Bad allergies, p.1
Bad Allergies, page 1
BAD ALLERGIES
©2023 by Brian J. Smith
All rights reserved.
First Edition
Cover art, layout and interior
K. Trap Jones
All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.
www.theevilcookie.com
For
Jack Ketchum (RIP)
Edward Lee
Wrath James White
Clive Barker
The world does not end with a bang
or a whimper…
but with a sneeze.
PROLOGUE
No morning mist
Death rolls in on the morning of June Sixth, Two-Thousand-Twenty-Three at seven-fifteen aeh-em.
It is not in the form of a horror-movie slasher with large razor sharp claws, a hockey mask with mommy issues or a moon-faced man child with a penchant for Walpurgis Night. It is not an alien by-product that does not offer entertainment i.e., reality shows. It is not an Uncle Sam whoopsie-daisy after someone mixes Component A with Component E; this is a recipe for disaster.
It seeps out from between a thin copse of gnarled gray oaks standing along the right shoulder of the County Road Eight. It is in the form of a thin gauzy-white mist that stretches across the road. It does not cast any shadows; it does, however, sends snakes of lucid heat wriggling around it.
To the untrained eye, it is nothing more than the morning mist. There is no sun strong or bright enough to burn it away; nor did it cling to the grass like drops of dew. It drifts along with no destination in sight except for the objects standing in its way.
It floats onto the end of County Road Eight and splits off into two directions. West along Red Barrel Road and East along County Road Seven in the direction of town. The mist drifting West arrives at a brown picket fence separating the road from a trio of one-story homes sitting on postage-stamp lawns.
A small fuzzy brown squirrel trots across the top of the fence, its furry brown tail twitching at the air behind it. It cranes its head toward the sky and sniffs at the air, drawing large gusts of air deep into its lungs.
An odd smell fills its nostrils. It sneezes once, twice and once more. It feels an abnormal shift in the air and a great weight dissipate from its body as if it had been deprived of a grueling responsibility like love, parenthood or taxes. Its tiny brown eyes peers across the top of the fence and glances at the small dark brown acorn sitting on the opposite end of the road.
A loud screeching sound blares from inside of the trees standing along the left shoulder of the road. Branches crackle and stir; the wind accelerates. A large crow bursts from the trees, its majestic black feathery wings spread out from its sides like a warm and inviting hug from an old friend.
The bird does not sense any danger from the squirrel because it is a more dominant species. It knows that the squirrel will have no time to react when once it wraps its wings around him and strikes to kill. Sunlight winks off the edge of the crow’s sharp black beak, shimmers off of its wings and reflects inside of its beady black eyes.
When it closes in on its prey, the crow senses a thick suffocating doom brimming in the air. The squirrel twitches its furry brown nose and bores down on the crown with dilated eyes. The crow tries to avoid the squirrel’s penetrating stare and fly away in search of other scraps but it is too late.
The cycle of nature is shifting. The crow is no longer the dominate predator. Instead, it has become the prey.
The crow shrieks as the squirrel opens its sloping brown mouth and buries its gaping white teeth into the bird’s neck. The bird shrieks again as its right wing gives a loud bone-jarring crunch. Its injured black form flies away from the squirrel in an erratic flight path towards a nearby house, spurting jets of black blood across the air.
As the injured crow squawks, the squirrel bows its head and licks the puddle of black blood from the top of the fence. The other birds squawk in protest of this one-sided dick-measuring contest in which the crow is expected to become the victor.
The pollen floats past the fence and coasts down Red Barrel Road. The sun rises higher, framing the treetops in a soft warm yellow radiance, and catches the wave of pollen floating. It never dissipates, nor does it recede into the trees.
This is no morning mist.
CHAPTER 1
He’d still manage to satisfy all of her needs
It could be worse, you could’ve been paralyzed.
Wendy Haskins stands inside the kitchen of her and her husband Mitchell’s brown stucco bungalow located ten miles along the outskirts of Langston, Ohio and feels sorry for herself again. She takes a sip from her steamy hot ceramic pink mug (the one with WORLD’S WORST TEACHER printed along the sides in bold white font) and peers through the narrow space between the floral print curtains hanging across the sliding glass patio doors. She glances at something out of the corner of her left eye, lowers her mug away from her face and squints for a better look.
A wave of pollen floats across the air like a school of seahorses. It drifts past the driveway in search of other objects and distant horizons.
She takes another sip and sighs at the smell and touch of the soothing hot liquid sliding down her throat. The mingled aromas of dark roast coffee and strawberry-scented shampoo fills her nostrils. She lowers the mug away from her lips again, cradles it in both hands and shakes her head, contemplating every second of misery Mitch’s allergies will put him through.
He will have to take a cab into the city to pick his red Toyota Sienna up from Kisor’s Garage this afternoon anyway. She sees an impromptu trip to Langston Pharmacy in his future and many conversations in a whiny pinched voice.
