Crazytimes Read online

  He launches at me again, but I manage to dodge him, falling out of the chair in the process. I scramble to my feet as Rick holds his position. I think he is purring.

  I hear a big boom in the distance, somewhere outside. It’s close, though. It feels like it shakes the building. For a second it reminds me of the earthquake we had a few years ago. Then I hear Joseph yell something from the front of the shop, and my concern instantly triples. Was there a car accident right outside? Did a car actually crash into the shop?

  Rick lunges at me, but I see him coming and swoop around behind my chair and use it as a barricade. Then I ram it into him, knocking him back on his ass. The back of his head clunks against the front of my desk, a perfectly placed shot that knocks him out instantly. This isn’t the movies, though—he’s only out for a second, then he’s trying to get back to his feet.

  “What the hell are you doing, man?” I yell. I wonder if there’s any sense in trying to reason with him, or if I need to call the police or a doctor or someone. I think he’s married, but I’ve never met his spouse and wouldn’t know how to get in touch with anyone who wasn’t a client.

  He growls and comes at me again, and I slam the chair into him a second time, now a little harder, and it sends him back into the desk again. My monitor tips forward at the same time and falls face-first onto the top of the desk, just as the back of Rick’s neck collides with the edge. He’s out, and I’m hoping he stays unconscious for at least a few minutes so I can figure out what to do about him. After I assess what’s going on up front, that is.

  I realize I’m still holding the action figure, so I tuck it into my front pocket and dash up to the front of the shop, where I find Joseph standing at the window. The huge pane of glass is covered with a film of creamed coffee, and he’s standing there drawing stick figures in the opaque coating. They look like they’re fucking. He’s biting his lower lip and giggling to himself like a mischievous little kid. He’s scratching his neck with his other hand.

  Andre and Kia have disappeared. Maybe Joseph scared them off? I’m about done with this day myself, and I haven’t even had lunch yet.

  “Joseph? What’s going on, buddy?” I ask as I approach, careful not to startle him.

  Again I wonder/think/hope I’m still asleep, stuck in some bizarre dream I can’t seem to wake up from. But I know that’s not the case. This is actually happening. It’s real, and it’s real fucking weird.

  Maybe Isa really was onto something when she said she thought there was something in the water. For a while now, the world has felt like it’s becoming a more bizarre place every single day.

  “Crazytimes,” she would declare. “We are living through the Crazytimes.”

  Joseph is scratching at his neck like Rick was. The skin is raw, and there’s a web of purple markings, almost like netting. The spaces between the lines look like yellow blisters, and as I get closer, I realize they’re moving. Pulsating. Did Rick’s neck look like this? I saw some lines but assumed they were scratch marks. This looks like something more than that.

  Suddenly, the skin of Joseph’s neck and shoulder area bursts outward, as if several popcorn kernels had just popped beneath the surface of his flesh, exploding to the size of tennis balls. The sight staggers me backward and I nearly lose my footing.

  Joseph yelps, something that sounds more like delight than pain, then he smashes his head hard into the oversized window, shattering it instantly. He laughs as the shards of glass rain down on his head and shoulders, carving dozens of fresh red lines into his skin. Then he turns around to face me, laughing like a maniac.

  His eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them before. He starts spinning them in circles as his laughter gets even louder. Soon he’s screaming his laughter in something akin to an over-the-top comedic performance—something that starts out funny then gets annoying before becoming absurdly funny once again. This remains serious, though.

  Kia jumps out from somewhere—I don’t even know where she could’ve been hiding—and she’s got the guillotine blade with her. The rig to handle it is still attached, but the guard that covers the sharp edge is gone. She’s holding the blade by one of the cylindrical handles, off to her side, spinning the giant knife vertically like a police officer’s baton. I’m impressed she has the strength to do this. Those blades are heavy, and I doubt I could swing one the way she is.

