The Book of Apex: Volume 1 of Apex Magazine by Jason Sizemore Read Free Book Online Page A

edge all of the
sudden? Not in a million years where everything could get used to it, but in
just a few thousand years, or even a few hundred. What if something was
changing the animals that came near it, like a virus, or some sort of mutation?
What if all those bones were the generations of some new super-predator that
got, I don’t know, changed, and then started killing off all the other species
that were just too weak to compete?”
    I didn’t have an answer. I
dropped Zan off at his house, then drove home, an uncomfortable pit of anxiety
in my gut.
    That night I dreamt of swamps,
great reeking swamps floating on miles of hot, rotting filth. I dreamt that
deep, deep down the rottenness beat like a heart, slowly rising up until it
bubbled onto the surface, a vast black pool of vile contamination. I heard the
screams of the tiny, unfortunate amphibians as the black pool engulfed them.
And I heard them change. I heard it. It was the sound of bones breaking, of
skin splitting. It was the noise of an incomprehensible power, ancient even in
infancy, a remnant sound from the bridging of the gulf between a dead universe
and bloody, fecund life.
    I was roused from sleep by the
gasp of my wife. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know something was very
wrong. In fact, I couldn’t open my eyes. Pain came on quickly and did not stop.
    “What the hell is wrong with
me?” I cried.
    “Your face is...is...it’s
cooked!”
    I knew what she meant. It was
the pain of twelve hours in the sun, of scalding water poured on the arm. From
my neck to my forehead the skin was tight and throbbing. Every time I tried to
speak I felt it crack, sending jolts of misery into the core of my brain.
    The ER doctor questioned me for
an hour. He all but accused me of botching a batch of meth. When I continued to
deny any drug activity he threw up his hands. “Well, have you been exposed to
any radioactive material?” No, no of course not.
    I had to
have my wife dial the phone and hold it to my ear. My hands were wrapped in
gauze. My face was covered in a mask of thick, white cream. I could smell the
blisters festering on my skin. The phone rang until the answering machine
picked up. “This is Zan, leave a message or don’t.”
    “Hang it up.” I told her. She
was convinced I was cooking meth with Zan, and no amount of pleading would
convince her to give me a ride to his house. With no other option left, I
called the sheriff’s office. Two hours later a white police car pulled up into
my drive.
    “We didn’t find Zan. Something
got his dog though. Poor thing got tore to pieces. His house was trashed, but
it didn’t seem like anything was missing. Just a bunch of food everywhere and
the tub was full of black water.” Even through my half closed eyes I could see
that the deputy was suspicious. I looked every bit like a victim of mishandled
anhydrous ammonia, and it must have seemed like I was trying to use the police
in some sort of backfired drug burn. “You mind if I have a look around?”
    “Go ahead,” I muttered through
split lips, hearing the skin around my mouth crackle with the words. He poked
around the yard and shed for several minutes then returned.
    “Well, if he ain’t turned up by
this time tomorrow his family can file a report.” He was halfway out the door
when he stopped and turned back to me, “You sure you and him ain’t been into
nothing?”
    I didn’t bother replying.
    It rained hard that night and
into the next day, and the day after that. Snodgrass called to see how I was
and to tell me that the walls of the coal pit had collapsed in the rain and
work would be halted in the bottom seams until they could get the water and mud
out. Zan’s father filed a report. Zan stayed missing.
    By the end of the week the
bandages were removed and my face no longer caused people to look away. Now
they only winced. I got the call at around noon.
    Mr. Snodgrass sounded tired,
shaky as he said hello. “How you doin’