Flypaper Opus: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 2 Page 6

  “What? Nah man, I only sleep every other day on the regular. You learn to ignore the voices after a while. Can you talk?” Corpse sounded distracted. Or worse, worried. Whichever the case, it was cause for concern. She was never anything less than supremely confident.

  “Are we not talking now?”

  “Nah man, I mean online. I gotta show you something.”

  Nick sat up, adrenaline giving him a punch. “Whoa, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s happened, dude. The big one. D-Day. I should have seen it coming two days ago. Truthfully I kinda did, but I was hoping for the best. Sorry bud, I should have warned you.”

  “Slow down, what, what happened?” Don’t panic. How bad could it be?

  “Talk online in a sec.” The phone went dead.

  Good air in, bad air out.

  The breathing exercises he’d picked up online to help with his disagreeable stomach and anxiety had become more effective lately. He’d had to figure out something when his mother, the direct root of said issues, moved in a few miles away. But they only helped so much. There were limits, and Corpse calling him and using words like ‘the big one’ after a sleepless night of watching people celebrate the crabsformation of Delbert Williams seemed to be one of them.

  Nick’s computer trumpeted an incoming call. He clicked an icon and CorpseFlower’s avatar, a skull with petals rotating behind it, appeared on the screen.

  “So, I hate to have to tell you this, but Myiasis has gone viral.” The skull’s mouth moved when Corpse spoke. It made what she said all the more foreboding.

  Nick sank back into his chair. “Fuck me.”

  A series of windows appeared on the screen as Corpse shared portions of her own screen with him. One expanded itself larger than the rest.

  “It started with a post on a Reddit-wannabe information aggregate by some Myiasis maggot from Seattle. Calls himself MerridewMayhem, if you can believe it.”

  Nick choked on his own spit. “A Lord of the Flies reference? Really?”

  “Right? Anyway, the shitbag posted a link directly to the crab video on Myiasis and the fucking thing exploded. I’d hoped the influx of lookee-loo traffic would bring the site down, but it didn’t. I’ll come back to that.”

  The windows on the screen rearranged themselves. Another one expanded.

  “It didn’t end there. Local radio and news stations who troll sites like that for content every morning started picking up on it. From there, it was off to the races.”

  Nick’s throat went dry. “Shit, Corpse.”

  The skull’s mouth moved again. “Still not done. As of about thirteen minutes ago, the top trending topics on every major social media site are, from highest on down: Cancer Man, Nick Dawkins, crabs, Forest Down, Kim Kardashian and Myiasis. And I expect Myiasis will climb higher once everyone figures out how to spell it right.”

  Silence fell as the information sifted its way through the murky fog of sleep deprivation and settled into his grey matter.

  “Wait, what did Kim Kardashian do?”

  “Farted? I dunno. You’re missing the point. Unless she stuffs a guy full of crabs in the next twelve minutes or so, you and your favorite cult are going to be the only thing anyone anywhere is talking about today. Make that seven minutes. Fucking Good Morning America has it now.”

  Nick laid his head on the table next to his laptop. He needed sleep. He heard what sounded like another energy drink being opened on Corpse’s end. “Fuck me.”

  Corpse slurped out of a can. The program that animated the skull’s mouth mistook the noise for speech. “You said that already.”

  Nick sat up. “It was worth repeating. I feel stupid asking this, but what now?”

  Corpse laughed. “Well for starters, I found out that MerridewMayhem still lives with his parents, and I had their internet shut off.

  “Seriously? How’d you do that?”

  “Technically identity theft. Scratch that, I guess it’s straight up actual identity theft, so let’s keep that between you and me. That’s how much I loooooove you, Edgar Allen Bro.” Dozens of hearts showered out of the computerized skull’s mouth.

  They’d gotten off track. “Thanks, but I actually meant what do we do now about Myiasis? Probably nothing, right?”

  “Yeah, you can’t put the genie back in the barn. That horse has sailed.”

  Nick stood up and poured a glass of water. “I’m starting to think you need some sleep too.”

  “Psh, I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Oh, but I am working on bringing the site down.”

  Water cascaded out of Nick’s mouth and across the kitchen table. “Jesus, talk about burying the lead.”

  Corpse gulped down a mouthful of whatever she was drinking on her end. “Yeah, don’t get too excited, this isn’t Independence Day. Nothing I do is going to take out the mothership. This beast doesn’t work like that, and if it did, I’d have done it already. Believe. But I can probably kill it for a day while we wait for the collective internet masses to see a shiny object and get distracted.”

  Nick could have kissed the petal-laden skull on his screen. “That’s still huge. But hey, don’t do anything to get yourself in trouble, right?”

  Corpse yelled into her mic so loudly it distorted the laptop’s speakers. “Ain’t no prison can hold CorpseFlower. I’ll Rita Hayworth that bitch.”

