes once, I screamed for a half hour . . .

. . . and the Screamer's sunglasses washed off his face in the high-octane torrent, revealing sockets black with emptiness and stunted, lingering decomposition . . .

. . . and pools of tiny worm-things oozed, gleaming red, from out of those sockets and onto the Screamer's cheeks, then flopped like squirming confetti down to the pavement below . . .

. . . and the back tires of the van began to squeal as the driver yelled,
I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS!
and kicked into gear, peeling away with the #3 nozzle still attached . . .

. . . and the hose ripped away, a literal geyser of gasoline spewing out to puddle then pool an area that was ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet wide . . .

. . . and the numbers on the gas pump spun . . .

. . . and the severed hose caught, and the nozzle yanked out, and the cold steel clattered to the pavement . . .

. . . and the numbers spun . . .

. . . and the worm-things fell blindly off the curb . . .

. . . and the numbers spun . . .

. . . and the Screamer pulled a Bic lighter from his pocket, held it aloft with jittering fingers . . .

. . . the ring finger of which was missing . . .

And Mark Schimmel began to run then, even though his left ankle was screaming pain and his mind was completely fried. He didn't run toward the tiny little BP office building, because he knew that it was already too late to throw the emergency cutoff switch, much less the circuit breakers in the back. He could see gawky Big Joe Glandular and the new manager staring slack-jawed, inches from the switches. They would not get to them in time either.