I slow, hesitating as I consider the next few steps.
Instead of rushing outside, I turn and hurry back to the gore-soaked bedroom.
Mary’s body is the one producing most of this blood, her half-skinned corpse sprawled face down on the floor. The most shocking thing about this scene is not the corpse itself, though, it’s how far she managed to get before passing out.
Eddie’s discarded shell lies next to her, his whole face and neck distended in ways I never would’ve thought humanly possible. It’s hard to quantify how that massive insect managed to fit within Eddie’s pale old frame, but rolling up and carving out a cavity in his torso might actually work. The creature itself is quite flat, and if coiled tight, it could find enough space for each vital organ to keep pumping and thumping.
I’ve seen what it looks like coming out, but I can only imagine what it looks like going in.
I hurry over to Eddie’s former self and search through his pockets until I find what I’m looking for: the car keys.I also discover the folded piece of paper tucked away in his pocket, and while I need to keep moving, there’s no doubt this information is important enough to pause for. This is a key, too—in its own way.
I unfold the page, my eyes darting across the undeniable proof that, despite his lifespan of more than a thousand years, Eddie’s personality has stopped dead at boomer. His layout is simple enough, ten blocks of text stacked along the left side in Times New Roman font.
I can now confirm that the watermark is a government seal, the lettersPSMEsurrounded by an oval wreath. This sheet was printed at the Palm Springs medical examiner’s office, probably just before I picked Eddie up.
The same information categories are repeated over and over again down the left side. First is the wordPatient, followed by a full name. The surnames are listed first, which immediately tells me this information was copied and pasted from some other official document, a larger database. People don’t casually type names like this.
Below each name is an address. Out of the ten locations, the first four are marked with a red star. These are the places we visited tonight, including our mishap at the gated community.
Names and locations are what I expected to find, but what’s under them is so out of left field that it hits me like a slap, shocking my frantic mind into a state of sober attention.
Various ailments are listed, one in each information block. I see a few Merkel cell carcinomas, one squamouscell carcinoma, and the all-too familiar designation of melanoma covering the rest.
All of them feature a terrible additional detail:metastasized.
Most people know what these words mean, but in a sun-soaked town like Palm Springs, they’re even more prevalent. All these people have late-stage skin cancer.
I can’t help but wonder how close to being on this list Noah was. It’s possible the only reason he’s not currently skinning himself alive is because most of his treatment is through a specialist over in Rancho Mirage.
My eyes wander over to Mary’s half-flayed body, her bright red musculature still shiny and wet after its recent exposure to the outside air. Eddie’s hunt for these specific people, and his disgusting meal after finding them, felt so needlessly macabre until this very moment, but suddenly I find myself awash with understanding.
It will likely never makecompletesense to me, but the building blocks are enough to reveal something primitive and elemental, a necessity in his transformation. Cancer cells are notorious for their powers of replication, dividing again and again as they create tumorous masses and destroy our healthy organs.
The destructive nature is a matter of perspective, though. To those of us with loved ones who have suffered through this horrible disease, it’s an assault—a tragic, frustrating battle cry of microscopic renegades against the very body that made them.
But as far as thecancer cellsare concerned, everythingis working out just splendidly. They’re simply growing, doing what they were incorrectly programmed to do.
If that regeneration could be harnessed in a different way, through some alien biology, then maybe these cells could serve a very specific purpose. Maybe they could support a supercharged mutation between caterpillar and butterfly.
Visions ofThe Very Hungry Caterpillar, a children’s book that Marlo adores, fill my mind’s eye. It’s a welcome break from all these thoughts of butchery and gore, but the reprieve falters when I compare it to the situation at hand. Caterpillars are hungry because they’re storing energy, preparing for a chrysalis state. Eddie is hungry to store energy, preparing for …
My gaze lingers on the horrifically distorted face and neck of Eddie’s former shell as I struggle to come up with a word for what just happened here.
No time.
I fold the paper and stuff it into my pocket, then turn and rush to the bungalow door.
The car key is gripped tight in my hand as I make my way back through the Fimi Date Farm complex, marching across the inner garden and then returning to the gift shop. I pass the security guard, who now dangles from a center beam in the main room, extension cord wrapped tightly around his neck and his body swaying gently from side to side.
If I really focus—and if they catch the light just right—I can see pink flecks of Eddie’s dust still floating around me, swirling and churning as I move through it. I can onlyimagine how far it has already radiated out from this building, covering the farm. Now that Eddie’s breached his human form, his pheromones are free to spread with even more potency, sliding under doors and spilling through cracked windows. The flakes are everywhere.
I notice myself approaching in the reflection of the exit doors, and for the briefest moment my heart leaps at the sight of this frightening monster. This is the first time I’ve seen myself since the blood clouded my eyes, and I almost forgot the extent of my work.
My face is caked with dark red, the blood smudged and smeared across me like I’ve been dipped in a vat of the stuff and left out to dry. It streaks through my long hair, darkening the natural ginger tone and creating a sloppy mass of long wet strands. The missing piece of scalp up front gives my hairline a strange, uneven angle, and this asymmetry is offset even more by the massive opening in my opposite cheek; an eerie, permanent half smile through which the faint glint of a few blood-stained teeth are visible. The crimson liquid doesn’t stay confined to my head, either, spilling down my chest and soaking my clothes.
But as shocking as this all is, my hesitation is minimal. I don’t have time to dwell, and certainly no interest in wallowing in regret. There are more important things to worry about.
The way I move feels larger now, as though my aura has expanded into that of a hulking beast. My confidence has always felt sleek and hidden, a great white in the water, but now it rumbles and sways with weight and heft,more ferocious than ever.
