Trembling With Fear 08/15/21

Ice Cold Lemonade by Kevin M. Folliard

Sweat soaked Lester’s gym shirt. Sun blistered his skin. His legs ached. His tongue scraped the sandpaper roof of his mouth.

With a record heatwave, it was a hell of a day to start getting in shape. But his doctor had put a scare into him. Stop stress eating. Work out. Lose weight. Otherwise . . .

Following a contentious divorce with his ex, Lester had spent the past 10 years serving as CEO of his firm. It had been the most rewarding—and most grueling time of his life. Lester had gained almost as much anxiety weight as capital. Eating was how he coped. The doc suggested exercise to shed worry along with pounds.

So far, the exercise felt like a bigger burden than his fat. He’d jogged three blocks before getting winded, then decided to walk to the park, and loop the path. 

Tomorrow, he’d stay closer to home. Maybe take a break. It would be another mile of walking just to get back to the house. He’d kill for a freezing cold bottle of water.

“Lemonade!” A shrill voice sliced through the humidity. Saliva pooled under Lester’s tongue. “Ice cold lemonade!” Like a mirage through warped lines of heat, at the end of a long suburban driveway, a small folding table and two young boys appeared. A sun-gold pitcher glinted on the table. 

Lester quickened pace toward the children. His head pounded; sweat poured down his brow. He had no cash, but he’d promise the little snots he’d return tomorrow and pay double. Kids are dumb, he thought. We’ll come to an arrangement.

“Get your lemonade!” 

As he approached, the older boy, maybe 8 or 9 years old, turned toward him. The child’s mouth widened into a slick, sinister grin. His eyes shone like black marbles. His voice scratched. “You’ve come for lemonade, mister!” He curled his hand like a spider over the table and drummed his fingers. “You’ve come to devour ice-cold lemonade!”

The smaller boy snickered. Both children had coal black hair and alabaster skin. They were skinny as broomsticks. The little one twitched his fingers at his chest, like a carnivorous dinosaur. 

Lester halted. His blood chilled in spite of the oppressive heat. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t figure out what, if anything, to say. The children were hideous. 

Yet familiar. 

The older boy slammed his fist and rattling the pitcher. “Get your fucking lemonade, fatass!” The small one boiled with laughter.

Lester’s heart squeezed against his ribs. He gave a dry mouthed gasp. 

“Get over here and buy some lemonade!”

“No money,” he choked. “Left wallet . . . at home.”

“We’ll come to an arrangement!” The older boy snatched the handle of the golden pitcher. Bright yellow liquid sloshed out, splattered the blacktop. Corrosive liquid unleashed a question-mark curve of vapor. 

The boy advanced in furious strides.

Lester’s chest wrenched. He turned. Ran. His lungs labored. Within seconds, a wiry thing raced alongside him, the smaller boy—a demon. It snarled. Snickered. Drool dribbled down its chin. Its wild coal-black hair swished. The boy’s jaws snapped like an animal.

Lester’s legs turned rubber. He fell. Sidewalk scraped the flesh from his knee. He rolled onto his back. His jaws pried open, but the scream wouldn’t come; he could hardly breathe. Cotton tufts of cloud pulled across a baby blue sky.

The demon boy pounced. His knees pummeled Lester’s belly. Sharp nails dug into Lester’s chest. The boy hissed and yowled like a feral cat. Lester raised his arms to shield his eyes.

“Get off him!” came the scraping voice of the older boy. “Look at me, fat hog!”

The smaller boy scrambled aside. Lester lowered his arm, gasped for air, tried to plead, to beg these creatures to leave him alone. But he couldn’t get a breath. Pain fired up his limbs.

The older boy’s dirty fingers clenched the shimmering handle of the pitcher. Atomic yellow sloshed the pavement and smoked like sulfuric acid. “You need to drink all the lemonade! Greedy pigs drink the whole pitcher!”

“I don’t want . . . any . . . lemonade . . .” Lester at last managed to gasp.

“But you were so thirsty!” The boy scowled. He dumped the contents onto Lester’s chest and stomach. Pain seared over him. Gold magma burned his skin away, bored a hole in his chest. 

The demons howled.

*  *  *

Lester’s ex-wife Mandy gasped at the headline the next morning: CEO Lester McHenry Dead of a Heart Attack. 

The pig had long ago written his family out of his will. Apparently, his heart had given out on a jog. She scoffed. “Must have been the first jog of his life. Too little too late. Serves you right for weaseling out of child support and leaving me with two little monsters.”

Denny and Danny glanced up from their morning cartoons, sneers arching beneath neatly combed black hair.

“Oh.” She smiled. “It’s just an expression. Mommy loves her monsters.”