*****
I didn't wait for Filly when I left the room, just headed for the door. There was a kind of fog around the edges of my vision, like I was drunk or high, but that wasn't it at all. I was focused, was all. Focused on getting out of that house, away from that smell. Deanderus stepped into my path, but Filly called him off. I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't, 'cause even if I wanted to, I don't think I could have stopped just then.
Once outside, with the door shut behind me, I crossed the street amid a crossfire of angry horns and squealing tires, and only when I was all the way across, with a wall of traffic separating me from Filly's horror nursery, did I lean one hand against a wall and puke the contents of my guts onto the sidewalk. There was the beer I'd had at the bar, and the fries, and the portabella from Al's. When I saw it, I heaved again, but there was nothing left in me.
If I went to the cops, it'd happen exactly like Filly said. Those girls would be dumped on some shitty clinic that didn't know what to do about the fleshies, and they'd probably die. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't even save Candy Warner all by her lonesome, not with that thing growing inside of her like it was. And no way could I let her momma know about this. I'd have to give the money back, tell her I couldn't help her. Maybe she'd get the hint and go back to her home upstate. God, I hoped that's what she would do...
I thought of Filly saying that those girls were being paid, and I'd never wanted to put a bullet in somebody's face so bad as I did at that moment.
“Need something for what ails you, brother?”
I looked up, still arming spit and vomit off my face, and saw the farmer, the caphead who'd offered me a fleshie when Filly and I got there. I took a stumbling step back.
“I know it's only been a few days,” he said eagerly, showing me the fleshie growing out of his arm again, “but I had this one going for a bitty-bit before the last time, you dig? It's just as good, just as ripe.”
I shook my head. His words were a disconnected jumble, making no sense. I took another step back.
“Ten bucks, man!” he said, seeing his sale slipping away. “That's the best goddamn deal you'll find on one like this! It'll get you high for days, my man. I know I don't look like much, but I'm clean, man. You standing here now, ain't you? You know you ain't gonna catch nothing from eating this shit.”
Finally – finally – I realized what he was talking about. Without thinking, I dipped a hand into my coat, where I'd stashed the last of my cash when I saw Filly was going to make me pay for the cab. “All I got is eight,” I said.
The farmer scoffed, and seemed to think about it for a moment, but it didn't take him long. He took the money I was holding out to him, pocketed it, then drew out a tiny pocketknife, the kind your parents might let you use as kid but, as an adult, wasn't good for much other than trimming your toenails. He sunk the blade into the stem of the fleshie growing out of his arm and, with a practiced twist, popped it off. Blood welled up in the new hole in his arm as he handed it to me.
“Don't tell nobody else I gave it to you for no eight bucks,” he growled. Then he turned and was gone, covering his bleeding arm with one hand.
I looked at the fleshie dispassionately for a moment, then pocketed it. I didn't bother to look to see if Filly had emerged from the tenement yet. I didn't give a damn.
*****
I didn't have anymore money stashed on me anywhere, which meant I had a long walk home ahead of me. It was dark by the time I reached my office. Al and his cart were both gone for the day, which was too bad. I would have liked to apologize. I was sure now that I'd asked him about Candy twice over the course of a couple of days without realizing it. He must have thought I was trying to insinuate something.
I still couldn't remember shit, but way I figured it, this was what had happened: Three days ago, I'd started my search for Candy Warner the same way I had today. I'd shown her picture to Al, then shown it to Mondo's girls, and maybe they knew that Candy had gotten mixed up with Filly somehow, or maybe there was some other clue that led me to that conclusion. In any case, I'd made it to Filly's eventually. Filly had shown me his house of horrors, and I'd had the same reaction I'd had today. And when I'd walked out, I'd been so fucked up by what I saw that I just wanted to forget for a while, just wanted all the horror and the helplessness to go away.
Enter our friend the caphead.
A fleshie can make you crazy. I'd turned my nose up at them for years, but the one I'd bought off the farmer a couple days ago had done exactly what I'd needed it to do – it made me forget. It made me forget a little too well, because I hadn't done anything, left a note or nothing, to ensure I wouldn't do exactly the same thing I'd done before once I got around to waking up.
I poured myself a stiff glass when I got to the office, and sipped on it while I did what I had to for my skin, to keep the fungus and the mushrooms off. I rubbed the dark places with vinegar, put eyedrops in, and then I went back to my desk, got out an old knife from the drawer, and sliced the fleshie up.
I sat down and took the 4x6 of Candy out of my pocket. Such a pretty girl. They always were, though – pretty, I mean. The pretty ones always had the saddest stories.
I tore the picture up into tiny pieces and let them flutter into the overflowing trash can beside my desk. Then I dropped some pieces of the fleshie into the whiskey and watched them bubble. I sat like that for a while, looking at the glass of forgetfulness I'd made myself.
And when I couldn't even stand thinking about it anymore, I drank.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
An earlier draft of the story you have just read was written and submitted to Innsmouth Free Press for one of their horror anthologies. Innsmouth took a pass on that version of the story (and rightly so… it wasn’t quite there yet), but the fact remains that this version of the story wouldn’t exist if that anthology hadn’t existed. So if you enjoyed this, please check out Innsmouth’s book, Fungi, due in the fall of 2012.
Or check out one of my other books. Or if you’re feeling generous, both.
Thanks for reading,
Russ Anderson
March, 2012
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Russ Anderson can usually be found in the suburbs of Baltimore, where he lives with his wife and his two daughters. He is the editor of the HOW THE WEST WAS WEIRD anthology series, and the author of the novel MYTHWORLD for Pulpwork Press, and the FLY GIRL series at Pro Se Productions.
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