A Mixed Bag of Blood (6 page)

“Oh my God!” Brian yelled. His mouth hung open and his face drained of color.

Timmy chewed, feeling the insect’s parts thrashing against his cheeks and tongue. His jaw worked, easily crushing the insect’s exoskeleton, its gooey guts exploding over his teeth, filling his mouth with a putrid, awful taste.

Seeing his cousin still staring, frozen, unable to move, Timmy opened his mouth, revealing the mashed up mess within. Brian’s eyes widened to an impossible size. His face soured as his hands dropped to his stomach. He bent over and vomited, his stomach’s contents splattering the sidewalk and his shoes with an oatmeal-like substance.

Timmy continued chewing, his mouth flooded with bug juices and hard bits that were getting smaller and smaller. He ground them up, watching his cousin suffer, then swallowed most of the cockroach in one try. Using his tongue, he fished around his mouth, gathering up loose pieces and sent them down his gullet.

Brian upchucked again, a smaller flow this time, but nonetheless pleasing to Timmy’s eyes. The kid then stumbled backward and fell to the ground, landing hard on his rump. Spittle dribbled from his lower lip. He sat dumbfounded, staring at Timmy.

Timmy smiled, feeling a sense of triumph. He’d accomplished his goal. Brian would never forget what he’d seen. The decision to consume the bug had been instant, like a reaction rather than a decision. He didn’t think about it, just acted.

“You’re crazy,” Brian finally managed, wiping his mouth on his forearm. He stood, a wet stain at his crotch.

Timmy couldn’t believe the kid had wet himself. His cousin was pathetic. “Have an accident?” he asked.

Brian glanced at his crotch, then back at Timmy. His face was scarlet. “No . . . I . . . um . . .”

“Go home, pussy,” Timmy said.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” Brian said.

“People eat bugs all the time, just not in this country. They’re quite nutritious.”

“You going to tell anyone about this?”

“About you pissing yourself?—no.”

“Promise?”

Timmy walked up to Brian, the kid inching away. “I’ll tell you what, Pisspants, if you eat a bug, too, I’ll keep your very embarrassing situation, one that’ll get you beat up and teased more than you already do, a secret.”

Brian’s mouth hung open. He appeared to be thinking. “But you’re my cousin. Don’t you want to protect me?”

“Eat a bug. A small bug. Then your secret’s safe.”

“Oh, man,” Brian whined, flopping his hands against his thighs.

“I did it and I’m fine.”

An elderly woman with a pushcart filled with groceries walked by. She eyed the boys, then snickered at Brian before moving on.

“See,” Timmy said. “And she was an old lady. Imagine what the kids at school would do if they know you pissed yourself.”

Brian sighed. “Fine, but it better be a really small bug. And no spiders. I ain’t eating a spider.”

The boys looked around the sidewalk, in the street, around the storm drains at both ends of the block. Neither one found a bug. Timmy saw a mangy orange cat resting under a Mercedes parked in a driveway. He thought about asking Brian if instead of eating a bug, he’d be into killing an animal, but he knew the little pussy wouldn’t agree. And if he did, as soon as it came time to do the deed, he’d run and tell his mother.

“There are no bugs,” Brian said.

“There are always bugs. Cockroaches, beetles, they’re always scurrying around here.”

They searched some more, the sun ducking behind the rooftops, but found no insects.

“If it was dark out, we’d see tons of them,” Brian said.

Timmy nodded. Lately, the sidewalk was teeming with large cockroaches at night, as if the things were waiting for something, or night-bathing, absorbing the moon’s radiance. He’d stepped on multiple bugs whenever he was coming home from the park or at a friend’s house at night. He enjoyed hearing the popping of the hard shells and the spewing of green goop.

Brian’s mom’s voice sounded from down the street, the familiar call having been heard around the neighborhood for years.

“Looks like I don’t have to eat anything but my dinner,” Brian said.

“Then you’ll eat two bugs tomorrow,” Timmy said. “I’ll catch some tonight. Nice and juicy.” He rubbed his hands together, hoping to get a rise out of his cousin.

“Can’t you just let it go?” Brian asked. “I would’ve done it today, but tomorrow’s a new day, so everything restarts.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“My mom says every day’s a new day to start fresh.”

