Deadly Messengers (24 page)

Hunger suddenly gnawed at him, ravenous, eat-your-own-arm hunger. He’d held off going out for as long as he could, unsure if he could handle the people out there, the voices, the stares, the way they said, “thank you” and “please,” as though the world was a perfect, rosy place.

Lyall’s world had fallen apart. He couldn’t remember when it hadn’t felt as though the walls of life were crumbling about him, raining down, and crushing him with their weight. His own personal tower of Babel with nobody speaking his language.

Every day his body grew wearier, as though it, too, were giving up on him, just like his mind. As he physically weakened, the urges grew stronger, pushing at his sanity, asking of him the impossible and the terrible. He shrank from them, but they pursued him in the deepness of the night.

He’d tried to practice Dr. Willis’s advice. He tried to think positively; to take his medication; call a helpline when he became overwhelmed; and seek out friends and family.

He’d done all that. Yes, he’d done
all that
. He’d pulled on every lifeline, one rope at a time, only to discover they weren’t connected to anything solid, anything that would pull him out of this nightmare. As each one failed, he tumbled deeper, even as he looked upward, praying to a God whom he knew had abandoned him.

He was only twenty-six.
A wonderful life lay ahead of him
. His family and psychiatrist’s words, and even the various voices on the other end of the telephone lifeline had repeated them ad nauseam.

“What is wonderful?” he’d ask. He had so little experience of it, spending much of his adult life doing battle with this dark, horrible thing inside his mind that insisted on living life its way.

He thought of it as evil oil that had entered his mind around age seventeen, taking him on some terrible trip without the pleasure of mind-altering drugs.

Lyall
had
tried.

He’d tried for his family. He’d tried for his mom. He’d tried for his wife. For Karina, he’d tried
so
hard, because she hadn’t deserved him, hadn’t deserved the absolute shit he’d put her through. She was a good woman, harsh with their son sometimes, but he figured that came down to him; she was raising the kid on her own. She’d left him two years ago and he’d tried to win her back, see his boy. Then she’d moved twice, changed her number, and it was over. He didn’t want to ruin their lives, so he didn’t look for them. Set them free.

Then he’d met Helen, who seemed to understand. She’d stuck by him through the therapy, the doctor’s visits, the manipulation of his drug dosage for the depression and the episodes when the drugs didn’t work. Her support helped. For a while. For a while, he was almost happy, could almost reach the golden lifeboat within himself and sail off toward the happy horizon to join the life he saw thriving around him. The life he just couldn’t seem to touch.

In the end, Helen left, too. Took her own lifeboat and saved herself from the darkness he exhaled every day.

Lyall couldn’t keep going. Yet, he couldn’t stop. The courage he needed to do the right thing eluded him. He’d almost managed it once, a bottle of scotch and three beers his fortification to take the last step. He’d passed out before he could wrangle the rope; a two-day hangover was all he managed for the effort. Like everything else in his life, the attempt wounded him, but didn’t kill him.

What doesn’t kill you, hurts you.

Tonight, the darkness crept up on him. He’d swallowed down a double dosage of pills. Prozac helped, taking the edge off, making his brain feel less like some alien was in there running the show. This past week, he’d needed extra doses to fight the insomnia and fight back the insects crawling beneath his skin.

When he’d finally gained the strength to go out to get food, look what happened. The Burger Boys drive-thru was so fucking slow, he thought he’d die waiting. Five cars, shunting toxic fumes back at him, were queued ahead.

“Fuck this.” Lyall slammed his hand against the steering wheel. Why hadn’t his stupid body decided it was hungry earlier, before the mealtime rush?

The dashboard clock read seven twenty-four. He wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere. If his stomach weren’t filled with savage piranhas nipping at its walls, he wouldn’t care if he sat there all night.

The pills were to blame; insatiable hunger a side effect, but he needed those shitty chemicals to maintain
his
version of sane. They weren’t the lesser of two evils. It was
all
evil.

Today, he’d planned badly, skipping lunch at work, too down to leave his desk. Finding no food in the house when he arrived home, he’d spent too long debating whether to leave the house again. Attending his part-time nowhere job took all his strength. Now here he was, starving and waiting in this fucking line of cars fantasizing about eating a soggy, bullshit, take-away meal.

