Chasing the Moon (5 page)

“What relationship?” she asked.

“Like it or not, we’re bound together,” said Vom.

“Oh no we’re not.”

He gnashed his teeth. Since he had a lot of teeth, several rows of them, it made a hell of a grating noise.

“Hey, consciousness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There are all these complicated thoughts running through my head now, and some of them are very confusing. They don’t mesh together well. It’s like you. Part of me wants to eat you. But another part of me feels like that would be a lousy thing to do since you freed me from that closet. But another part of me thinks that if I kill you, maybe it’ll free me from this sliver of reality and I’ll get to go home where all I had to worry about was digesting anything that found its way into any of my two thousand fourteen stomachs. But another part thinks that maybe I don’t want to go back to that now that I’ve found a world where not everything is as simple as endless devouring hunger. But another—”

“I get it.”

“The point is that once you gaze into the abyss—”

“The abyss gazes into you.”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s a cliché. Everybody knows that.”

Vom frowned. “Damn. And I thought I’d made that up. Well, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re stuck with each other, and we can’t go back. Me, a timeless devouring force and you, a delicious chewy morsel wrapped around a crunchy calcium treat.”

She moved a few steps farther from him.

“What?” he said. “It’s a compliment.”

She took stock of her situation. She was bound to a horror from beyond time and space, and she was probably going slowly mad because of it.

“Is the apartment still mine?”

“You bet,” said Vom. “It’s a package deal.”

There was a bright side at least.

“So what do you say?” He extended his hand. “Roomies?”

Noticing snapping jaws buried in the fur in Vom’s palms, she kept her hands in her pockets and nodded.

They walked back to West’s apartment building of horrors. She wasn’t crazy about living there, but she had no place else to go. She couldn’t call on any of her friends. Not with Vom and his endless appetite following her.

The building didn’t look right. She’d run away without glancing back upon her escape, but she saw it with new eyes this time. It was a jutting tower of strange angles, disappearing into a swirling green vortex in the sky. The brick walls shimmered and shifted as she walked closer, like one of those cheap 3-D card images that never quite worked the way the inventor had hoped.

The vortex growled, and the building shuddered, expanding and contracting. She climbed the short flight of stairs to the front doors. The creaky old doors opened without her touching the handles, and hot wind poured over her. She saw the portal as a huge mouth. One of thousands scattered across the cosmos, all part of a single impossibly huge creature dwelling across multiple realities. And all the people, animals, and even monsters like Vom were merely skittering atoms
drifting between its toes. Although it probably didn’t have toes. Or if it did, each of those toes could crush a universe. Except for the big toe. That could probably crush several at once.

Vom walked inside, and she expected the lesser devouring monster to be devoured by the larger one. But it didn’t happen.

“Are you coming?” he asked her.

She pushed the inhuman thoughts away, gritted her teeth, and followed him. The otherness outside the apartment disappeared once she was across the threshold. The heat faded to a mildly uncomfortable warmth. The air was a bit humid, but nothing she couldn’t handle.

One of the apartment doors opened, and West stuck his head out. He sported an extra pair of eyes above the normal set. And his bushy beard writhed a bit. Not the beard itself, but whatever was underneath it, whatever passed for West’s chin. Not that she wanted to think about that.

“Still alive, Number Five?” he asked, though the answer should’ve been obvious.

She nodded.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any Monopoly money on you, would you, Number Five?”

She shook her head.

“Damn. The mole lords are not going to be happy about that.”

He withdrew into his room and shut the door without another word.

“He’s a crazy old bird,” said Vom, “but he’s harmless.”

Considering the source of the reassurance, Diana didn’t find this very comforting.

She noticed for the first time that every door in the building was different. Different size. Different color. Different style. Nothing in the building matched. The carpeting appeared to be assembled from a thousand discarded scraps. The walls were brick, then wood paneling, then stucco, then polka-dotted wallpaper. Nothing lined up in a conventional way. The hall seemed askew. The stairs curved downward, giving one the impression of walking down when going up. The doors tilted at odd angles, though never the same angle. And the numbers marking the apartments were all in different fonts. The entire building was like a hastily constructed model, put together from bits and pieces of other models by a maker who was only vaguely familiar with traditional design conventions.

She hadn’t noticed any of this before. Or maybe it hadn’t looked like this before. Maybe this was all a byproduct of her new perceptions. Either way, it weirded her out.

They passed the gruesome puppy beast in front of Apartment Two. The door opened a crack, and she glimpsed a shadowy figure.

“Hey,” the figure whispered.

The puppy snarled, and the door slammed shut.

The apartment was exactly as she’d left it. She’d expected it to be as twisted and skewed as the rest of her new universe, but everything was in order. Except that the coffee table had had a big bite taken out of it.

“Sorry,” said Vom. “Kind of hard to put on the brakes once I get going.”

He helped her push the refrigerator back against the wall. Someone knocked.

He answered the door before she could stop him.

A short blond woman in her forties and a hulking bat-like creature in a sweater vest stepped into the apartment.

“Congratulations.” She gave Vom a polite hug. “We just heard about your early parole.”

