Always Free Fiction: The Scrabbling, the Scratching, the Clicking and Scraping, Ep 2
"This dinner isn't for you!"
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The Scrabbling, the Scratching, the Clicking and Scraping
Episode 2:
When we originally secured the second floor, we did as the military instructed. We littered the floors with broken glass and extra nails. We poured paint and glue all over the hardwood, the tile, and the carpet. The bedrooms and bathroom were impossible to navigate without getting cut or caught.
Of course, all of these precautions were pointless busy work the military had formulated to keep the masses from panicking. It gave us hope. But the paint would eventually dry up. The glue went tacky, then solid. And the nails and broken glass weren’t even close to a deterrent when the enemy could easily navigate around everything with those skinny legs and tiny feet of theirs.
Those thousands of skinny legs and tiny feet, that had been scrabbling, scratching, clicking and scraping against the outside of our brownstone.
Now they are inside.
The three of us stare at the ceiling and listen.
We hear them. Only a few have gotten in. There will be more. Dozens and dozens more.
But for now, only a few. We have time.
“Then dish up,” Victor says, breathless.
I hadn’t realized I’d said we have time out loud.
Michael grabs the pasta bowls and takes them into the dining room.
I pull the pasta from the boiling water and throw it into the saucepan. I toss and toss and toss, working my forearm muscles as they strain against the weight of the saucepan, the sauce, and all the pasta. The last of what’s left from the crates. The last of what’s left in the kitchen, in the fridge, in the pantry, in the entire brownstone.
Hell, it could be the last of what’s left in the entire neighborhood. Maybe even the entire city.
Possibly the entire country.
I’ll never truly know.
Victor takes the wine glasses into the dining room, leaving me alone.
I pull the baggie from my pocket, stare at the white powder, then quickly shake the powder into the pasta. I stir and stir, hoping it will meld with the strong flavor of the anchovies. I want this to be peaceful.
“Dad!” Michael calls.
“Coming!” I call back, giving the pasta one last stir.
Then I carry the saucepan into the dining room and dish out the food into the bowls in front of Michael and Victor. I leave mine empty.
Being a teenage boy who’s been on the edge of starvation for weeks and weeks, Michael tears into the pasta like a wild animal.
There’s another crash and more shattering of glass from above.
Victor, with a loaded fork almost to his mouth, looks from the ceiling to me. Then he sees my pasta bowl.
“Why aren’t you eating?” he asks.
“I will, I will,” I say. “I want you two to enjoy it first. Eat seconds if you can.”
“I can,” Michael says around a mouthful of food. “This is so good.” Then he pauses too and looks at me. “Go ahead and eat, Dad. There’s plenty.”
“I know,” I say and sit down, wine glass in hand. “But you know how I am.”
Michael laughs. It’s genuine, and it feels good to hear that sound.
“It used to drive Mom crazy,” Michael says. “Dad would wait until everyone had loaded their plates with as much food as they wanted before he’d even begin to dish up for himself.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say. “Too many years working as a professional chef.”
“Cooks eat last,” Michael says.
“Cooks eat last,” I say and lift my glass.
“I’m a doctor, so I wouldn’t know about all that,” Victor says. He chews and then swallows. His eyes drift up to the ceiling. “Or I was a doctor. Can’t really be a doctor if there aren’t any patients left.”
Michael burps. We all laugh.
Something heavy crashes to the floor above. Dust drifts down through the floorboards.
We all stop laughing.
Victor takes a few more bites then pushes his plate away.
“My stomach has shrunk,” he says and pats his too-thin belly. “Don’t want to make myself sick.”
“Eat,” I say. “It doesn’t matter if you get sick. Not anymore.”
He eyes me carefully, then looks down at his food. His eyes widen, he starts to say something, then closes his mouth as his wide eyes drift over to Michael.
We both watch the boy devour his meal.
Victor glances at me, and I smile. He nods and picks his fork back up.
“You need to eat too,” he says, his voice soft, calming. I bet he had a great bedside manner as a doctor.
“I will,” I say.
“Eat,” he insists. “Join us.”
“We starting a cult?” Michael asks and laughs. He jams another forkful into his mouth. “I guess no matter what cult you start now, it’s a doomsday cult by default.”
He laughs some more. Then he keeps on laughing.
His eyes water, and tears roll down his dirty cheeks.