Two cars ahead moved through the order area. He hated those ordering speakers. He could never understand the metal android voice and
it
could never understand him.

“Two down. Three to go,” he muttered, rocking himself in the seat. The fumes from the three cars ahead were killing him.
Really killing him.
He was in a gas chamber. He reached over and shoved the side air vents closed, just as another car took off. The interior still reeked of exhaust fumes. He coughed. Hunger pangs combined with the noxious fumes. Nausea punched him in the guts, but he held it back.

Another car drove off. Its yellow indicator flashing as it waited to turn onto the road; the flashing matched the pulse in his head.

Food.
He needed food. He could almost taste the burger, feel it slide down his neck, and meet his clawing gut.

Lyall checked the clock again. He’d glanced at it four times in the past few minutes. Seven thirty-one. Another minute, surely that’s all it would be.

More long minutes throbbed by. Something was wrong up ahead. The last car hadn’t moved in what seemed like hours. Fucking hours that were killing him. If he didn’t eat soon, he would start eating his own hand.

Lyall leaned forward in his seat to stare ahead through the dirty windshield, trying to see what was happening, what could be causing the delay. Heads moved and bobbed in the car, which stood only ten feet between him and sating his hunger. It looked like a woman in the driver’s seat and a couple of kids in the back. She leaned out the window, talking into the speaker, for what seemed like far too long to be making an order. He rolled down the window, listening, but all he heard were snatches of the metallic voice, too distant and disembodied to understand.

Was it saying: Move on? Collect your order at the next window?

Please, let it be saying, “move on.”

Nothing happened. No movement.

This wasn’t fast food; this was fry-your-fucking-brains-waiting food.

Seven thirty-one.

Seven thirty-two.

Seven thirty-three.

Wild panic and all kinds of pain sparked in his brain like a firework display. Colors, explosions, the whole shebang. He needed to eat. HE NEEDED TO EAT!

This woman … this woman with these kids bouncing in the back—yeah, they were jumping up and down like it was Christmas—was in his way. Who lets their kids do that in a car, while the poor fuck behind starves to death?

He’d been doing the right thing, waiting for his turn that, in his life experience, rarely came. When was it his turn for love, his turn for happiness, his turn to get out from under the fucking hunger killing him right now.

Lyall’s palm smashed down on the horn, as though it were an enemy to be beaten into submission. He held it down—his palm now throbbing from the blow—to make his point.

HOOONNNNK! HOOONNNNK!

In the path of his headlights’ glow, he caught a glimpse of her blonde hair and a hand movement. The image burned into his eyes like the aftermath of a camera flash. A single raised finger, standing erect from a fist. A message to him.

“Fuck you,” he screamed. “Fuck you!”

She
was the one holding
him
up. Holding up all the others waiting behind. And
she
had the fucking attitude to give
him
the bird? The world was wrong on this Friday night. So very truly wrong.

He should get out of the car, abandon this shit, and show her what happens to women with attitude. If he did, though, it might cause a scene, stop the line, and slow the food. His gnawing stomach put paid to that.

Finally, at seven thirty-four, the bitch’s car inched away toward the collection window. Fucking great for her. She scored no punishment for using more time than she had a right, to order a fucking, simple meal.

When Lyall arrived at the speaker box that usually made English sound like a foreign language, he studied the board of food images. Fat and sugar delivery systems.
Exactly
what he needed.

The metallic voice addressed him: “Can … take… yo… orda, ple.se.”

He wouldn’t be
that
bitch, selfish and inconsiderate. He already knew what he wanted. He’d had long enough to think about it, that’s for sure.

“Yeah, give me the Great Southern Burger meal.” For the splurge, he craved the chill and sugar rush of a slushie. It’d been on his mind the entire drive here. “And can I have a Coke slushie, too?”

“Sorry, masheeen’s brok‘n.”

Nearly every fucking time Lyall wanted one, their machine was broken. Fuck their machine. Why advertise it?
Why?

Dr. Willis’s voice entered his head.
Calm. Calm. It’s just a slushie. Just a slushie.