“Stacey, Peter. I thought you’d have moved out by now.”

“We’re working on it,” she said.

The bat gurgled.

“Now, Peter,” said the woman. “Be nice.”

The creature lumbered over to Diana. She recoiled from the grinning monster and his saber-like fangs. He thrust a lump wrapped in tinfoil into her arms. “Yours,” he said as drool dripped down his chin.

Diana held the lump in limp hands. It was warm. And was it squirming or was that just her imagination? How the hell could she even tell anymore?

“You’ll have to excuse Peter. He always gets a little grumpy after a few hours of hosting.”

“No problem,” replied Diana.

Peter pounced on Stacey. He squeezed her in a tight embrace. They howled in one terrible harmony as his body collapsed into a frail mortal shell while she took on the bat-monster shape. The only difference was that now it wore a floral-print dress.

Peter smoothed the few strands of hair on his balding head. “That’s better. You must be Vom’s new warden.”

“I must be,” said Diana.

The Stacey-thing snatched the tinfoil lump and bit into it.

“We just got a new breadmaker,” said Peter. “The missus has been dying for a chance to try it out.”

“Pumpernickel,” cooed Stacey-thing. “Goood.”

“For Heaven’s sake, honey, don’t eat it all.”

She offered the loaf to Diana with a sheepish smile. Bread crumbs and bits of tinfoil were stuck between Stacey’s pointed teeth.

Diana politely turned the offering away. “No, thank you. Maybe later.”

“I’ll take that.” Vom snatched the bread and shoved it into the mouth in his potbelly.

Once a week Calvin and Sharon spent the night together, doing something. It was an informal arrangement, and since they lived together they already saw each other regularly. But there was only one night when it was expected, when they would leave the apartment together and see a movie, get some dinner, or maybe just hang out at a coffee shop and talk.

Sharon knew better than to think of it as date night, but sometimes she still did.

Dressing for almost-date night was tricky. She didn’t want anything too formal or too casual. She wanted to be comfortable. She wanted to look nice. Although this was purely for her own satisfaction. Calvin didn’t care what she looked like. She could’ve worn a clown suit and he wouldn’t have noticed. Half the time he needed her help to dress himself.

He didn’t need clothes, but having walked among humans for ages he had the basics down, though he did complain that fashion was always changing and was hard to keep up with. Shirt. Pants. Usually he remembered his shoes. She’d long ago accepted socks were hit-and-miss. Underwear was right out. Getting to dress up was difficult because it was all just so many extra accessories as far as he was concerned. Ties escaped him. Cuff links he couldn’t understand. Wrinkles were beneath his notice.

Given a choice he’d have walked around in a T-shirt, sweatpants, and sandals all day, every day. And that would’ve been just fine with her, but it wasn’t up to her. Greg had established a rule that Calvin had to maintain a certain level of presentability at all times. It was necessary since most people would not worship a man who dressed slovenly. Not in this day and age. There were expectations, standards. If Jesus were walking the Earth today he’d have to get a shave and a haircut and invest in Armani. Probably no one would listen to him, but at least he’d have a fighting chance.

In addition to Calvin’s underdeveloped appreciation of clothing, he also had no appreciation of the human form. To him all humans were merely walking bags of meat. If Calvin was a god (and who was to say he wasn’t?), he was not the type of god to cavort with every piece of tempting mortal ass that came along. And while she wouldn’t have minded some cavorting, Sharon had accepted it.

But when date night came along she still put on some makeup, still struggled to find the right pair of slacks that made her ass look good, still fretted about those few extra
pounds, and still debated what level of cleavage was most flattering without drawing too much attention to itself.

She came out of her bedroom, wearing her carefully selected ensemble.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Good,” he replied automatically, like a trained dog. He didn’t even look up at her, but at least he was trying.

They decided to go to the Mexican place just down the street. Although just where it popped up varied from week to week: it migrated from building to building, replacing the bookstore or the Italian restaurant or the church. And there were some days when it disappeared entirely.

The universe, while mostly stable, had its hiccups. The Mexican place was one of these. When it was there it was a vibrant restaurant full of life and energy with the best tacos in town. When it was gone… it was just gone. The sound of mariachi music remained, though, filling the block every hour of the day, the ghostly echoes of a phantom band.

She’d never seen the restaurant appear or disappear. It seemed to happen only when no one was looking. On occasion the restaurant would di
sappear with people still inside it. They would promptly be forgotten by everyone, never to return. Whether they ceased to exist, were devoured by some nameless thing, or were perhaps lured into a mysterious netherworld by the freshest handmade tortillas and most delectable enchiladas in the city, no one knew. All Sharon knew was that the food was delicious and reasonably priced, and they served a margarita that she was willing to die for. Or disappear. Or whatever.

The Mexican place was there, occupying the spot usually
held by an electronics store. They grabbed a seat and munched chips. From the inside the world looked different. The city was gone, replaced by a vista of yellow grass and an emerald sun. Giant moths soared in the skies. Their colorful prismatic wings shimmered in great clouds. The view was part of whatiked about the place.