Feed

July 10th 2015
Sweeny, Nebraska

“We're issuing a heat advisory for today. Temperatures are supposed to exceed the hundreds. So, folks, stay inside, stay cool, and stay hydrated...”

“Too bad the damn air conditioning won't work,” I mutter to myself, ripping open another roll of nickels. Useless God damn nickels. Crack, rip, clink clink clink clink clink.

The television spits out sticky static in the boiling shade of the hardware store, the occasional car passes by on the street, and the automated bells at the Lutheran church nearby drone tiredly. A yellowing fan on the counter pushes stale air through my hair, weighted down by sweat. My green poly-blend polo is stuck to my back and the stupid damn polyester smock over it is exceedingly hot and ugly with just ill-fitting teepees where my breasts should be.

The day's been boring. Nothing to do, nothing to see, no one to talk to but myself and the flies that buzz around my crown of salty-sweet sweat. Just the flies and me.

I tuck a stray strand of blonde hair behind my ear and close the cash register, slumping over on the rickety stool I've been perching on for the majority of the day. I think about just closing up shop early and going home or finding something cold to drink, but then my grandparents pop into my head. “We trust you, Ellie, we do, but don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.” The hardware store is their pride and joy and closing early is something they would never do because “you never know when someone might have a hardware emergency”. They’re better people than I am and that never ceases to make me feel guilty.

Sometimes I wish I had gone with them, my mom and my grandparents, but family functions have never been my thing and the thought of being alone, without my immediate shepherding me through life, is too good to pass up. While they're gone, at least I can feign autonomy. It’s strange how turning 18 doesn’t automatically make you feel like an adult.

Somewhere in the back room there’s a sharp clatter, like one of the push brooms fell off the wall. I tense up automatically and ease myself off of the stool. “Harvey? Is that you?”

Harvey works here too. I don’t think he’s supposed to work today, but maybe I’m wrong and he let himself in through the back door.

I wait for a reply, but there isn’t one. “Harvey?” I call a little louder and in response I hear hard footfalls coming from the far left wall behind a few aisles of shelving.

“Hello?” I gingerly reach under the counter for grandpa’s old luger. It’s been a while since grandpa’s taken me out shooting, so I’m a little rusty. I don’t plan on using it anyway. It’s just meant to scare.

I gently nudge through the counter door and stalk around to the aisle where the footsteps were, holding the gun low with both hands; there’s cold sweat between my palms and the metal. I rest my back against the shelves and peer around the corner, my heart pounding.

“Jesus Christ! Harvey, didn’t you hear me calling? You almost gave me a heart attack, asshole.” I tuck the gun into the back of my jeans.

Harvey continues to stare at the bottom shelves. He doesn’t answer me, doesn’t look up. “I know. Epoxy. Really fascinating stuff, Harv.”

He turns his head slightly towards me, like he’s just now hearing me. From this angle it looks like his face and his neck are bruised. And maybe there’s some blood? Did he get in a fight? “Hey, are you okay?” I take a step towards him. “You look like you lost a fight with a lawn mower.” I chuckle hesitantly. “Harvey?”

Suddenly he jerks his head up and his eyes are on mine. And they’re red. Unnervingly red. He opens his mouth with a low, growing wheeze and this viscous, black tar starts spilling onto his lips, dripping heavily onto the floor.

“Harv?” I whisper; my voice cracks.

He lurches forward abruptly and I stumble back into the shelves, paint brushes tumbling to the ground around me. His fingertips barely graze my neck and I spill onto my hands and knees and then stagger to my feet, tripping my way to the front door. I wrench it open and the joyful ding sounds and then I’m standing out on the sidewalk in awe.

Something happened in the last few minutes. It all changed so suddenly.

People rush past in a blur on the street.

They’re all screaming.

A car washes up on the other side of the road, slamming into a fire hydrant. Water erupts from it, showering the pavement.

Harvey slams his palms into the glass door behind me. He keeps banging and banging and banging and then he begins to smash his head against it instead, smearing the glass with his blood and that black substance.

I break out into a dead run down the road. I need to get home.

The crowd undulates around me and the screaming never stops. I pump my legs faster, knowing hell is at my heels, though I’m not sure what that hell may be.

Then the crowd reaches a dead end—a big car pileup where a small fire’s starting. Some begin to trample over the crushed vehicles, others head back the way they came, and others begin to pray.

I spy a small alleyway to the right and I break off from the rest. The alley is short and ends with a tall, foreboding fence. The top of it gleams with barbed wire.

I glance behind me and see that a group of about five of the sick are entering the alleyway. No way out.

I clamber on top of a large black dumpster and stare up at the fence.

There’s no other way.

Pursued by reaching red arms and angry, open mouths, I cling to the fence, hauling myself up and up to the top. I manage to get my legs over without touching the barbed wire, but then I feel fingers tugging at the chain link, fingertips grabbing anxiously at my bare legs. I can feel them on my skin.

I let out a cry and plummet the rest of the way down, gouging my arm from my elbow to wrist on the barbs.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I moan and cradle my arm in my work vest. At least I landed okay. The blood’s coming fast, soaking through the garment quickly. I start feeling dizzy.

“Gotta get up. Get up, Eliot.” I urge myself onto my feet and this pressure builds in my head for a moment and my vision is spotted with inkblots. I blink it away and stagger out onto a small side street, not caring to look back at the rattling chain link fence behind me.
My arm pulses against my chest as I push on towards the main road, hoping to bypass the pileup and get home. Just need to get home.

I’m slowing, swaying when I turn onto the road. I think I’ve lost a lot of blood. My vision wavers in front of me like a mirage. I take a step forward and a car screeches to a halt to the left of me. I peer inside to see a man and a woman looking at me apprehensively.

“Have you been bitten?” the man demands.

“…what?”

“Were you bitten?” the woman asks this time with a threatening undertone.

“…no, I don’t… no.”

“Then get in,” she says.

“What?”

“Get in!” she orders, reaching behind her to shove open the right backseat car door.

And so I do.