“You’re eating a bug tomorrow or else I tell the entire school about your piss episode.”

“C’mon,” Brian whined, “it’s not fair. We looked for bugs, but there aren’t any. Time’s up. I have to go home for dinner.”

Frustrated and annoyed, beyond his capabilities of remaining poised, Timmy smiled, walked up to his cousin and punched him in the gut. Brian hunched over from the blow and fell to the ground. He held his stomach, gasping for air.

“Now you can go start your new day,” Timmy said, then turned and walked home, his cousin’s sniffling crying fading in the distance.

* * *

That night, Timmy didn’t touch his dinner. He was surprisingly full. Maybe the cockroach had satisfied him. He’d seen plenty of nature-survival shows where the host ate all sorts of plants and bugs, sustaining him for days while he hiked through a mountain or a hot desert.

It had been a large bug.

Just before bed, his stomach was making all sorts of gurgling noises, and he felt fuller than earlier, as if he was slowly being pumped with air. Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten the bug. Cockroaches were known to carry diseases. They lived in the sewers. He wondered if he’d made a stupid decision.

He ran to the bathroom, thinking he was going to puke, but nothing came up. He plunged two fingers down his throat, hoping that would kick start his vomiting, but he had no gag reflex, which was odd because he always gagged at least once when he brushed his back teeth. So why wasn’t he now?

Unnerved, he thought about going to his mother, but really, what could she do that he couldn’t? Only kids like Brian went to their parents for upset stomachs. Timmy was a boy, yes, but he was older in spirit.

Opening the medicine cabinet, he found a bottle of Pepto Bismol and downed the suggested amount. Feeling queasy, he crawled into bed and went to sleep.

He awoke with a sharp pain in his abdomen, his skin slick with sweat. Something was definitely wrong with him. He tried sitting up, but the pain worsened. He cried out, his voice a hoarse whisper, throat feeling as if he’d swallowed razor blades.

His stomach muscles tightened and he curled into a ball. Breathing was difficult. His abdomen was on fire, the pain burning, intense. He needed help, needed his parents, wanted his mommy.

Gathering up his strength, Timmy inched his way to the edge of the bed and rolled off, falling with a thud to the floor. He hoped his parents would hear it and come running in, wondering what happened, but neither showed.

He writhed on the ground, feeling as if his insides were being shredded apart. His mouth flooded with the taste of copper. He coughed and saw a splattering of red on his shaky hand. Pain radiated outward, spreading across his arms, legs and neck. The skin along his arms rippled, things crawling beneath it, knife-like claws digging into his muscle all the way to bone. He told himself he was having a terrible nightmare, but didn’t believe it, for the agony was too much.

Then he saw them—the cockroaches, as they burrowed out of him, ripping apart his tender flesh with their serrated heads. He cried out in disbelief, wishing he’d wake up. The insects were covered in a green slime, mixed with his blood, but he saw the glowing red spheres on their backs, and he knew—they were the children of the cockroach he’d consumed. He swatted at his arms, squashing the things, but more kept coming from the holes in his flesh. The skin along his legs erupted in searing heat, then he felt the warmth of his blood as the insects broke free, his pajama bottoms blooming with crimson flowers.

Hundreds of cockroaches scurried out of, and across, his body. His left eye tickled from within, as if someone were brushing it with a feather. Immense pressure built behind the eyeball before it burst like a water balloon, the glutinous fluids inside running down his face, a cockroach crawling free.

His body was glistening red, the blue carpet below him now darkened and saturated. His strength was all but gone and he wondered if he was about to wake up, still not completely convinced it wasn’t a dream.

He swore he’d be a better person, even if he didn’t truly feel what most of society felt, he’d follow their laws and be a good person. He’d give the next door neighbor’s dog snacks, pet it nicely, he’d go to his cousin and apologize, then hang out with him and stick up for him in school.

As the world began to fade, he had no doubt his prayers wouldn’t be answered, because the things he promised to do, he knew, if he lived, he wouldn’t do them. He was a bad seed, evil, if there ever was such a thing.

* * *

The cockroaches formed a tight circle around the corpse. They communicated unlike any bug had before, exchanging duties and relaying commands. There was no leader, but a single voice heard by all, the Queen.

