Blender babies, p.3
Blender Babies, page 3
“The truth, Tommy,” Brian hissed, growing frustrated.
“The truth? Yeah. Okay. Yeah. He lives down the hall. I don’t know his name. Don’t wanna know it. His mom, she’s, uh... Her name’s Alexandra. I hurt her but I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t. They got another kid, too, but I didn’t touch him. And, hey, you... you wanna know something funny? Alexandra’s husband, his name is Alejandro. So, both of ‘em have the same nickname. Alex and Alex. It’s funny, no? This kid, his real name’s probably–”
“That’s enough.”
Brian glanced at the front door. He thought about the apartment with the kicked-in door down the hall. It was easy for him to connect the pieces.
“You didn’t kill your neighbor but you took her baby,” Brian said. “Okay. We’ve got that cleared up. So, why is that baby in that blender?”
“Because he’s a... a blender baby.”
“A what?”
Tommy explained, “It’s the latest craze. It’s like a drug but better. Powerful like fentanyl. Homemade like krokodil. Natural like the miracle of life. It–It–It... It is life.” He pointed at the ceiling with his free hand while his other index finger stayed on the blender’s START button. He said, “It takes you so, so, so fucking high, man. Takes you through a–a universe of alternate dimensions. And it’s all in the baby’s blood. The adrenochrome, man, it does shit to you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” Tommy said, chuckling. “I can’t explain this to someone like you. You’ve never been in my shoes. Never seen the world through my eyes. Never understood me. And you never tried.”
“That’s not true. I helped you get cleaned up. I got you a job. I stuck with you when Mom and Dad turned their backs on you.”
“It doesn’t matter. No, not at all. You got questions? Go find the people who started this. It was in Russia, I think. No, no, maybe it was China. Heard it started in an underground lab. Shit, maybe it even started in our own backyard. Some people said it was, uh… popular with the ‘elite’ before it started to spread through social media and shit. I read all about it on the internet once, y’know? Look it up. You’ll see. Just don’t try it for yourself or… or you’ll end up like me.”
Brian raised his hand at him, palm out, as if trying to keep a wild animal under control. He said, “You’re not making any sense. You’re not in the right headspace right now. I need you to step away from the blender. Come here, Tommy. Let’s have a seat. Let’s talk about this.”
“I can’t do that. It’s too strong. I need another hit. Another sip.”
The baby boy regained consciousness, although his eyes remained closed. His arm squeaked on the plastic pitcher as he fidgeted in the tight space. His whining seeped past the lid.
“Get him out of there,” Brian said through his gritted teeth.
“I can’t do that, man. I want to but I can’t. I’m always thirsty for more.”
“This isn’t a fucking joke, Thomas,” Brian said, taking one step forward. “Get that baby out of that goddamn blender.”
He was ready to fight his brother. He was willing to spill his own family’s blood to protect another parent’s child. But he knew his limits. He wasn’t fast enough to reach Tommy and stop him from pressing the button. And one of the blades was cutting into the baby’s soft abdomen now. If the blender started, his death was guaranteed.
Tommy looked down at the newborn and said, “Get Les and Cam out of the city. Go far, far away. Build a treehouse in the woods or take a boat out into the ocean. Things are only going to get worse from here on out.”
“We can still fix this. Take the baby out of that blender. We can give him back to his mother and make sure they’re all okay. Then we can get out of here together. You, me, Leslie, Cameron. We can get you some help. This isn’t what you–”
“I’m so sorry,” Tommy interrupted.
Brian ran forward and shouted, “No!”
As his brother reached the bar, Tommy pressed the blender’s START button. The baby’s high-pitched wail reverberated through the apartment complex for two seconds before being replaced by whirring, clunking, clacking, gurgling, squelching, and crunching noises.
