Trembling With Fear 08/02/20

 

 

Happy Meal by Tiffany Michelle Brown

She watched the two men fumble with the body the way high school boys grapple with bra hooks—nervous and tepid at first and then with a strange, uninhibited abandon. The men had approached the corpse with slow, careful steps and copious swearing; now, they crouched on their haunches and hovered over its head, breathing in death and trying to figure out what the hell had happened to their friend.

One of the uniforms lifted a dead wrist with a ballpoint pen. Gravity took hold, and the limb flopped to the pavement like a beached fish.

“Leave it, Stevens.” It was the tall blond one with a square jaw and bowed legs. The thing in the bushes breathed in his delectable scent—expensive bamboo linens, passionate lust, the orangey balm of self-confidence, a sprinkling of good luck clover. It took exceptional restraint for her to keep her fangs sheathed. She chewed and sucked on the straw between her lips, savoring the scarce, albeit satisfying remnants of her last meal, which the uniforms were now inspecting. The dead man’s happiness had been delicious.

“We should call this in, Briggs.” The other one. Baby-faced, dark hair, an impressive build. Unlike his partner, he smelled foul—like crisp divorce papers and hot plastic, a credit card swiped much too often, an endless line of zeroes. And could she detect a whiff of porn addiction?

“He was one of us,” Briggs said. “You want lab coats crawling all over him and then keeping their secrets because of bullshit department protocol?”  

Stevens shrugged his meaty shoulders.

The monster in the bushes shook her heads in disappointment. What a waste. He’d be a spectacular snack if only all that human meat were seasoned with vacations to Tahiti and financial stability and less self-loathing… 

“If this were me on the sidewalk,” Briggs said, rising to his feet, “I’d want us to take a crack at figuring it out, not them.” He ran a hand through his hair and moved toward the dead man’s shiny, black shoes.

“He’s awfully pale, like he’s been drained or something,” Stevens said. 

All eight of the monster’s eyes widened and she could feel her hearts beating all in different, stunted, terrified rhythms. Perhaps she’d underestimated the foul-smelling one.  

“He’s dead, you idiot. Dead bodies go cold and pasty. No one stays rosy.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Look for something helpful.”

The monster relaxed and continued to gnaw thoughtfully. The dead man’s blood was gone from the straw, but the habitual motion of chewing kept her calm. 

“There’s, um…” Stevens started and then stopped.

Briggs peered up from where he’d been examining the soles of the dead man’s loafers. “What is it?” 

“I’m not sure. There’s something on Alvarez’s neck.” 

Briggs stood and strode over to Stevens in three long steps, a graceful spider. The monster in the bushes imagined the cop’s muscles rippling beneath his uniform, so taut and juicy. His fragrant blood made her swoon a little. 

“What the fuck is that?” Briggs asked, peering down at the dead man’s neck. 

“It looks like a puncture wound. Scabbed over,” Stevens offered. 

“Perfect circle.” Briggs massaged his mustache with his fingertips. “Cigarette burn? Metal skewer? But not a goddamn drop of blood on the pavement. Maybe that wound happened somewhere else?” 

The monster smiled—as much as it could smile in its current form. Briggs’ confused conjectures were so cute. 

“Any gang murders reported lately with a signature like this?” Stevens asked. 

“Not that I know of. Could be something new. Slick if a tiny hole like that can kill someone.” 

The monster sat up a little taller, preening. How stupid they’d feel if they knew their friend—Alvarez, was it?—was killed with something as pedestrian as a straw. Sharpened and reinforced with alkaline moonbeam, mind you, but really quite “normal” to humans. 

Stevens turned from the body, puttered a few steps, and lost his breakfast on the pavement. 

“Jesus,” Briggs said. Then the disgust on his face melted into curiosity. “This wound—it’s picking up the light.” He leaned in closer. “Silver.” 

Stevens crouched down by the body. “You’re right. It’s…shimmering. What the hell…” 

The monster’s gut tightened. She should have been more careful, should have checked for metallic residue at the entry point. But hunger made her lose control. 

In the end, her slipup wouldn’t matter, though. Once the police department conducted an autopsy, they’d know the truth. When they cut Alvarez open, they’d discover the thin sheet of silver directly below his skin, injected just moments after she’d sucked out his insides. The silver lining was the only thing maintaining the dead man’s shape. Without it, he’d be nothing more than a pile of wilted flesh. 

“Alvarez, were you doing some crazy drugs with that redhead you left the bar with last night?” Briggs posed the question directly to the dead man’s face. “She had a great ass, but you should have gone home to Kimmy instead, buddy. Look what happened to you.” 

Okay, enough now. The monster spit the straw to the ground and covered it with sod using a slow-moving tentacle. They’re humans. They won’t figure it out, not in time anyway. Stop playing with your food. 

The monster morphed into a puddle of liquid. It dripped down the sidewalk, traveling a few blocks before sliding behind a tree in a residential neighborhood. 

Moments later, a striking woman with long legs and hair the color of an Arizona sunset emerged from behind the bark, a cell phone in hand. She dialed three numbers and brought the device to her ear. She explained to the emergency operator that her boyfriend had hit her, she was afraid, could they send an officer who was nearby? She glanced at the house behind her and gave the number. The woman thanked the operator in a shaky voice and hung up. She picked up a nearby rock, clocked herself in the face, and willed her fake skin to swell and discolor. 

She leaned against the tree, hunched and crooked, trying to look like a victim, like someone Briggs and Stevens would want to save. She licked her lips and waited for the smell of bamboo, sex, bravado, and fortune to arrive. She’d start with the good stuff.