  Without a word, she runs to the front of the shop, stepping on a paper carton when she gets there—it still has the yellow plastic strap around it, so it’s full—which helps her propel herself over the counter, and in one smooth motion, she swings the blade at an angle and takes the top half of Joseph’s head clean off, from his jawline on one side to just above the ear on the other. His laughter wails to a stop while Kia’s follow-through spins her around and embeds the blade back down into the countertop. Joseph’s arms shoot out and wrap themselves around Kia’s torso, but she breaks free of them easily as blood spurts violently from what remains of Joseph’s head, and his body collapses. She turns back and stomps on his chest and stomach several times, although the effort is wasted. His body convulses as blood puddles beneath and around him, and he’s dead in a matter of seconds.

  I breathe a sigh—something that’s more loaded with fear and confusion than relief. A gust of air blows in through the window, rifling the pages of the paper company-supplied calendar on the wall and knocking a couple bits of glass free from the window frame. Kia just stands there, looking down at her coworker’s corpse, breathing heavily.

  “What the fuck?!” It’s Andre, who also appears from out of nowhere. Seems to be the phrase of the day. I turn around and see the shock on his face, which I’m sure matches the look on mine. I want to say something in response, but before I can, I realize Kia has dislodged the guillotine blade from the counter, and is darting toward Andre.

  All I have time to scream is “No!” before she swings it at him horizontally like a baseball bat, severing his left arm at the elbow, and getting stuck in his ribs. She issues a primal scream as Andre’s shock doubles, his eyes wide at the sight of his arm on the ground and the blood spurting out of his wounds. He drops instantly.

  “You’re next, fucko,” she says, turning toward me and giggling before placing a foot on Andre’s chest and ripping the blade violently out of his side. The wet cracking sound is sickening, and blood splats against the dingy gray wall.

  There’s another scream in the back. Rick is awake again, and he quickly makes his presence known in the doorway. His neck and shoulders have now swollen and bubbled outward the same way Joseph’s did, but Rick’s mutation appears even larger. He looks monstrous, his frame now expanded so large and irregular on one side that his shirt has been torn to shreds.

  There’s a loud boom outside, and Rick responds to it immediately, babbling something—it’s not even words—as saliva and what looks like some sort of purple slime spill out of his mouth. Kia reconfigures and goes after him instead of me. Terrible as it is, I’m thankful for the extra time, though I don’t know what my next move is.

  Kia screams and brings the guillotine blade down in an arc, right into the center of Rick’s head. As much as I’ve always disliked my boss, this is a shocking thing to behold, as his head splits perfectly down the middle, each half wilting to either side. Several of the bubbles on his shoulders explode, spraying purple and yellow liquid all over the walls and floor. And all over Kia too.

  She explodes into laughter herself. It’s maniacal. Then she turns her head back and makes eye contact with me once again. Her eyes spin. My only choice is to run out the front. But before I do, she pulls the blade up out of Rick’s neck and positions it horizontally with both hands, just in front of her shoulders. Then, wide-eyed, she raises her chin, exposing her neck, and drags the blade across it, back and forth, back and forth. It’s only then I see the purple markings and the raw skin on her too. Blood, along with purple and yellow slime, all spurt from the wound she creates, spattering her arms and pouring down the
front of her shirt, creating new puddles at her feet. One of her shoulders bursts outward during the process too.

  She only moves the blade a few times before life evaporates from her body and she drops to the floor.

  And suddenly it’s quiet in the shop except for the sound from outside and all I can do is try to catch my breath. Easier said than done.

  5

  TEN MINUTES LATER I’m still standing there. I haven’t moved. My feet feel like they’re glued to the floor. Everyone around me is dead, and I don’t know what to do.

  I pull my phone from my pocket, but I have no signal. It’s never been strong inside the shop, but it’s never been nonexistent either. Finally I feel able to lift my feet, and I’m thankful we still have a landline at the shop, and I go up to the front counter and grab the phone on the wall, but it’s dead. No dial tone, nothing.