2
NINE MONTHS LATER
The staff lounge in the police station was illuminated by the dim emergency lights in the corners of the room. The electricity was provided by the facility’s standby power system. Two dining booths lined one wall. A three-seat sofa hugged another. Against another wall, there was a row of counters with a sink, a coffee maker, and a microwave. And next to the counters, there was a refrigerator and an empty water cooler. Three round tables stood in the middle of the room.
Brian, Leslie, and Cameron sat on the sofa. Leslie held their baby, Harper, in her arms. She was close to being six months old. Swaddled in a blanket, she slept while wearing soft earmuffs.
Other survivors sat at the booths and tables. The Marshalls sat at a booth with Carson, their eight-year-old son, and Ellie, their four-year-old daughter. The Mendozas occupied a table. Their toddler played with Play-Doh under them. A young man named Leigh Stanford paced back and forth in front of the door leading to the staff locker room, mumbling unintelligibly to himself. Addison Agena, a fifteen-year-old girl sat on the floor in the corner of the room next to the water cooler, staring blankly at her feet.
Addison had been separated from her family when their van was ambushed by a pack of maniacs as they attempted to evacuate the city via a freeway. A police officer had managed to rescue her from the baby-fiends. She had to watch as her younger brother, father, and pregnant mother were attacked while she was dragged into a patrol car. She didn’t see them die, but she saw blood splattering on the windows as the maniacs stabbed them. Some days she felt hopeful, believing her family would come pick her up. Other days she was convinced they were dead and she contemplated suicide as a way of reuniting with them.
There were other families in the police station too. They took shelter in the jail cells and the offices. When the anarchy started, the high-risk offenders incarcerated in the jail were transferred to prisons in the area. The low-risk offenders and juvenile delinquents were freed, forced to fend for themselves. Audrey Steiner, a 27-year-old redhead, slept in a woman’s cell with her newborn. Her baby, Bella, was a month and a half younger than Harper. Audrey hadn’t left the cell since Bella’s birth. She was of the opinion that she was safer locked up with her baby than roaming free, especially if the baby-fiends succeeded in raiding the precinct.
Daryl Andrews stepped to the middle of the room. His hair was short and wiry, and he wore a thick, graying goatee. He was dressed in a police uniform. On a strap, a shotgun was slung across his back. He swept his gaze around the room.
“I need volunteers,” he announced.
“Fuck that,” Leigh answered, still pacing with his head down. “A Good Samaritan is a dead Samaritan. I ‘volunteered’ to help someone once. Yeah, back when this shit started. You know what I got when I went to check on my neighbor? A knife to the stomach. That shit hurt like a motherfucker, man. I made it but my girl didn’t. She got it–”
“Enough.”
“–in her neck. Then the bastard started cutting her open like–like... like he was dissecting a frog in biology class, man. I didn’t know what the hell he was doing back then but I know now. He was looking for a baby. But she wasn’t even pregnant. Nah, man, she wasn’t. No way. She was on the pill, y’know? He just... He pulled out her guts. Her intestines, y’know? Why’d he have to kill her like that? Why, man?”
“I said that’s enough from you,” Daryl said sternly. “Settle down, son.”
Leigh kept rambling but he lowered his voice until only he could make out his words. The group was saddened by his story but it didn’t shock them. They didn’t even bother to cover the children’s ears. He had been telling the same story since he arrived at the precinct. And he kept recounting it because it kept replaying in his head. He was tormented by survivor’s guilt.
Daryl said, “I need stable and reliable volunteers.”
“For what?” Brian asked in a hushed voice so as not to awaken Harper.
“We’re running low on supplies. We have plenty of firearms and ammunition but we’re running out of the essentials. Medicine. Gas. Food. And yes, that includes formula for the babies.”
Leslie said, “You told us the National Guard was coming. What happened to the evacuation plan?”
Daryl explained, “As most of you know already, we lost access to internet, radio, and phone services a little over a week ago. Days before that, we lost all contact with the government. It’s dead air. A rescue team may still be on the way, but it could be weeks or even months before they can get to us. It’s not something I want to say, but... we don’t have that kind of time.”
