Page 9 of You Weren't Meant to Be Human
When Tammy opens that door, the smell hits like a brick. It’s a meat freezer left unplugged, the trunk of Mike’s car with the sunbaked corpse. Jess’s eyes are watering; she’s breathing through her teeth like she can filter out the rancid particles in the air. That’s fine. She’s not used to it. But Crane’s stomach completely betrays him. His mouth waters, saliva lurching forward to protect the teeth and soft tissues from incoming stomach acid.
No, he isnotgoing to throw up in front of Jess. He tries to swallow the mess of spit, but that makes it worse.
You care for us, and we care for you in turn.
This needs to be over with. Before he makes a mess. He drops the bag to the floor, making Jess hiss when the rough plastic strap is ripped from her hands, and fumbles for the zipper.
You treat us so kindly, children. You offer us so much. We are so lucky to have you.
Together, with Tammy watching because she doesn’t have the strength for this anymore, they shove the corpse out of the body bag and onto the floor, spilling blood and brain matter across the tile. One arm ragdoll-flops onto the floor with a grosssmack.
We thank you. We love you.
The hive descends. Chattering worms lunge from their calcium-keratin-synthetic fiber mound to burrow into the softest parts of Sean’s body they can find. The cheek, under the jaw, crawling up the shirt into the stomach. The youngest worms are small, maybe as thick as Crane’s thumb and a foot long, and quick as fuck. They crawl and chew and swallow, leaving behind a series of gaping wounds for their bigger,slower elders to follow them into the meat. Once the worms are done, then the flies will come down and pick the rotten parts clean, lay eggs to replenish the swarm. The cycle of life.
And as the worms feast, the flies talk about the space beyond the dark, stinking storage closet. How the sky is such a lovely shade of blue, then gold, then pink, then the deepest, richest purple. How the mountains are ancient and alive. How they are all so hungry and this little corner of the world is so perfect in the light.
“Holy shit,” Jess breathes.
The room is the color of a cut-open stomach.
Crane can’t keep it down anymore.
He stumbles out of the room—“Crane?” Tammy says—and can’t open the delivery door properly, just slams into the push bar and lurches outside before he vomits.
It’s the kind of throwing up that feels like getting punched in the stomach, that’s so violent he can’t get a breath in between one retch and the other. His lungs lock up. His throat collapses. He catches himself on the hood of the Camry, doubles over, makes that sick croaking sound that comes up with puke.
Once his stomach is empty, a string of drool falls from his lips to the gravel. His mouth tastes like sand and bitter, burning acid.
He gasps for air. Fuck.Fuck.
Behind him, the delivery door clacks shut.
“Crane?” Tammy says again. “Oh Lord, what a mess.”
He spits, and she puts a hand on his chest to ease him upright.
“I was telling you,” she murmurs, “you ain’t been looking good.”
He shakes his head. He’s fine. It won’t happen again.
Tammy won’t take that for an answer. She sits him on the curb beside the ice cooler, presses the back of her hand to his forehead, tries to suss out a possible fever. There’s nothing. The neonCLOSEDsign shines in the window. An ad for Camels stares across the empty lot.
“Hold tight,” she’s saying, “give me a moment.”
Crane drops his head between his knees and spits again. He’s fine. Yes, he’s been feeling off lately, but he’s always off. He spent most of his childhood vaguely nauseated. And he’s tired, and his head hurts, and his stomach’s been upset for so long. He’s fine. He’sfine.
Tammy comes back a minute later with a bottle of water: a godsend. “Here.” He takes a mouthful and swishes before dribbling it out into the gravel. Stomach acid warps the taste, turning it so bizarrely sweet that he flips the bottle over to see if it isn’t some newfangled sugared stuff, or maybe flat soda.
“And this too.”
Tammy taps a box against his shoulder.
It’s a pregnancy test.
Crane shoves it back at her. Stumbles to his feet, coughs like he’s trying to get something out of his lungs. Absolutely not. He—no, it doesn’t work like that. He’s been on testosterone for almost two years, he hasn’t had his period in nearly as long, there hasn’t even been any spotting or anything.
You can’t get pregnant on testosterone. It doesn’t work like that.
