Wake the Wicked Read online

  As I dig beneath the tray, trying to tip it over, I hear the squeak of iron and a huge, hairless hand pinches my tail. I hold onto the metal tray until my arms feel like they’re tearing apart.

  The pulling force is too much. She tears me out of my cell and restrains me in her grasp so I can't move. She sticks a needle into my stomach, right where I noticed a small growth beginning to form. Its tender to the touch and I begin to cry.

  She tosses me into a tall glass box with a single mirrored wall and ceiling. She latches the door shut. I back up in the corner, keeping my eyes on her. What is she up to now? Is she going to set us free? The thought excites me. I jump up, pawing the glass wall.

  I wait till the woman in white turns her back and shift myself toward the mirrored wall. I've seen the reflection of myself in glass doors and windows before, but this is the first time I've seen myself through a mirror in this much detail. I touch my reflection. My short brown hair glistens in the cold light of the room. The way my hairless ears stick out and bend forward reminds me of my daughter's, only mine are much larger. I smile, and a second later, a harsh smell interrupts the sweet reminisce. My nose twitches and long gray whiskers spread out across my face like wings. I can't believe how much I look like my father.

  I hear my neighbor tapping his nails as he meanders from one side of the box to the other. The mirrored ceiling prevents me from seeing him. I hear him murmur something unintelligible. I turn to my left. There's a white bowl attached to the wall. At the top, there's a tiny hole with a metal box attached to the other side. Thin metal sticks out to the left, like a sideways kitchen cabinet handle.

  I try to climb the metal to get closer to my neighbor, but when I do, the handle drops down from my weight. I hear a click and a quick ting of a bell. Then, an object rolls out of the tiny hole in the wall—a pellet! I gobble it up at once and out of the corner of my right eye, see the woman tilt her head down to my level.

  She fixes her eyes upon me. My rapid chomping fades to a standstill. I gulp. I don’t like her eyes on me. A chill races down my spine. My body tightens and my heartbeat races like I got a whiff of a prowling cat. She makes me feel like I’m nothing more than a motionless, soundless, rotting cabbage.

  I want more. I motion to her by standing. And although it frightens me to get close, I put both paws on the glass in front of her big head. "Thank you. Please, another," I say, even though she can't understand me, let alone hear me. She must know I'm grateful. I toss my tongue around in my mouth, savoring the bittersweet taste.

  Moments later, it clicks. The handle. I pulled the handle down and the pellet came out of the wall.

  I turn and walk over to it. I stop for a moment and look at the woman. She turns the corners of her mouth upward, into a strange smirk. While keeping my eyes on her, I push down the button. Another pellet rolls out into the tray and I hear the bell ting. I pick the pellet up with both hands. The earthy texture makes my hands tremble with excitement, and the taste, which days ago curbed my appetite, makes my mouth salivate like a hungry spring bear.

  "Pull the handle," I yell, hoping my neighbor hears.

  Moments later, I hear what I think is a response, a sort of grumbling. Then, I hear a single ting, but no munching. He must not be hungry. I am, though, and I don't know when my next meal will be. I reach for the handle and pull it down again.

  It makes a tinging noise and a pellet rolls out. I pull it down again. It tings. Another pellet rolls out.

  I repeat the act until I have a bountiful feast. My eyes widen and I begin to devour the pellets whole.

  All of a sudden, I hear a familiar, low buzzing and the woman's big head shifts upward. The buzzing somehow reminds me of home, when I used to forage for food in my kitchen, but how? I stop chewing and look up. The ceiling shivers, distorting my reflection to a blur. I hear a clamor of fearful scratching and I jump at the sound of a painful squeak. I know why the buzzing is familiar now—it's the sound of electricity!

  I barely notice the crumbs falling from my hungry mouth and I call out, "Neighbor! You okay? Tell me what's going on." Meanwhile, the buzzing stops, and still I hear no response. I’m beginning to worry, not only for his well-being, but for my own.

  The woman in white backs away and scribbles something in a notebook. Her mouth mimics the words she jots down. None of it makes sense to me. She gets closer. Her shadow closes in on me and gives me chills.

