IGMS Issue 8 (27 page)

Philo's was in an old two-story building made of red bricks. There weren't any windows. I walked around back and spotted a couple of those big metal doors where they load trucks. But they were shut. I found another door in front. I've learned that it's not hard to walk into any place if I pretend I belong there. I figured that if I ran into anyone, I'd just say, "Got a message for Dad," and keep walking.

Luck was with me. When I went in, there wasn't anybody up front. I guess there aren't a lot of people who'd stroll in and buy a ton of sausage, so they didn't need a receptionist. The area was pretty small, but there was a door at the back of the room. It led to a hallway that ended at a flight of stairs. I climbed up the stairs, pushed open the door at the top, and stepped onto a small metal walkway high above the factory floor.

Cold air washed over me and I shivered.

Below me, a half dozen workers dressed in white butcher's coats were unloading large bins with shovels and tossing the contents onto a conveyor belt.

What I saw made my stomach lurch like it wanted to leap out of my body. Who would have believed it? They were shoveling the worst stuff imaginable out of the bins. This was truly gross. The belt was loaded with broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus, and brussels sprouts. Cabbages and lettuce rolled off the shovels, along with eggplants and artichokes.

"No way. . ." I whispered. This couldn't be the whole process. I knew there was more to sausages than a bunch of vegetables. I couldn't imagine any possible way that vegetables could be made to taste that good. The catwalk ran all the way around the room to a door on the opposite wall. I had to see where the conveyor went.

I stepped into the next room. The belt stopped just a few feet past the entrance. It delivered its load of vegetables into the wide-open mouth of a huge creature. The animal -- if that's what it was -- filled the length of the room. It was lying on the floor like a giant worm, with a gaping mouth at one end. From its sides drooped dozens of short legs that looked almost like flippers. It had no eyes.

It swallowed all that the conveyor belt could offer. The sound of its chewing was louder than the crash of waves during a tropical storm, and definitely as wet. I watched as the creature ate and swelled, until it's bloated body rose to just below the height of the catwalk, reaching a beam that ran across the room beneath my feet. A large, red switch jutted from below the center of the beam. I held my breath as the taught gray flesh pressed against the button.

A bell rang. I could barely hear it above the chomping. Dozens of workers, dressed in white butcher's coats, rushed into the room, each one carrying a long metal tube. One end of the tubes was pointed. Clear, floppy tendrils trailed from the other end. I realized the tendrils were sausage casings.

A second bell rang. All at once, like sailors harpooning a whale, the men thrust their tubes deep into the body of the creature. I suspect it might not even have noticed. It certainly didn't care enough to stop chewing. At each wound, something rushed out from within, filling the casings. In a moment, the men had harvested their sausages, and the creature had shrunk down to a size which, though still huge, was no longer swollen to the bursting point.

I'd seen enough. More than enough. My mind tried to chew what I'd just witnessed, but couldn't seem to swallow it. I went back to the stairs and raced out of the building. The class was just returning to the bus. As I blended in with the crowd and took my seat, I envied them their afternoon spent viewing arts and crafts that wouldn't haunt their dreams.

That night, my mother made sausages for dinner. I stared at my plate. There it lay, amidst the potatoes and onions and peppers -- a large, meaty sausage, stuffed to bursting inside it's transparent wrapper. I closed my eyes and vowed that I would never eat it. In my mind, I saw the factory again, with that creature eating endlessly. I heard the sound of it chewing and saw the men thrusting their tubes into its swollen sides.

Chewing. Swallowing. Mindlessly chewing whatever it was fed.

Warmth flooded my mouth. I opened my eyes. To my horror, I saw a sausage on my fork. The severed, open end dripped an amber-colored grease. In my mouth, I could taste the remains of the hunk I had mindlessly bitten, chewed, and swallowed.

"Another?" my mother asked.

"Yes, please," I said. I closed my eyes and took a large bite.

My Uncle Shubert was passing through town, and had stopped at our house for a couple days. He's pretty cool for an adult. He takes me places and never treats me like a kid. As he was packing up his suitcase, I noticed a silvery tube on his bed.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Alien death ray," he said.

I checked his face to see if he was kidding. It was hard to tell. "Do you mean it's a ray that aliens use to kill people, or is it a ray that kills aliens?"

He shrugged. "Not sure. The guy who sold it to me wasn't very clear. But I liked the looks of it, and the price was right, so I bought it. Do you want it?"

"For real?"

"Yup."

"For keeps?"

"Definitely. It's all yours."

"Awesome!" I grabbed the tube and took a close look. It fit nicely in my hand, though it was heavier than I'd expected. It was solid at one end, and hollow at the other, with a single clear glass button near the solid end. I pointed the tube out the window and pushed the button. Nothing happened.

"Maybe it needs batteries," I said.

"Maybe it only shoots aliens," he said. "Or maybe only aliens can shoot it."