“Another time.” He spoke aloud, soothed himself, using all the tactics embedded in his brain from his bi-weekly sessions with the doctor.

They did help calm him sometimes.
Sometimes.
The problem, lately: he felt someone else talking back. Another voice, not his. This voice wasn’t on his side. It didn’t like the interference. It didn’t like the calm. It just wanted to be angry. Sometimes it wanted him to lose control.

This time: no voice. He felt in control. He just needed to keep talking to himself, reminding that a broken machine and no slushie were okay.
Yes, he could deal with this.

Lyall’s voice when he replied was even-toned and composed. See, he
was
in control.

“Okay, then. Just give me a chocolate Great Shake.”

“Wha..t? Can you repee—, ple..se.”

He answered a little louder this time, as though that might compensate for the fucked up wiring or whatever shit was wrong with the thing. “I
SAID
, give me a chocolate Great Shake.”

Nothing. No sound, not even the crackling of static. How hard could it be? It was a burger and a shake, for fuck’s sake. And his stomach was killing him, churning with the smells drifting from the building’s multiple cooking vents.

“Okay. So that’s a Great Southern Burger meal and a strawberry Gr..t Shake. That’ll be seven, twenty-nine. Dri.. thr.., p..ease.”

It was a simple request. They couldn’t even get that right. He felt a tremor of something dark flare inside.

“No, I said, a
CHOCOLATE
Great Shake. CHOCOLATE. ChoooCaaLaate. Okay?”

Silence.

He wondered if in shouting he’d offended the operator.
Too bad. They got it wrong, not him.

“Hello? Did you hear me?”

Another beat of silence, then: “Yes, sir. Sor…y, w…’re out … choc—ate.”

“How can you fucking be out of chocolate? HOW? Forget it. I’ll just take the meal.”

Silence answered.

“Okay. That w… be five, sev…ty …ght. Drive through.”

A loud squawk ended the conversation.

Lyall wanted to yell at that box. In fact, he wanted to get out of the car and beat the crap out of the thing. He imagined everyone waiting behind him cheering.

Lyall, calm down. It’s done now. Get your food and go home. You don’t want to lose your cool over a little thing like this, do you? Well, you don’t. Trust me. You don’t want to let that fucking bear out of the cage.

Dr. Willis’s soothing voice sounded less convincing than before. The other dark voice had arrived. He heard it in there prodding at him like a frustrated parent, churning, churning.

Lyall drove his car slowly around the corner of the building to the pick-up window. Ahead it lay, glowing like a yellow beacon in the darkness. His stomach juices sizzled at the sight as he anticipated shoving food down his throat; beating back the savage dog, hunger.

Arriving at the window, his chest tightened. Empty. Unlike the lame-ass commercials, no friendly human waited to greet him. Only a closed window welcomed him. That was it. The empty gateway to his food.

Lyall wanted to get out of the car, slam his fist on the window and shout, “My fucking stomach is eating itself. Give me my food!”

Calm. Stay calm, Lyall.

“Yes, Dr. Willis. I’m working on that, sir. These fuckers, though, sure aren’t helping much.” This time he’d spoken out loud, his hands gripping the wheel as he stared at the glowing window, willing someone to appear.

He rubbed his hand across his stomach—which in the past year had turned to paunch. The clock taunted him in a singsong voice.
It’s seven forty-three and you’re still not fed. Ha ha. You’re still not fed.

He’d been trying to get food—supposedly
fast
food—for over fifteen fucking minutes. Fury devoured his hunger, rolling through his stomach, flowing into his blood as though he’d bitten down on a hate pill.

Lyall reached for the door handle to open the door, go bang on the window, and point out they were useless fuckers, when a laughing long-faced teenage boy materialized at the window. The boy continued to laugh, looking over his shoulder, as he slid back the clear panel.

“That’ll be five seventy-eight, please.”

The young server stood at the window, acne flaring on his face as though red mold colonies had taken up residence. The kid didn’t even have the decency to lean out the window to take his money. Lyall had to unbuckle his belt and stretch half way out of his car to hand the kid the money. A hot, worm of anger slithered inside his head.
Didn’t they train these little shits in customer courtesy anymore?