“Doomsday cult,” he manages to say around his laughter
“Tyler?” Victor says. He’s smiling, but his eyes are dead serious as he stares at me. “Don’t let him laugh alone.”
“Laugh alone?” Michael asks, still laughing. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll laugh too,” I say and reach across the table for the saucepan. “But allow me this moment, Victor. Please?”
He nods and smiles over at Michael.
Michael is chuckling, but it’s slowing down. His fork slides from his grip and clatters against the side of his pasta bowl.
There’s a massive crash from above, and in seconds the entire house is filled with the sounds of scrabbling, scratching, clicking, and scraping as the cacophony of thousands of feet echoes down from the second floor.
Michael is swaying in his chair.
Victor is watching him. Without turning to look at me, he asks, “What’s the end game?”
“We die,” I say bluntly. I’m not worried about alarming Michael. Not anymore. My son is in a drug-induced bliss right now.
“But you haven’t eaten yet,” Victor says.
His head slowly swivels on his neck. I can see it’s taking him a good amount of effort to stay coherent and present in the moment.
“I’ll eat some,” I say.
“Promise?” he asks.
“Promise,” I say and nod at my bowl. “I wouldn’t dare let this all go to waste.”
Michael’s head is bobbing, and I can see it’s close to the end.
I get up and walk around the dining table just in time to catch him before he falls face-first into what’s left of his dinner. I gently lean him back in his chair, brush his hair out of his face, and kiss his forehead.
My tears are hot. My heart is breaking.
The same can be said for the second floor of my brownstone. Everything above is being broken as the things rampage about, looking for an exit. Looking for a way down here where the food is.
Victor yawns and pushes his bowl away. His eyes blink, blink, blink, then close.
Wood splinters above, and Victor’s eyes pop open. He tries to focus on me.
“I hope…you know…what you are…doing,” he mutters as he fights his fate. “Don’t…”
He coughs, and his body slumps. I move to his chair and sit him upright.
“Don’t what?” I ask, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
“Don’t…” He gasps and shudders. He takes a slow, deep breath. “Suffer.”
Then that deep breath catches, catches, and slowly leaks out from between his lips.
His eyes are locked onto mine, but they are empty. I close them with my fingertips and turn back to Michael. He still has a little life left in him. The power of youth.
I drag my chair next to Michael’s and take his hand in mine. I entwine our fingers and bring his hand up to my lips for a last kiss.
“Do you remember when we went camping in Forest Grove?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond, of course.
“You were digging through an old, rotten log and found that centipede nest,” I continue, holding Michael’s hand as if it was the only thing left in the world. “You screamed for about ten minutes straight. It drove your sister nuts. Mom and I could tell that was the only reason you screamed for so long. To bug Tami. But we let it go on because it was so funny to watch her chase you around the campsite, yelling at you to stop screaming.”
I chuckle at the memory.
“Then you ran by the rotten log, she followed, and that’s when she saw the swarm of centipedes pouring out of the rotted wood,” I say and wipe my eyes. Tears of laughter? Tears of sorrow? Does it matter?
“She saw those centipedes, and then she started screaming. But her screaming was real. Mom and I couldn’t stop laughing.”
More glass shatters above. I can hear the wood at the top of the stairs creaking and protesting as the weight of what is probably hundreds of the things presses against it. I pause my story and wait to see if this is it. But I don’t hear the barricade give way.
Good. I need more time. Just a little more time.
“Until a Ranger came by to tell us to keep it down,” I continue. “He said screaming like that makes people think we are in trouble when we aren’t. Technically, he could fine us. Your mom apologized and smiled that way only she could. The Ranger wasn’t happy, but he didn’t fine us after all.”
Michael’s grip loosens. His fingers go slack. His arm goes slack.
I don’t want to look, but I have to.
His chest isn’t rising any longer. His entire body is lifeless. Just dead weight being held up by a dining chair and my grief.
I make sure he won’t fall over, then I stand up from my chair.
I walk into the kitchen and turn all the knobs on the range to high. Then I go back into the dining room and clear the bowls. I clear the saucepan and wine glasses. I make a point of carefully cleaning everything, leaving the wet dishes to dry in the side rack poised at the edge of the farmhouse-style sink I used to be so proud of.
The smell of gas fills the kitchen. I could sit down and let it all be over, but that’s not the plan.
It takes me a few minutes because I want to be careful with their bodies. I need to be respectful of what I have done. I have a plan, but it isn’t calculated and cruel. I’m not a monster like the things above.
