Shivers 7 (12 page)

“A little,” Jared said, knowing that Malcolm would never buy it if he denied being nervous at all, but not wanting to give the office weasel any more ammunition than he had to. “But that’s good, right? Gives you a little extra energy when you present.”

Malcolm shrugged, clearly disappointed with Jared’s less-than-forthcoming response. “If you say so. Nice suit. Is it new?”

Jared had bought it earlier in the month just for today, though he had worn it to the office on one previous occasion, so it wouldn’t
look
like he’d bought it special for today’s presentation. “Not
that
new. I’ve had it for a while. Still, it’s the nicest one I own, so I figured today would be a good time to wear it.”

The suit was navy blue, and Jared wore a white shirt and a maroon tie along with it. He’d found the suit at a closeout sale at the Right Look in the mall, but he’d never tell Malcolm that.

“Can’t argue with that.” Malcolm paused, as if waiting to see what, if anything, Jared might add. But when Jared just kept looking at Malcolm silently, the younger man said, “Well, I’d better get back to it. Good luck today.”

“Thanks,” Jared said as Malcolm departed. Jared wondered what the
it
was that Malcolm intended to get back to. Whatever it was, Jared bet it wasn’t work.

He ran through his presentation one more time, nearly nodding off as he reached the last slide. He needed another cup of coffee. The last thing he wanted was to be yawning and fighting to stay awake during his presentation. He got up from his desk, walked out of his cubicle, and headed for the break room. His limbs felt heavy, as if they were weary and trying to drag him down into sleep with them.
Later,
he thought, almost as if he were trying to placate his body.
I can take a nap after I get home.

The break room wasn’t much—just a couple snack and beverage vending machines and a half dozen round white tables with black plastic chairs. There was a microwave oven on the counter for those who brought their lunch and wished to heat it up. No refrigerator, though, so there was a limit to what you could bring from home. The break room was often empty throughout the day, but three other people were there at the moment, two women and one man, all sitting at the same table. They held 16 oz. plastic soft-drink bottles in their hands, and they looked up as Jared came in, staring at him with empty expressionless gazes. Jared smiled and nodded to them, though he didn’t know any of them well, couldn’t even remember their names. But none of them acknowledged his gesture. They just continued looking at him.

Jared felt a nervous, crawly-tingly feeling in his stomach, but he did his best to ignore his three rude co-workers as he stepped over to the vending machines. He wasn’t really all that hungry, but coffee—especially the thick tarry stuff that came out of the machine here—had a tendency to upset his stomach, so he thought it best that he nibble on something. Besides, nervous as he was, he doubted he’d eat any lunch before this afternoon’s meeting, so he’d better put something in his stomach now.

He scanned the snack machine offerings, expecting to see chips, cookies, candy bars, granola bars, and chewing gum. But today the machine contained a very different selection: severed ears, fingers, toes, noses, tongues, eyes, lips, nipples… At first he thought it was some sort of grotesque joke, that the body parts were merely rubber novelties, the kind of thing you could buy anywhere around Halloween. But the texture and color of the skin was too realistic, and the blood smeared on the end where each part had once been connected to a body looked like the real thing too. Jared glanced to the right of the snack machine at the cold beverage dispenser. Instead of colas, lemon-lime drinks, or bottled water, this machine offered plastic bottles filled with blood (both white and red cells), plasma, spinal fluid, urine, pus, and bone marrow.

Unable to believe what he was seeing, Jared backed away from the vending machines. He turned and started for the doorway, but he stopped when he saw the trio sitting at the round table still staring at him. In unison they raised plastic bottles to their lips and drank deeply, various bodily fluids dribbling from the corners of their mouths.

* * *

A branch only inches from Jared’s head exploded in a shower of splinters, a number of which became embedded in his cheek, barely missing his eye. It felt like dozens of fiery needles had been inserted into his flesh, and he could feel warmth as beads of blood began to well forth from the tiny wounds.