  I have to get out of here. I have to call the police. I’m shaking. There’s blood everywhere. Will the cops even believe this? What do I do? What the fuck is happening?

  From the corner of my eye, I see two small clouds of smoke roll past the now-vacant window frame up front, floating down the street like traffic, but in the opposite direction. Maybe someone’s smoking next door? But if so, how could they not have heard what just happened here? How could they not have come to investigate or call for help?

  When I go look, all I see is a very large naked woman running down the street, as if she’s chasing the puffs of smoke. There’s currently no traffic, so she’s free to run right down the middle of the road. She’s going full speed, with her breasts in her hands, pointing them threateningly like a pair of loaded guns at anyone who looks in her direction.

  Her neck looks raw and covered with the same purple web pattern I’ve seen a few times now—enough to know I better steer clear. Thankfully she passes by without noticing me, and she continues down the street, barefoot, naked, and crazy. And of course she’s laughing like a lunatic.

  I hear another boom in the distance, followed by sirens. So whatever’s going on, maybe the police already know. I hope.

  How widespread is this insanity? I wonder. I mean, there’s obviously something going on, some kind of sickness, some kind of plague. I’ve reached that conclusion already, no need for anyone else to confirm it. At the very least, the diseased purple look on people’s necks seems to be a tipoff on who to avoid. I hope I can count on that.

  I step through the front door slowly and look both ways down the street. It looks safe enough now that the crazy naked lady has passed, so I go. Across the street is an alley, and I think that’ll be a quick route to the next block over, but when I get there, there’s a bunch of guys standing halfway down it. There’s six of them. Three look dirty and haggard, probably homeless, wearing far too much clothing, all of it soiled. The other three are young businessmen in what appear to be expensive pinstriped suits.

  I stop dead in my tracks, and jump behind the corner, and thankfully they don’t notice me. I wait for a minute and watch, peeking around the building. They’re all laughing uncontrollably. Each of them has their back against one or the other brick walls of the alley, all of them half-squatting. And I watch as they all produce mason jars from somewhere, then pull their pants down, and in near-unison, shit into their jars. I catch a whiff of it from where I’m standing and gag. Still laughing, they replace the lids, sealing their waste inside. Then, after one of them counts one-two-three, they all run out the far end of the alley, into the street, and throw the jars at storefronts and bystanders.

  I decide to head in the opposite direction.

  6

  A BUNCH OF the buildings in this part of town are abandoned, or at least closed up and not being used. Someone owns them, I assume. The common consensus has been that two or three different people own most of the real estate in the city, and in some cases they hold onto buildings until the going rate has risen high enough that they’re either worth selling or worth renting out at exorbitant prices.

  I slink down the block, doing my best not to be noticed. There are people scattered about, but no cars, and when I get to the end of the street I can see why. Someone has made a makeshift pile of office chairs near the intersection. There are a few different styles, and many of them are broken to bits.

  “Oh yeah?” a voice calls out from far away. “Well how about this?”

  I look up just in time to see a middle-aged woman in a blue and white dress pushing an office chair out a window, from eight or nine floors up the high-rise on the corner. It sails down, spinning the whole way, and crashes onto the pile at the end of the street.

  Something else crashes in the distance at the exact same moment, making it seem as if the chair’s impact echoes across the city. Something smells like it’s on fire.

  She howls with laughter and smacks her palms together a few times like a baby who’s just learned how to clap.

  “Boooooo!” screams a younger guy wearing a pink tie around his head like a bandana, and nothing else, mockingly, from a window across the street, about the same number of floors up. “Check this out!” Then he pushes one of his own chairs out from high above and it crashes into the pile too.

  The woman flips him off and says she’s going to kill him. I decide to make a swift exit from the scene and slip down an alley.

