Moxyland

Toby

When do I finally tweak what’s happening? Not when he snatches my wrist, so tight I can feel it bruise. Not when he starts shaking violently or when his eyes roll back and his jaw clamps and he starts making hideous sounds through his teeth, wet, viscous shrieks.

No, kids, the indicator for yours truly that this is some serious fucking shit is when he starts bleeding from every exit point. At first I laugh, cos I can’t help it. Because it’s so overboard gruesome, total B-grade horror, and so badly done, it starts oozing out in thick dark runnels, and then it’s pouring out, gushing, and I try to pull my hand away, and he won’t fucking let go. It’s like someone turned on a liquidiser inside him. And I cannot get him to let go.

‘Tendeka,’ I shake his shoulder, but he just continues dissolving onto the rooftop. It’s soaking into my shoes. The hem of my BabyStrange is dipped in the mess ebbing out from under him. Jesus. I’m frantic to get away from it. I’m wrenching his fingers. Bending them back. Gagging. And then he squeezes once more, convulsive, and lets go.

I tumble backwards, clutching my wrist, and fall in the blood, the soles of my tackies squeaking in it, so I leave tracks and a handprint. And now I do vomit, kneeling in Tendeka’s insides. When my stomach stops contracting and there’s nothing left except spit, I look down and see this muck mixing with his blood, and I try and brush it away, scoop it up with my hands, so it doesn’t, because I can’t handle this, can’t handle him pooled around me, can’t handle how I’ve violated his remains. Please. Jesus. Motherfuck.

‘C’mon Tendeka.’ I’m whispering, rocking on my heels, forwards and back. I want to shake him, scream at him, even though I know it’s pointless, that he’s not teasing. That it’s not some hoax, a bluff. I can’t touch him. And oh Jesus motherfuck, if it’s not a hoax, how long do I have? I can’t. Not like. Jesus. I can’t even look.

I fall onto my knees again, dry-heaving some more, my hands over my mouth so I don’t do it again, and somewhere the heaving turns into sobbing.

The coat. The coat. The fucking coat. I check the playback. But there’s nothing. Static. Blur. White noise. I rewind, fast forward and there! It’s bad quality, but it’s there underneath the fritz. ‘Human rights violation—’ and my snarky comment, overlapping.

Oh fuck, Tendeka. Fuck. I’m sorry. Maybe it can be cleaned up. If I can get it to, I dunno, someone, upload it to some geek site, let them clean it up. And get to a clinic. Get the vaccine. Turn myself in. How long do I have?

I look up for helicopters. But it wasn’t casting. I’m okay. They’re not looking for us yet. I hit save. I sprint down the stairs. I don’t look back.

And it’s only when I’m back in my apartment, with the door double-locked and the fridge up against it, already uploading the files to my machine, not that it’s gonna do me much good with my connection down, that I notice my wrist is glowing green, a pale jellyfish phosphorescence shining through. I switch the channel on my screen to mirror, and stare at my face. I look incredibly healthy. I close my eyes, probe how I’m feeling. Freaked. Definitely. But not sick.

It gets worse. Tendeka’s on every channel on the TV, his face dominating the screen, Osama, coupled with some kid, Zuko Sephuma, who’s already been arrested.

My first thought is how much shit I’m in. How I need to just set fire to my entire apartment and all the evidence and walk away, disappear. What flammables do I have at handy?

Or.

Or I have the total sony exclusive on the untimely and grotesque death of a terrorist.

Or a martyr. Depends on who’s paying.

I can’t stick around here, though. They’ve already been here once. And they’re sure to notice Tendeka’s corpse on the roof. Hard to miss with all the splatter.

I stuff the coat, spare clothes and my laptop – and fuckit, the VIM, cos wherever I’m going, I’ll still need a clean-up – into my bag.

I step out of the door into a whole new bright world, feeling exhausted and exhilarated.

And thirsty.