John Deere lowered his shotgun, and his undead companions shook with silent laughter. Jared understood that the hunter hadn’t missed; the son-of-a-bitch was toying with him. Even so, Jared had an opportunity, and he was determined not to waste it. He turned and started running through the woods once more, ignoring the pain that shot through his twisted ankle with every step. This time, he wove between trees, hoping their thick trunks would shield him from the hunters’ guns. His tactic seemed to be working when he heard two more shots—the boom of John Deere’s second barrel and the crack of Nascar’s rifle—but neither hit him.

Jared was running downhill now and picking up speed. His surroundings became a blur as he plunged through the woods, knocking aside tree branches, crushing undergrowth beneath his clumsy feet, birds and small animals fleeing to get out of his path. He heard the stream before he saw the gurgling, rushing water, and he knew it was flowing high as a result of last week’s rains. Normally the stream was so narrow that even a pot-bellied middle-aged man like himself could jump over it, but now… Still, he felt a surge of hope. The stream was not far from his home. The edge of the woods was maybe twenty, thirty yards on the other side, and his house lay just across an open field, perhaps an acre-and-a-half beyond that. Once he made it home, everything would be okay. He’d be safe, because that’s what home was, right? The place where you were safe. Home-free.

The bank sloped sharply down to the swollen stream here, but though he tried to slow down, momentum and his injured ankle got the better of him. He lost his balance and tumbled headfirst toward the water. He managed to get his hands out in front of him in time to catch himself as he hit muddy-brown water that was surprisingly cold for late July. Water sprayed against the side of his face as the stream rushed around him, and he closed his eyes, though his mouth stayed open, treating him to a taste of grainy silt. His chest and waist were soaked, but his legs—which still remained on the bank—were dry. As he pulled himself to his feet, he looked down at the muddy wet stains on his suit jacket and pants, and though he was running for his life and knew it was absurd to think about his clothes right now, he couldn’t help feeling a wave of disappointment. He’d just gotten this suit a couple weeks ago, and now it was probably ruined.

Jared heard a sound behind him, and he whirled around to see the three undead hunters standing at the top of the bank. John Deere raised his shotgun to his shoulder, took aim, and let loose with both barrels this time. As the shot tore through Jared’s clothing and into his skin, he knew that a few mud stains were the least of his worries now.

* * *

Jared jerked awake and sat upright in his chair. He saw the PowerPoint presentation playing automatically on his computer screen, but at first he didn’t know what it was. But then his mind cleared and he realized what had happened. He’d been so exhausted that he’d fallen asleep at his desk. How long…

He glanced at the time display in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. 1:06 p.m. He’d slept through lunch hour and was now officially six minutes late for what might well turn out to be the most important meeting in his life. He yanked the disk containing his presentation out of the computer without bothering to close the PowerPoint program, leaped out of his chair, and ran from his cubicle. He hurried past the other cubes, ignoring the curious stares and knowing snickers from his fellow wage-slaves, and headed down the hall toward the meeting room. Ordinarily he would’ve stopped off in the men’s room to check his hair, straighten his tie, and make sure his shirt was tucked in. But it was too late to worry about the niceties of personal grooming. Maybe too late to worry about a lot of things.

He walked the last few yards to the meeting room, both so that no one would hear him running and to give himself a chance to catch his breath. He took a last deep breath and then entered. The lights had already been turned off for his presentation and the room was dark. He couldn’t see much more than their silhouettes, but he knew they were all there—Donna from Human Resources, Robert from Accounting, a half-dozen more…including Malcolm, who no doubt was doing a piss-poor job of trying to conceal a smirk. And sitting at the head of the oval table and undoubtedly scowling in the dark was Ned Wilkerson, AKA the Boss.

Jared tried to sound calm and relaxed as he spoke. “Sorry I’m late everybody.” He didn’t bother to offer an excuse. Not only did Ned frown on them, no matter how legitimate they might be, Jared didn’t have the mental energy to think up a good lie just then.

The presentation screen had already been erected in a corner of the room, and the laptop and projection unit on the table were on and running. Jared walked over to the computer and inserted the disk with his presentation. He opened it, and the words
New Challenges, New Opportunities
appeared on the screen.

“If no one has any questions, I’ll go ahead and start,” Jared said.

“You don’t mind if we snack while you talk, do you?” Donna asked. “I worked right through lunch today, and I’m starving.”