As a little girl, whenever her parents took her to Lithopolis to visit her grandparents, she would sneak out through the back door and run through the expanse of weeds behind their house. Although her parents had forbid her from doing so, she couldn’t help herself. They’d been worried that the meadow was riddled with vermin, sharp debris and, as her mother Nell referred to it, “God knows what”.
The mingled smells of dandelions, nutsedge and milkweed had been too beautiful to resist. She’d tip her head back, spread her arms out from her sides and runs through them as fast as she could. Joy and exhilaration would wash over her whenever those weeds grazed her skin.
She’d imagined it was another world where everything was beautiful and not divided by opinions, politics and skin color—everyone got along. A world that only existed in either your favorite novels or dreams.
It could be worse.
Her face creasing with a mixture of shame and discomfort, she glances down at the kitchen’s gray-tiled floor and sighs. The bulky black medical boot hugging her left foot ignores the morose expression her face, its ribbed black straps glinting in the early morning sunlight pouring through the curtains. It is not just a medical boot but serves as a reminder that she is not as young and invincible as she thinks.
The familiar sound of bare feet slapping against bare wooden floors snaps her out of her depression. Her body flooding with joy, she shifts her gaze from the medical boot and stares across the living room toward the open doorway leading into the main hall.
She was not sure if he would ever wake up anytime especially after what they’d done last night. He’d known that she’d been in so much pain yesterday that when they’d come home from the hospital he wasn’t the least bit surprised that she’d stormed down the hallway and into their bedroom without saying a single word. She’d slept throughout the day, drinking one bottle of water after another and avoided eating a single bite of his famous Mexican lasagna.
When he’d come to bed around eleven o’clock, she’d rolled over and apologized to him for being so rude to him. He’d forgiven her and added a gentle kiss onto her forehead that’d led to some impromptu late-night sex. Due to her temporary condition, she’d only been limited to oral activity; after all these years he’d still managed to satisfy all of her needs.
Mitch appears from the hallway, pads across the lime green carpet and across the dining room. A wide cheerful grin spreads across his face, his deep-set blue eyes are narrow and dark from grogginess. His short curly-black hair sits atop his round pale head above a wide forehead, broad nose, pencil-thin lips and a smooth square chin.
His light blue t-shirt and red flannel pajama pants hugs his tall narrow frame. He licks the film of sleep paste from the roof of his mouth, grazes his upper lip with the tip of his tongue and sighs.
“Good morning, baby.”
“Mornin,’ handsome,” she says.
He wraps his arms around her, rests his hands on shoulders and plants a soft gentle kiss on the crown of her forehead. She cranes her head back, peers into his eyes and draws a small mingled cloud of Old Spice Fiji into her lungs. A warm pleasing smile tugs at the right corner of her lips.
“I love that smile.”
“You should,” she replies. “You’re the one who put it there.”
He slides his right hand down the length of her back, traces the contour of her hip and squeezes her right buttock between his thumb and forefinger. She flinches, utters a small childish yelp, presses her short hourglass frame against him and tightens her left hand around her mug to keep it from falling out of her grasp. His cock presses against the front of his pajamas pants and prods at the waistline of her blue cotton shorts.
“Easy there, tiger,” she says. “I made you some breakfast.”
She nods her h
He flicks his gaze from the table and back to her. He brushes a strand of strawberry blonde hair away from her forehead, buries his face into the crown of her left shoulder and nuzzles the nape of her neck.
“What if I want something else?”
He pulls his head away from her neck and arches his brows.
“Eat up, baby,” she announces. “You’re going to need all of the strength you can get.”
Her skin still bristling with joy, she adds a playful wink. An odd black shadow flashes in the corners of their eyes, flies across the front porch and strikes the front door with a loud hollow thud. A loud bird-like shriek blares across the porch and rakes at the sky, causing her to flinch and tighten her grip on her coffee mug.
His brows furrowing, “What the hell was that?”
She slides her hand away from him, parts the curtains with her fingers and peers across the front porch. He leans in closer and follows her gaze, his face now creasing with a mixture of shock and awe.
“It’s a crow,” she states.
The crow lies across the black rubber WELCOME mat on its back, its beady black eyes gazing up at the front porch awning. Its left wing twitches in a half-hearted attempt to fly away from them.
“Oh, honey. The poor thing has a broken wing.”
“I’ll go check on it,” he states.
“Wait for me and I’ll–”
“You need to sit down, baby. The doctor said you need to stay off your foot.”
“I can just–”
He raises his hands in a protesting gesture and jerks his thumb toward the couch. She does what he has asked her to do, places her mug on the rectangular wooden table sitting between their overstuffed brown couch and fifty-two inch flat screen and perches her left foot onto the crown of her right knee.
He walks across the living room, wraps his left hand around the cold scarred brass knob and opens the front door. The creak of old unoiled hinges fills the house, muffling the sounds coming from the wooden moon-faced clock hanging on the wall above the couch. A carpet of sunlight spreads across the doorway, casting odd shadows across the floor and lighter ones across the walls.