The boy’s head cracked open, the skull wrenched apart by the Queen. She was twice the size of her children, with a fluorescent purple fin that ran the length of her back. The creature’s maw, filled with tiny rows of teeth, clicked commands as its antennae darted about.

With the orders given, the new breed of cockroach scurried off in packs, ready to wipe out the existing cockroach population, then move on to the rats and cats and stray dogs, and then finally, the humans.

Samurai Zombie Killer

Kenji Matsuko sat at his master’s bedside. He shook with effort as he fought not to cry out. The old man was ill, his insides being eaten away by the cancer demon. Word had been sent to Emperor Gashi. With great regret, the ruler had informed his most trusted warrior that his master was not long for the world. Kenji was given permission to leave; to go to his master and pay his last respects, honoring his teacher.

“Kenji, my finest student,” Ari said, forcing a smile. His long, white mustache twitched at both ends. “You have come.”

Kenji’s master lay in bed, wearing a crimson-colored robe embroidered with white lotus flowers and was wrapped in covers up to his waist. The man’s skin was pale and his eyes appeared sunken, as if the weight of them was too much for his head.

“Yes,” Kenji said, bowing. He was dressed in a cloud decorated light blue robe, his Samurai armor set in the room he rented at the Han-ho Inn.

“I’m glad you came," his master said. "I wouldn’t have taken you from your sworn duties, for the Emperor needs you, but a great dishonor will befall the village.

Kenji’s eyebrows arched, the news troubling. He was ashamed to reveal his worry, but with his master’s death only a short time away, and the village in jeopardy, his training had let him down. He was human and truly rattled to his core at seeing his master so weak and fragile. Ari had never so much as had a cold in all his years, his chi incredible.

“Master?” he asked.

“Your brother, Makito, is dabbling in the dark ways. He will bring dishonor to you, me, and the village.” Ari reached out with a withered hand, gripping Kenji’s wrist. “You must stop him and his quest for madness.”

Kenji lowered himself further and touched his head to the back of his master's hand. “Forgive me, Master, but how do you know this?”

“He came to me last month and had a look of ill-will in his eyes, as if possessed by evil. He talked about bringing down the hierarchy, the Emperor. He is wise in the ways of death, my teachings, I’m afraid. I always had high hopes for him, but I was wrong.” Master Ari closed his eyes in shame.

“I shall honor your wishes, Master. It will be done. I will not allow dishonor to befall us.”

“Go, see to your brother. I will not die this evening.”

Kenji stood. “Heit,” he said, and then bowed before his departure.

Once he was clear of the room, he broke down into sobs. He was a strong, noble warrior who had fought on the harshest battlefields and killed many men. But a true Samurai lives through his heart and denies not his emotions when the time is right. As graceful and deadly as he was with a sword, he was equally as refined with the arts. All Samurai studied drawing and poetry. There was no shame in feeling sadness for his master. Clearing his tears and composing himself, he left for his brother’s cottage.

Kenji loved the countryside, with its beautiful landscape and wild life. Allowed to flourish, the bamboo grew tall around the village. Beautiful Sakura, cherry blossoms, sprouted around the village. He passed a koi pond where a man and his son were watching the fish. The Xiang Lo river, with its lucidness and bubbling with froth, poured over jutting rocks and flowed down the mountainside, supplying the village with fresh water.

The trail to Makito’s house was a long, twisting one, but beautiful nonetheless. It cut through the forest like a sharpened blade through mango. The closer Kenji drew to his brother’s abode, the steeper and more rugged the path became. Lilac and oak trees lined the way, creating an almost impenetrable wall around him.

Looking ahead, to the top of the mountain where the ground flattened out, he saw a man approaching. The person appeared as if he were drunk.

As Kenji neared the stranger, he saw that his skin was pasty-looking and riddled with sores. Upon seeing Kenji, the man hurried his hobbled walk, and began moaning. Sensing something was off, Kenji placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He stood stationary, allowing his training to take over.

A breeze blew inward, and as the man drew closer, an odor of rot and decay assaulted the Samurai’s olfactory senses. The need to cringe was strong, but Kenji remained still. The thing coming toward him had eyes like the deceased. They were lifeless, yet the thing clearly walked with sight.