  She unlatches the door. I step back against the wall and tuck my tail away. She flicks me. It stings, so I move farther away. That's how she gets hold of my tail. Her cold fingers, wrapped in latex, dangle me at a distance, like she was holding something foul.

  She walks backward, toward my cell. I try lifting myself up to her fingers, to try to touch her, to try to scare her into releasing me, but her clasp remains firm.

  The woman opens the door to my cell and dumps me inside, right back onto the cold iron floor. I huddle in the corner while she covers her hand over the door for a moment. Then, she reaches with her free hand off to the right and uncovers the door and throws in a small pile of pellets toward the tray. They scatter; a few land in the tray, others on the ground, and one splashed in the water dish. I’m hungry, but I don't eat.

  From my cell, I have a clear view of the white table with the glass box. And I see my neighbor inside, lying on the ground, weak from the electric shocks. The woman marches toward him and unlatches the door. I see his dazed eyes shift toward her, enough to see her close in. She hoists him by the tail and, with a thud, drops him into his cell.

  I can never tell in here without the sun, but the day, or maybe it's night, is over now, and the woman in white shuts the big door. Usually she turns off the light, but today she forgot. Regardless of lightness or darkness, night or day, it's all one continuous nightmare for me. I don't think I'll be getting much sleep anyway. I never do in here.

  Two weeks later

  The pellet the woman in white had thrown into the water had bloated up and began to rot. Dark green fuzz puffs out one side of the bowl like a tuft of moss. It makes me sneeze and cough up so much my chest is sore. I try to keep my distance, but I get so thirsty. I wonder if the woman in white even notices the green stuff.

  I take a couple licks of water. I feel a sharp pain in my belly and draw back. The small growth starting weeks ago is much larger now. It’s the size of me. It gets in the way of everything I do, and when it rubs on the ground, which is anytime I move, it becomes raw and sore.

  I haven't been the only one to go through changes, however. My neighbor, whose been here a while before me, has gained an excessive amount of weight, and his speech becomes more slurred with each day. I'm afraid soon he’ll no longer be able to make even a mere squeak.

  I hear his heavy body thrashing about next door at the sight of the woman in white. His tail bangs against the iron walls and floor in an anxious rage. He screeches at the damned woman like a hawk. I hear him tumble over into the empty food tray, then I hear a splash. He must have fallen into the water bowl.

  The woman walks by his cell and, without opening the iron door, tosses in a few pellets through the bars. The right half of her lip curls up with disgust. She puts on a thick pair of gloves dangling from her pocket. Since my neighbor's mood swings began, she no longer opens his cage without putting on the clumsy looking things.

  I hear the creak of the iron door open. She thrusts an arm inside his cell. Her body jerks around until she yanks out my plump neighbor. A red rash covers his nose and clear liquid oozes down his mouth. She struggles to keep her grasp on him as he wiggles in and out of the big gloves.

  At last, she squeezes him until he can no longer move anything but his head and tail, which he began whipping in all directions. She takes a needle and, before she pricks him, he twists and she jabs him in the neck, missing the spot. She slides it out and squeezes him tighter. She stabs him again, this time injecting a clear liquid into his belly like she had meant to the first time. His eyes begin to tear and an eruption of ch
unky vomit ejects from his mouth like a fire hydrant.

  The woman in white doesn't seem to care too much about her vomit-covered gloves. With my neighbor still gripped in a tight hold, she twists her arm, checking her wristwatch. She smiles and throws my neighbor back in the iron cell. She shuts the door and takes off the gloves.

  The woman turns around and reaches into a plastic bag on the white table. It's filled with something delicious. I can smell it.

  She leaves the room. My neighbor and I are left alone again. Although I can't tell where it's coming from, I hear the click and clank of metal, then a faint squeak. Moments later, I see my neighbor—outside his iron cell!

  He stammers over to me and starts fiddling with the door. "How'd you get out?" I ask in a whisper, but he seems to be locked in a sort of daze and doesn't answer me. "Thank you, thank you," I say, looking around to make sure the big door doesn't open. He tumbles over, missing the edge of the table by millimeters. "Are you okay, neighbor?"