“Me, too,” Robert said. “But Ned wouldn’t let us touch anything until you got here.”

Because the lights were off, not to mention how nervous he was, Jared hadn’t noticed what sort of food was on the table. Ned always made sure there were snacks of some kind, though. Often, it was the only way to guarantee attendance at the meetings—especially the most boring ones. It was never anything elaborate, just finger food, but Jared’s co-workers had gotten so used to having it at every meeting that he sometimes thought they’d go on strike if they didn’t get it.

“Sure, don’t let me stop you.”

Shadowy hands reached toward a large serving bowl, snatched fistfuls of goodies, and deposited the food on smaller plates. Then Jared’s co-workers pulled their snacks over in front of them and began to feed. They tore into their food with more gusto than usual, and Jared wondered if they’d
all
skipped lunch.

He cleared his throat and started talking.

“As you all know, the downturn in the economy has hit our industry hard in the last six months, necessitating that we take a clear-eyed, rational look at our current budgetary needs, and decide what we need to do to keep our company strong and healthy as we move forward.”

He paused for a moment to gauge everyone’s mood, so he’d have a better idea how to proceed. Should he be serious and somber, encouraging and guardedly optimistic, or continue with light-hearted fatalism? But all he could hear was the sound of his co-workers chewing, several of them moaning softly just like…on…his…radio.

Trembling, he walked over to the wall, fumbled for the switch, and turned on the lights. He already knew what he would see: everyone would be gnawing on fingers, toes, ears, and other parts from the vending machine in the break room. But he was wrong. Because of the importance of today’s meeting, Ned had pulled out all the stops and ordered some truly
special
food.

A glistening mound of organs sat inside a chrome serving bowl in the center of the table. Loops of intestine, livers, kidneys, gall bladders, spleens, hearts…Jared’s co-workers were stuffing the soft wet delicacies into blood-rimmed mouths, gore and bits of meat splattering onto the table as they feasted. One by one they stopped chewing and looked at Jared—faces grayish-green, dead eyes wide and staring—as if they’d only just realized that he’d stopped speaking and had turned on the lights.

Ned—bald, bespectacled, looking like a rotting version of the husband in the
American Gothic
painting, only in modern dress—mumbled through a mouthful of pancreas. “Somefing wong?”

“Don’t ssstop,” Donna said, spraying a tiny jet of blood as she pronounced the S. “It was jussst getting good.”

“We’re looking forward to hearing your ideas about the budget,” Robert said, a coil of intestine drooping from one corner of his mouth.

Ned grinned, displaying blood-slick teeth with shreds of pancreas caught between. “Especially the
cuts
.”

Everyone laughed. Jared turned and fled.

* * *

Everything would be fine once he reached home. Fine-and-fucking dandy.

Jared drove well over the speed limit, wove in and out of traffic, ran stop signs and stoplights, and had more near-collisions than in the entire twenty-five years since he’d received his license. His tires shrieked as he whipped the Maxima into his cul-de-sac, and he nearly lost it right there, almost spun into the front yard of the dentist that lived on the corner. He managed to maintain control out of sheer desperation, and he zoomed down the street, the Maxima’s engine roaring and juddering as if it were about to explode.
Hold on, just a little more…

He saw Dale sitting on the sidewalk in front of his house, Zoe’s savaged corpse splayed on his lap. The old man’s gray-green face was smeared with the dog’s blood, and he waved one of her chewed-up legs at Jared as he passed.

“Home, home, home, home, home…”
Jared repeated the word as if it were both a calming mantra and a protective charm. He was almost there, almost
home
-free.

He pulled into his driveway, not bothering to open the garage door. He slammed on the brakes, leaving skid marks on the concrete as the Maxima slid toward the garage, but the front bumper only tapped the door before the car finally came to a stop. Jared turned off the engine without bothering to put the vehicle in park, and then threw open the driver’s side door. He left the keys in the ignition as he got out, not caring that the car might roll back into the street, not caring that someone might come along—maybe Dale with his bloody mouth and half-eaten dog leg—and decide to take the Maxima for a spin. All that mattered was that he’d made it: he was home.