A defeated silence befell the lounge.
Cesar, the patriarch of the Mendoza family, ruffled his son’s curly hair, and asked, “What are you planning now?”
“Officer Carpenter and I will lead a group through the city. We’ll pile into a patrol car and drive out to the local supermarkets and pharmacies. We’ll fill the trunk with as much supplies as possible. Hell, we’ll fill the whole car if we can. Then we’ll come back here and wait until rescue comes. If we run out of supplies before that happens... rinse and repeat.”
“That plan is bullshit,” Donald Stephens said, wagging his head in annoyance.
He was seated at one of the tables. In his fifties, he was one of the older survivors in the precinct. Although he had a receding hairline, his grizzled hair was long and swept back, covering the nape of his neck. A long, wild beard covered his rugged face. An inextinguishable blaze of rage burned in his eyes.
He continued, “They’ll spot you before you leave the block and, if you make it into a supermarket, they’ll slaughter you before you can make it out. And I hate to be a downer–”
“No, you don’t,” Daryl chimed in.
“–but there ain’t no goddamn rescue team on the way. No way the ‘government’ is going to waste their resources rescuing normal folks like us. They’re out there saving themselves. They’re hunkered down in some underground bunkers or some ships out at sea. They might even be in space for all we know. Maybe that’s why they ain’t returning your calls, huh?”
“It’s dead air, Donald.”
“You really believe that? You really think they’d risk their safety by sending a team of commandos—their personal security—to save us? They don’t need our taxes anymore, do they? But you know what, if they do send someone to snatch us, it’ll be so they can harvest our blood and organs for themselves. Might even keep us for food. These politicians ain’t no better than those rabid, cannibalistic, baby-eating psychos out there and you know it.”
“We were in regular contact with the National Guard before communications were cut off. We also know the mayor was still in his residence at that time.”
“You don’t know jack shit,” Donald said, swinging his hand up as if he were swatting a fly away. “You only ‘know’ what they’re telling you and it could all be bullshit. The mayor could be calling you from a casino in Vegas and you wouldn’t even know it. They’ve just been dragging you along to keep up appearances. And now you’ve gotta make decisions like this. Decisions that will put us all at risk.”
“He–He’s right,” Leigh stuttered. “Me and my girlfriend, we decided to help our neighbor one time. We heard people screaming in their apartment. We thought someone was hurt. Like–Like seriously hurt. We called the police, but the neighbor’s door was open. It–It was practically wide open. So, we went to see if they needed help...”
Leigh continued recounting his story for the umpteenth time. Cesar was now holding his son on his lap, fearing Donald was going to flip his table. The group understood his anger, though.
Donald was the last of the survivors to arrive at the precinct. However, unlike the others, he wasn’t seeking refuge. He sought direction. He was separated from his family while searching for an open entrance to the city’s subway system. But after entering the police station, he wasn’t allowed to leave since Daryl and the other officers believed his departure would risk everyone else’s safety.
“The right choice has been right under our noses this whole time,” Donald said, ending his sentence by thrusting his index finger at the table. “We have to get into the subway.”
“All of the entrances have been barricaded,” Daryl replied.
“From below, yes. From within the stations, yes. The baby-fiends didn’t do it. They’re not vampires, right? They got no reason to be hiding underground. They want to be out here, hunting women and babies. That means there are survivors down there.”
“And we’re surviving here.”
“But they have a fighting chance. They have space to navigate and build defenses down there. You barricaded the doors and windows up here but you know it’s not enough. I’m telling you, those baby-fiends are rabid. They’ve gone dumb over some homemade ‘drug.’ They’re like cavemen, no? And sooner or later, those cavemen are going to discover fire. Then what’s going to stop them from torching this place? What’s stopping them from lighting a ring of fire around the building to smoke us out or to funnel us to one exit so they can capture or exterminate us?”
“Guns, Donald. We have firepower and training that they don’t. We’ll shoot them before they can light a ‘ring of fire’ around us.”