  He answers me with an intelligible mumble. I hear a loud click, then the big door opens. The woman in white is back. It frightens me so much I jump backward, into my tray. It makes a loud bang.

  My neighbor stumbles sideways, but catches himself on the iron bars. Her head juts in our direction and she rushes over, her face stern.

  I stammer back into the corner. My heart races and I fear for our lives. "Leave, leave now!" I tell my neighbor. "Run, man!" But he doesn't listen, and the woman in white grabs him with those big brown gloves and constricts him like a boa until his eyes pop out and his skin turns red. When she releases, he struggles enough to squeeze free and tumbles to the floor, then I hear a small thud. I don't look down. I won't look down.

  The woman in white takes off her gloves and sets them on the white table in the most casual of manners. From the corner of my eye, I see her crouch. I rest my head down, my vision blurs.

  I look over at the tray of scattered pellets. Looking at them makes me sick. I don't want to eat anymore. I don't want to eat anymore dry pellets or drink old water or live in this cold cell or allow her to stick me with anymore needles. I’ll bite her the next time I have the chance, then I’ll run away and hide until I can leave.

  I begin turning around and around in circles thinking, thinking in circles. Thinking and thinking. I rocked back and forth. I'm not cold anymore. Back and forth. Circling and thinking. In anger, I begin biting at my own skin and tearing away at my fur, waiting for her to pick me up, circling and circling, circling through white. White walls, white table. Circling. White coat, cold floor, white. Circling, cold wall. Cold ceiling. Circling. Circling. Rocking in cold white, white cold. Cold table.

  I haven't slept in a long time. I'm cold. My body shakes as she takes me out of the cell like soiled toilet paper. I had a plan. I think I had a plan for the woman in white. The plan is . . . Thinking of the plan is, is right? Even my daughter could think of the plan for the woman in white. But what was it?

  The woman lowers me into a round tub of white liquid. The plan vanishes from my mind and I swim through the frigid white water, passing cubes of ice. There’s no way I can get out, no ledge in sight. I need to think of the plan. It's here; I've got to find it. I swim to the side with a clock on the wall. It's not here. I swim close to the right side, but find nothing more. It's here somewhere; my plan for the woman in white.

  My arms and legs begin to tense and my body, which has grown twice its size in the past couple weeks, is becoming weaker and the water is becoming colder. I don't have much longer to go before I find the plan. I know it. The rest of my body is becoming numb but I can feel it getting closer. Even my daughter can find the plan.

  I take one last breath. My joints stiffen. I lose control. I begin sinking. I can't close my eyes to block the coldness from entering anymore, they’re frozen open. Lower I sink, closer to the plan.

  * * *

  The woman in white mimics out loud what she had written in her notebook, "It seems when the drug is introduced at high dosages, twice a day, a cancerous tumor develops. And when it’s introduced to cold water, it freezes."

  The woman in white stirs through the white liquid with her free hand until she reaches me. She lifts me by the tail to the light for further examination. The white liquid drips from my stiff body. My whiskers fan out one last time, and she tosses me into the red box with the hole in the top.

  END

  Birds of Prey

  Petey, a micro preemie weighing only 1 pound, 3 ounces at birth, wailed like a wounded kitten. Greg poured formula into a bottle and held it in front of his son. "Open up," Greg singsonged into ears the size of a dime.

  Petey refused the bottle and jerked his head away. "Open up for daddy, please." Greg held his son's head still and pressed the nipple between his lips. "Come on, it's not that bad."

  During the third week, the hospital allowed Greg to take the miserable little thing home, without his wife Mona. At the time of the birth, Mona had a violent infection, which caused the preterm labor—and the end of her life. But there were two things Mona left behind; her antique collection and Petey. Greg's eyes began swelling with hot tears at the thought. And there was no way to look at Petey without seeing Mona in the reflection of his tiny eyes. It haunted him. A tear rolled off his cheek and landed on Petey's forehead.

  Greg pressed the nipple harder to Petey's lips until he surrendered. "There we go."

