Down the Drain by Daniel Pyle Read Free Book Online Page A

near it.
    But there it had been, and now here she was, rolling down the slick surface and back into the bottom of the tub. And not feet first. Another anomaly.
    She scrambled back into a standing position and lowered herself, preparing to jump. The tub bulged in the middle like some living, breathing monster and knocked her off balance. She fell to her side, gasping, yowling, a one-cat cat fight.
    The sides of the tub wavered, rippled like things seen through a sheet of rain. The floor bulged again, and the cat slid toward the drain. The hole had continued to widen, was now almost litter-box sized. She’d been right about the tooth. Except it wasn’t just one. The sharp, white points filled the drain, gnashed and clacked together. She’d seen a dog’s mouth up close and had lived to remember it thanks to a lucky swipe of her claws. This was worse. And she didn’t think her claws were going to do her much good this time.
    She meowed and screeched until her upper half entered the chewing maw and the razor-sharp teeth bit her cleanly in half. For just a moment, she felt (or thought she felt) her lower half in the tub above and her upper half sliding down into the drain’s depths. A pool of water and her own blood engulfed her, and then there was nothing but the cold—that damp cold—and the ever-gnashing teeth.

TWO
    In the now-empty bathroom, the tub’s showerhead turned itself on. Warming water sprayed the tub, the surround, and the curtain. The cat’s hairy, clumped remains washed toward the drain, and the tub lapped them up. It sucked lengths of guts like spaghetti noodles, crunched bone and slurped sinewy tendons. When it had finished, when all signs of the gore were gone, the shower shut off and the drain swallowed the last juicy drops.
    It belched, sounding less like a burping man than a satisfied dragon.

THREE
    The truck’s tires kicked up gravel when Bruce swung into the driveway. He braked when he reached the end of the drive, then parked and slid the keys out of the ignition.
    He’d taken his shirt off during the drive. Sweat dribbled down his chest and back, left him glistening and feeling disgusting. He took the wadded tee off the passenger’s seat and flung it over his damp shoulder.
    Before he went inside, he unloaded the tools from the back of the truck. He’d been framing walls all day and hadn’t needed much: the compressor, air gun, nails, hammer, nail puller, level, a saw, and a chalk line. He carried the items into the windowless shed between the driveway and the house and locked them inside.
    He ran a hand through his hair. When he pulled it away, a sweaty, sawdusty paste covered his fingers. He wiped the hand on the back of his jeans and sighed. It had been 6:30 when he left for work that morning. Although he didn’t wear a watch, the half-set sun told him it was at least 8:00 now.
    Two more days, he thought. Finish those walls by Thursday and take a three-day weekend.
    He shook his head. The sorry fact was that even if he did finish the walls by Thursday, he’d have to work Friday and Saturday and maybe even Sunday. He was at least three weeks behind schedule. A month of rain and the ensuing mud had not been his friends.
    He crossed the small side yard and shuffled up the steps to the porch. A bundle of mail jutted from the mailbox. He took the envelopes and circulars out but didn’t bother sorting through them. That would be a job for after his shower and two or three beers.
    Inside, he flicked on the lights, dropped the keys and the mail on a side table, and got out of his muddy work boots. His feet stunk something awful. He lifted one closer to his face, took a big whiff, and shivered.
    Shower first. Then beer.
    He crossed the living room—only barely resisting the urge to drop his grungy self onto the couch—and called for Sel.
    “Sel?” He made kissing sounds and called for the cat again. If she wasn’t waiting for him dog-like at the door, it usually meant she’d curled up