He plants his left foot in front of him and leans his right shoulder against the door to hold it open. He squats down inside the doorway and extends his arm toward the injured bird when his body twitches into a stiff posture.
He peers across the front porch, ignores the injured bird and blinks twice. His face sags and his nose slides open as his lips twists into a lopsided frown. His eyes narrowing with discomfort, he rears his head back, draws a large cloud of air into his lungs and grunts.
He flinches, whips his head forward and utters a loud sneeze. A large mist of tiny lucid beads spews from his nostrils, sprays the air and rains down across the doorway. He snatches a quick breath, his eyes brimming with tears and sighs.
He clutches the bottom of his t-shirt in his left hand and dabs his eyes. He lifts the injured crow from the porch, cradles it in his left hand and rests it against his chest. He steps back inside, peers down at the crow in his hand, shuts the door with the back of his left heel and gives an automatic twitch.
Two seconds later, he sneezes again and again. His mouth shrinking into a tight pink pout, the once cheerful expression on his face is a dull and morose grimace. His eyes brimming with a fresh river of hot tears, he steps back across the living room, approaches the table and sighs.
A pang of sympathy and sadness hits Wendy in the center of her chest. She’d been so enamored by his affection that she’d forgotten to tell him about the pollen.
“Aww babe,” she says. “Are your allergies bothering you?”
He utters a soft childish sob as a lone tear cascades down his right cheek. She takes another sip, places her mug back onto the table, licks a film of coffee from her upper lip and peers up at him.
A large patch of redness blooms across his face behind his nose. It is unlike the ones she has seen there on previous occasions whenever his allergies had flared up. The one is shaped like a withered human skull, his flaring nostrils acting as its wide empty eye sockets.
His eyes, once glinting with a mixture of joy, light and affection, looks glossy and dilated. Her brows furrowing with confusion, she sits up in her chair and lowers her injured foot onto the floor.
“Do you want–”
Mitch drops the dead onto the pile of scrambled eggs sitting on his plate as if he were cat bringing its master a housewarming gift and sends a small scattering of tiny golden beads flying off of his plate. He reaches across the table with his right hand, snatches the fork from the napkin lying beside of his plate, wraps his fist around its sleek silver handle and swings his arm across the air in a loud whistling arc.
Wendy’s chest tightens. Her eyes widen as the color drains from her face. Fear burrows into the pit of her stomach, squeezes the air from her lung and raises the tiny hairs on her arms and along the back of her neck.
The fork glints under the downward glare of an overhead light. She swallows the river of coffee once floating on her tongue and fails to suppress the bitter acidic aftertaste clinging to the roof of her mouth. Her right hand bunches into a clammy pale fist, pressing her fingernails into the middle of her palms until her knuckles turn white.
If the fork reaches her face, it will open a newfound sense of pain that will consume her and never go away; it’ll leech onto her pride and suck every fiber of soul until there is nothing but darkness. She knows that this is not the man she’d been married to for the past thirty-seven years because he’d promised not to never hurt her.
A strange smell permeates across the room and fills her nostrils. She had not remembered that smell since three years when she and Mitch went to that hippie store in Lancaster to find his brother Mark a belated birthday present. It is the same smell she’d detected coming off the freckle-faced young woman standing behind the counter, her long honey blonde hair fashioned into a Cthulhu-like tangle of dreadlocks.
After a second whiff, the name blooms inside of her head like a notification: Patchouli. It’d been what Mitch had called it after she’d complained about it during the entire ride back home.
Something glints in the corner of her left eye and snaps her out of her trance. She draws a quick breath, her skin bristling with fear, and sighs. The two sharp metallic prongs on the right side of the fork rakes the air and etches thin red scratches across her left cheek.
Rivers of blinding hot pain courses down her face and burrows into her left jawbone. She hisses through her teeth, leans forward and hooks the two forefingers of her left hand around the handle of her mug. Gravity sends him stumbling away from the left side of the table and plants him in front of her, his lips twisting into an angry snarl.
She rears her arm back and bashes her mug against his left temple. The cup shatters on impact, spraying a mist of brown coffee across his face; jagged splinters of broken porcelain pierces his cheeks. Tears of light brown coffee drips against the tip of his chin, dribbles onto the front of his t-shirt and drips onto the floor around his bare feet.
She stands, buries her face in her hands and cocks her head toward her left shoulder to avoid the debris. A mixture of shock and revulsion washes over her, prickles her skin and pins her feet to the floor.
Mitch stumbles backward on drunken wobbly feet. His eyes and face wide with horror, his left foot locks around his right ankle and twists his body to the right. A loud angry grunt bursting from his crooked lips, he plunges backward toward the floor.
His right temple connects with the left corner of their round wooden dining room table. The impact rattles the silverware and sends the salt and pepper shakers clattering onto their sides. The sound of broken bone bursts across the house, grinds against her ears and spreads a fresh carpet of gooseflesh down her entire body.