  The moment the bottle had emptied, Petey began a fit of sobbing. His arms jerked like elastic as Greg carried him to the porch. The wooden floor planks creaked and bent with each step. Greg fastened Petey to a cradle and plugged his son's wailing mouth with a pacifier.

  Greg sat across from him on a porch swing and lit a cigarette. He breathed in as deeply as he could. The smoke warmed his throat and lungs, relaxing him. In the distance, he heard a group of birds squawking.

  Greg watched the heat rise from the paved driveway in visible steaming waves. A drought had started ten weeks ago and turned the lawn into hay. He picked at his yellow sweat-stained shirt. Since he had no AC, the porch was the place to cool off, where the breeze could evaporate the dripping sweat off his body.

  As he swung, the rushing air cooled his skin. The chains groaned from carrying his dense body. It's so quiet without Mona, he thought, swinging faster.

  The groan from the chains became louder and longer with each oscillation. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a black bird soaring down from a nearby tree branch. Without another warning, the ceiling let out one final creak and burst its seams. He crashed to the floor, splintering the wooden swing in half.

  * * *

  "It's time I lose this gut, eh Petey?" he said, hauling himself up.

  The bird scavenged the fruitless ground, then shouted at Greg. It scratched at the dry blades of grass, picked up a few branches with its beak, and flew about seventy feet up into a nearby tree.

  Greg kicked at the remains of the wooden swing and again heard chirps. "What do you say we take a look?" He picked up Petey. If it wasn't for the diaper and large head, Greg feared Petey would be light enough to float away with even the slightest gust of wind. Together they were an odd looking pair.

  "There." Greg lifted Petey close to his head and pointed high to a tree with a bird's nest. A blackbird shot from the nest at once and flew downward toward Greg. They'd gotten too close. It swooped at them. Another bird swooped in from behind, hitting his shoulder, knocking him off balance. He tripped over a ditch and fell to his knees, knocking the cigarette from his mouth. Petey tumbled to the ground crying. Sweat drizzled over Greg's eyes.

  Furious, Greg grabbed the tree and rocked it with wild shakes. Pieces of the nest flaked apart. Dried leaves floated to the ground. He tilted his head down so the debris didn't prick his eyes and continued shaking. Baby birds fluttered out of the nest and scattered on the ground below.

  Greg released the trunk. He scooped up Petey and charged toward the house. Once inside, he locked the door, not because he felt the birds could
unlock it, but because it made him feel more protected.

  Greg peered out the kitchen window, which faced the tree with the nest. The baby birds popped their heads up above the grass and flapped their little wings.

  Greg looked down at crying Petey, whose arms flapped about. "Damn things, it’s my goddamn tree! You see how they attacked us, Petey?" He peered out the window and his eyes darted toward a giant feathered mass. It swooped down on one of the baby birds and snatched with jagged claws. Three black birds from surrounding perches chased the feathered mass, but they were too slow. A boisterous battlefield of anxious black birds tore through the sky, alarmed yet directionless. And one by one the giant birds caught its prey, leaving nothing but the ruffled feathers behind.

  "Alright, enough fun for today," Greg said, disturbed by the bird action. "I bet you're still hungry." Greg remembered he left the bottle on the porch.

  Shouldn't be a big deal. I'll sneak out. No biggie. They'll never even see me, Greg thought, laying down sniveling Petey on the couch. He prowled to the door and peeked out. In the distance, the bird commotion continued, but none were in sight.

  Now's my chance.

  He tiptoed outside. As expected with each step, the floorboards cried out as though they were about to burst apart. He snatched the bottle and returned to the open door. As he turned around to shut it, an angry crow stormed down from the roof and jetted toward him, its mouth raging open. Greg slammed the door shut and watched the shadowy figure outside the stained glass door shriek and stir about. It had been waiting for another chance to strike.

  Greg huffed in air, trying to catch his breath. Odd . . . He's not crying, Greg thought, walking into the living room. Petey gawked into the distance. "What's up, buddy? You're not scared anymore? I sure as hell still am." Greg sat beside Petey, who continued to stare into the distance. "What is it?"