“And what if they drive a bus or a semitruck or a damn bulldozer through the building? What then?”
Daryl said, “We have plans for every contingency. You’re here—you’re all here—because your safety is our only priority. And that’s exactly why we need to resupply. We’re not going out there for fun. We know it’s risky and we know we’re asking for a lot. But we’re doing this for you and your families. Now I need volunteers.”
During the argument, Addison had wrenched her gaze from the floor to stare at Donald. The teenager agreed with him. She believed they were all going to die if they stayed in the police station. In her hopeless state, a smile blossomed on her face. She was ready to welcome death with open arms.
“I’ll go,” Cesar said.
Eva, his wife, clasped his arm and said, “You can’t. You’ve never even shot a gun before.”
“I can learn. Besides, he’s going to need food,” Cesar responded. He tickled his son’s ribs and, in a gentle voice, he said, “You’re hungry, aren’t you, little man?”
“And what if you don’t come back?”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“We need you here.”
“I’ll come back.”
“But what if you don’t?” Eva cried.
Their toddler stopped giggling. He wasn’t old enough to understand their argument but he felt his mother’s fear. Leslie leaned closer to her husband and grabbed his hand. Brian got the message loud and clear: ‘Don’t go.’ The other survivors had quiet conversations with themselves and with their loved ones.
From the booth, Phillip Marshall said, “Cesar, you stay. I’ll go. I’ve got experience in hunting. Not people but... Same rules apply, I suppose. I can make it back.”
His kids whimpered. He slung his arm over his son’s shoulders to comfort him. Sitting on the other side of the booth, his wife, Kristen, coddled their young daughter. There was a mixture of anger and pride in Kristen’s tearful eyes. She knew what her husband was doing was noble, but she didn’t want him to leave their family to embark on a suicide mission.
Although he wasn’t going to say it out loud, Phillip figured that if he didn’t return, at least Kristen would still have their two kids to keep her company. If Cesar died out in the city or vanished, Eva would have been left alone with a toddler who was only just getting comfortable walking on his own.
“That’s one,” Daryl announced. He walked up to the sofa, raised his brow at Brian, and asked, “How about you?”
Smiling nervously, Brian said, “I’m no hunter.”
“If I remember correctly, you said you were a security guard. An armed security guard.”
“Yeah, I had some firearms training, but that gun you’ve got… Listen, I’ve only used a shotgun once and I’ve never fired a rifle.”
“We have plenty of pistols with enough firepower to put anyone down.”
“He doesn’t want to go and you can’t make him,” Leslie said.
“You’re right about that, ma’am,” Daryl responded. “But if we don’t get those supplies, sooner or later, someone’s going to make him fight. It would be a whole lot better and safer if he fought with us instead of alone.”
Brian said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I am... unfit for this task. You guys are comparing this to hunting and it’s fine if you see it that way, but I don’t. You call them ‘baby-fiends,’ I call them people. My... My brother was... is... was one of them. He was a self-destructive guy but he never hurt a person before the... the Craze started to spread. I can’t go out there knowing I’ll have to kill people like him. I won’t go. That’s my final answer.”
Daryl sighed and nodded. He glanced over at Edgar Carpenter, his partner, waiting in the archway behind him.
He said, “Get Mr. Phillip Marshall prepped to head out. I’ll try to round up some more volunteers from the cells.”
After the meeting, Edgar escorted Phillip to the police station’s shooting range for some target practice. Feeling like she was to blame for Phillip’s departure, Eva brought some of her family’s rationed chocolate to the Marshalls as an apology. The kids accepted the gift. Kristen’s anger had subsided, replaced by sadness and regret. I should have done more to stop him, she had been telling herself.
“You did good standing up to him,” Donald said to Brian. “He’s not on a power trip yet, but once he knows he can control you—all of you—he’s not going to take no for an answer.”
Brian didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t feel brave. Daryl didn’t threaten anyone in the room. He had sounded more desperate than intimidating.