  On the next block, I encounter a disheveled-looking man in a trench coat sitting on the sidewalk, smearing something light brown on his hand with a knife. I’m initially revolted by what I think I’m seeing, but then I notice the peanut butter jar on the pavement beside him. He goes into a glass jar of strawberry jelly next—I recognize the brand as the same kind I buy—and adds a layer to his hand, attempting to spread it as evenly as possible.

  There’s a patch of gravel in front of the storefront next to the one he’s leaning against. It appears to be there temporarily, until the sidewalk paver can be replaced. An older woman, lean and muscular, is squatting beside it, picking through, stone by stone, bringing each one to her mouth. She gives each rock a tiny, delicate kiss, before inserting it into her mouth, at which point she appears to bite it with her molars, testing it like some old-timey prospector, before either swallowing it or casting it into the street. She scratches at her neck and chuckles softly to herself between each inspection.

  I avoid all of these people by slipping down another alley. The next block over is surprisingly quiet.

  A few minutes later I find myself in front of Wok Around the Clock, a twenty-four-hour Chinese restaurant I’ve been to a million times, although not recently, since I’ve been trying to save money and also watch my sodium intake in an effort to lower my blood pressure. I imagine getting a new job would likely reap the same benefits. I’m sure my BP is fine right now, though, since there’s nothing stressful going on in my life. And I sure could go for some spring rolls.

  I drop down low and creep toward the door. It’s glass. Peeking through, it looks like all is calm inside. There are a handful of patrons eating lunch, and a couple servers delivering large platters of food to a few others. Seems like it could be a safe haven. But how? Seems like the whole city has gone crazy. I stand back up and slip inside quietly, just in case.

  “Table for one?” a very tall middle-aged woman with short hair says immediately, and louder than I would have expected. It startles me. She’s the owner. I recognize her, but she probably doesn’t remember my face from the last time I was here, over a year ago. People don’t ever seem to remember me when I’m not with Isa.

  I nod, keeping silent while I continue to assess the surroundings. She motions for me to follow her, then leads me to a booth. I slide in, and she hands me the menu, opened to a page labeled “Chef’s Specialties.” I thank her, then pretend to look at the menu, but instead look over the top of it, examining the other diners to see who has purple streaks or swollen blisters or rashy, itchy necks. I see no such evidence, and realize how hungry I really am. One of the other patrons receives their meal and it smells amazing.

  Sudd
enly someone leans around from behind me. “Tea?” she asks, more like a command than a question. I’m startled again, but she’s my server, a young but stern-looking woman with long, straight black hair, and she’s got a steel teapot in one hand. With the other, before I even respond, she reaches across my table setting and turns a white ceramic cup over, then fills it with hot liquid. The cup has no handle, but features ridges to nest one’s fingers comfortably into.

  “What would you like?” she says, monotone and emotionless. I hesitate, barely. “You need a minute?”

  “Uhhh, no,” I say. “Just an order of spring rolls.”

  She looks at me, as if to say “Really? That’s it?” but doesn’t utter another word. Instead she writes the order on her pad, then grabs the menu from me and pushes through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen.

  I’m confused. I continue looking around the dining room, examining the faces and necks of the other patrons. Some start to notice, and clearly take offense at my invasion of their privacy, but nobody says anything about it. I get a few looks, but that’s it. Nobody stands up and tries to fight. Nobody screams or laughs or yells the word “fuck” or starts slamming the walls or anything. Everybody is calm. I try to act as if I’m just admiring the decor—the giant painted depiction of an ancient Great Wall, the large embossed Mandarin characters painted gold against the shimmering red wallpaper, the potted chrysanthemum tree in the corner, the paper lanterns dangling from the ceiling.

  So maybe everything is fine? I did just see what I thought I did, right? A bunch of people just got killed where I work, right? And all the crazy people outside? So why is everybody going about their business here? Why is no one freaking out? Have they all been holed up here all day? The door wasn’t locked, and most of these people look like they’ve just stopped in for a meal, like they would on any other day.