I show my son’s corpse kindness as I carry it out of the dining room and into the kitchen. I think of all the times I carried him to his bed as a small child. That boy would fall asleep to anything. It could be four in the afternoon, and he’d crash out on the couch the second a movie was put on. To this day, I’m not sure if he’s actually watched The Lion King from start to finish in one sitting. I know I had to watch it in parts with him for weeks.
I crouch and slide Michael’s body to the floor. I prop him up with his back against the fridge. His head rests right next to a family picture from when we traveled to the Grand Canyon after Tami graduated from high school. That day was scorching, and you could see the sweat stains on all of our shirts. But we are smiling. We were so happy.
Little did we know that evil would descend on us all only a year later.
Although can the things be called evil?
They aren’t demons. They aren’t supernatural or anything. Extranatural, I believe, is what some scientist called them.
Natural, but extra.
That makes me smile. Michael would have liked that joke.
The scrabbling, scratching, clicking, and scraping is suddenly louder and louder. The things must be pouring into the second floor. This brownstone is over a hundred years old, and while they knew how to build shit back then, nothing is designed for that kind of weight. I can hear the floor above me protest with dangerous cracking and popping noises.
I don’t have much time left.
I stand up from Michael’s body and go into the dining room to retrieve Victor. I drag him since the intimacy of carrying him doesn’t feel right. I make sure I don’t knock his body against anything. He’s not my son, but he deserves just as much respect.
A board breaks. One of the boards at the top of the stairs. The sound of the things grows exponentially louder.
I manage to get Victor into the kitchen, and I situate his corpse up against the pantry. I fish in his pockets for his phone and pull it out. I pause Elvis and scroll until I find what I’m looking for.
“Sorry, Victor,” I say as I play Rachmaninoff. “I love the King, but I’m going out with class.”
All of his musical arguments echo in my head as phantom responses to what he would have considered blasphemy.
I stand, stretch, and close my eyes for a second as Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead begins its slow progression. I turn it up to help cover the noise of more wood breaking.
Then even the speaker can’t mask the sound of thousands upon thousands of feet scrabbling, scratching, clicking, and scraping as the things race down the stairs to find me.
“I’m in here,” I say, but not too loudly. They know where I am. I really just want to hear my own voice.
The scrabbling, scratching, clicking and scraping becomes a roar. They’ve entered the hallway and are almost in the dining room.
I cross the kitchen to the junk drawer and pull it open.
Then I freeze.
The matches aren’t in there.
Shit.
I spin around and stare at the kitchen doorway. Then I look down at Michael. I hurry to his body and pat his pockets down. He’d lit the candles for dinner.
I jam my hands in his pockets when patting doesn’t produce results. His pockets are empty. I look back at the kitchen doorway.
The noise is deafening. I have only seconds. If that.
I’m up and sprinting into the dining room.
There! On the sideboard!
The box of matches!
My legs get tangled in one of the chairs, and I fall forward. My chin clips the edge of the sideboard and stars spring before my eyes. I can taste blood as my teeth pierce my tongue.
The world is confusing and hazy, but I have a plan. I have a fucking plan, god dammit!
My hand slaps blindly at the sideboard until I find the box of matches. I pull myself up and try to shake the wooziness from my head.
Shadows fill the opposite doorway.
They have found me.
I only glance in their direction for a split second before I sprint back into the kitchen.
I can hear their feet scrabbling, scratching, clicking and scraping after me.
My shoulder collides with the side of the kitchen doorway, and I go spinning out of control as I throw myself into the kitchen. The box of matches flies out of my hand and bounces against the oven door, landing right back in front of me. I laugh at the strangeness of it all. Then I cough as my lungs fill with gas.
I’m able to sit up and get my back against the oven door, so I’m facing the kitchen doorway.
The things fill the doorway. Impossible in size with mandibles as wide across as a soccer ball, the centipedes push against each other to be the first ones in to feast.
“I’m not waiting until you dish up, you motherfuckers,” I say and open the box of matches. I will not let them eat my son or my friend. Or me.
The match feels like power between my fingers.
I strike it just as the dam of centipedes breaks and the things stream in at me.
“This dinner isn’t for you!” I shout.
There’s a flash, and I feel the heat for a brief…
See those buttons up there? Do it. Doooooooo iiiiiiit!
Great story. We all hold our fates, just make them count.