"Either way, thanks."

"Sure. That's what uncles are for."

I took the alien death ray with me to school the next day. I showed it to my friend, Veejay, as soon as I got to class.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Alien death ray," I told him.

Before he could say another word, a hand swooped down over my shoulder and snatched the tube away. "Young man, you are in a lot of trouble," my teacher, Mrs. Peswitch, said. "You know we have a zero-tolerance policy about weapons."

"But . . ." I tried to protest that it wasn't a real weapon, but she yanked my arm hard enough to pull me off my feet, and dragged me down the hall. The whole time, she kept muttering about all the "young, violent hooligans who were wrecking the school."

The next thing I knew, I was in the Principal Mabler's office. "This is very serious," he said. "Bringing a weapon to school. I'm shocked."

"It's not real," I said.

"That doesn't matter. We have a zero tolerance policy. It doesn't matter if it is a toy, or even a drawing of a weapon. Any weapon gets you a five day suspension. I'm sure your parents will agree that this has to be done. It's the only way to keep us safe."

He reached for the phone.

"Please . . ." I'd never been in any kind of big trouble. This was so bad, I could feel my knees trembling. Then my whole body started to tremble.

"I'm sorry. No exceptions. Not even --"

Whatever he said next was drowned out by the roar. It was like twenty fighter jets flew overhead at once. Then the roar grew louder. The whole room shook. Books bounced off the shelf behind Principal Mabler, and his diploma fell off the wall.

I raced to the window. A space ship, round and huge and filled with flashing lights, landed in the front of the school. As I stared, the hatch opened, and a whole bunch of creatures raced out. They were big -- maybe six or seven feet tall. They had enormous heads with four eyes. They had four arms, each carrying something that I figured had to be a weapon.

Principal Mabler opened his mouth, but all that came out was a gasp as his eyes rolled back and he passed out. He flopped to the floor. Luckily, he had a thick rug in his office.

I grabbed the alien death ray from the desk and raced back to the window. I aimed the ray at the largest alien and pressed the button.

I hope this works.

It sure did. I nearly got knocked on my butt as a searing beam of energy shot from the tube. The alien sizzled for an instant, like a burger that had just been dropped on a red-hot grill, then vanished in a puff of green smoke.

I stared shooting the rest of them. Luckily, I'd played enough video games, and watched enough cartoons, to know what sort of stance to use with this kind of weapon. I cleared out all the aliens I could see. But some of them had broken into the school. I ran out of the office, and hunted down at the rest of them.

When I was sure I'd gotten all of the aliens, I returned to the office. There was one last alien in there. He was holding the principal from behind, and had some sort of gun pointed at his head.

"Help me," Principal Mabler said.

"Zero tolerance?" I asked. "No exceptions?"

"That would be silly," he said. "There are always exceptions."

I fried the last alien, and then put the ray in my pocket. I headed toward the door so I could get back to my classroom before the morning announcements. But I turned back a moment later. "Can I have a late pass?" I asked. "Mrs. Peswitch loves to give out detention."

"Well, according to the rules, tardiness based on disciplinary actions isn't excusable." Principal Mabler said.

"So I'm going to get a detention?" I asked.

"I'm afraid so."

"Oh no! Aliens!" I pointed out the window.

Principal Mabler let out a squeal and dove to the floor. Then he crawled to the window and peeked over the sill. "What! Where!"

"My mistake," I said. "I could have sworn it was more aliens. It must have been a cloud or a duck or something. So, anyhow, about that late pass?"

"No problem." He got off the floor, grabbed his pad, and started writing.

"Thanks." I took the pass and headed back to homeroom. I thought about running down the hall, but I knew that was against the rules. And some rules actually almost made sense.

Zoran Zivkovic is a Serbian writer who lives in Belgrade. He has a PhD in Literature from the University of Belgrade, 1982. He has been writing fiction since 1993, when his first novel,
The Fourth Circle,
appeared in Serbian. He has gained a considerable English-language following since his work began to appear in the British magazine
Interzone.
His novella, "The Library," published in
Leviathan 3,
won the World Fantasy Award in 2003. His current American publisher is Aio Publishing. He has also been published by Northwestern University Press, Dalkey Archive Publishing, Night Shade Books/Ministry of Whimsey, Prime Books, and PS Publishing in England. His works are ably translated from the Serbian by Alice Copple-Tosic, though he is himself fluent enough in English that in the course of this interview he managed to teach me a word I didn't know. ("Slalom," which means to take a zig-zag course while skiing; here used metaphorically.)

SCHWEITZER
: Your work first came to my attention with the splendid "The Astronomer" in
Interzone
, which is not only a story about a powerful moral dilemma, but one of the best uses of the "Lady or the Tiger?" ending I've ever seen. Was that your first publication in English? How long had you been writing in Serbian before that? What had you published?