  A text appeared on Nick’s phone. He leaned down to read it.

  So proud of you making the news today. I don’t want to be pushy but I’d love to come celebrate with you. Love you. Mom

  He scoffed. “Oh, hell no.”

  CorpseFlower was still escaping Shawshank. “I’m not playing, Morgan Freeman will be narrating my shit.”

  Nick’s head throbbed. He moved to the fridge for more water. “Hey, Mr. Dufresne if you please, I hate to break this up, but did you have anything else? I should try to catch a nap before the law comes knocking in a couple of hours.”

  “Nope, that’s the way it was. Walter Cronkite, out.”

  “Bye Corpse.” Nick punched a key and the petal-skull disappeared. He picked up his phone and set an alarm as he stumbled to his bedroom.

  Sleep. Two hours of sleep, for the love of King.

  He closed his eyes and the world drifted away.

  Then the doorbell rang. Nick looked at his phone. He’d been out maybe six minutes.

  Fuck.

  He lurched out of bed. Although still early, it could have been Reed. Maybe she’d seen how big the video had gotten and jumpstarted the day. Or whatever poor soul she’d gotten to man the car she’d left outside. Maybe they needed to use the restroom.

  On the other hand, with Myiasis now a full-fledged part of the cultural landscape, his exposure had increased. There was bound to be a whole new batch of overzealous fans flocking to the site, and thus, his home address. Anyone within a few hundred miles could make the trip overnight, sneak past the car. Or just kill whoever was in it, present their severed head to him as a gift, like a cat bringing home a dead bird.

  His mind took some monumental and terrifying leaps when he was tired.

  Nick stared bleary eyed at the monitor near his front door.

  Reporters. More accurately, a reporter and a camera man. She was dressed reporterly, her hair in a perfect bob that no doubt required daily maintenance. He wore a ball cap and a t-shirt that said Lonely on the front. Where the hell was that babysitting squad car when he needed it?

  He pushed a button and spoke into the intercom. “Nope.” He watched the monitor. It was a lot to hope that they’d simply leave, but wishful thinking was the only thing he had the energy for.

  The reporter pushed the intercom button on her side of the door. “Mr. Dawkins? I’m Reggie Summers, with KNUB. I’d like a word.”

  Nick pushed his button. “I’ll give you two: No comment. Wait, make that four: No comment and good day. Shit, that’s five words.”

  He smiled to himself. He somehow always found the energy to fuck with people.

  Th
e reporter stood on her tiptoes and looked directly into the camera over Nick’s door. “Mr. Dawkins, we’ve driven several hours. I’d like a moment of your time.” She waved at the camera man and said something unintelligible to him. He set his camera on the ground. “We can talk off the record.”

  “You can talk for about thirty seconds before your side of the intercom stops working. Go nuts.” Nick released his button and walked toward his bedroom. The reporter’s voice followed him.

  “Mr. Dawkins, I’m working on a story about this website. My-ass-is? Me-eye-sis. I’m sure you’re aware of it. I’m especially interested in a video that was uploaded last night that’s gotten some attention.”

  Long pause. Clock’s ticking, Ms. Summers.

  “I’m also interested in an incident that took place some months ago, an encounter you had with a girl named Danielle Johnson?”

  Nick stopped at the door to his bedroom. Danielle. Always there. Even after death.

  The intercom fell silent, either because thirty seconds had passed since he pushed the button on his end, or because Reggie Summers thought she knew exactly where to hit him and how hard. He had to admit, she came close. Hearing Danielle’s name still did crazy things to his insides; it made his heart ache and his blood boil at the same time. He was too tired for the heartache.

  He stomped back to the front door. Part of him wanted Reggie and her doofus cameraman to hear his steps approaching, a thunderous precursor to the profanity- laden tirade he was winding up to throw their way. He jammed his finger on the intercom button.

  Through the monitor, Nick could see Sheriff Reed shooing Reggie and the camera man away. She was about as happy to see them as he was.

  He opened the door to let her inside. Reggie took notice and moved back toward the door. “Mr. Dawkins, just a moment—”

  Reed stiffened and jabbed a finger in the direction of away. “Off the property, Ms. Summers.”

  Safely inside with the door shut and locked, Nick grinned. “I’d have paid real money to see you scare them off by firing your gun into the air.”

  The Sheriff put her hand on her holster and took off her sunglasses. “What kind of money are we talking here, Dawkins?” Her false interest in Nick’s offer dropped. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

  Nick wagged a finger. “Not true. I slept like six minutes. Coffee?”

  Reed followed him into the kitchen. “God, yes. And I don’t blame you, I hardly slept either. After I left here, I went to the Williams place to let Ms. Williams know that we found Delbert. I caught a little shuteye, but then I was up a few hours ago to go talk to the man himself over at Beasely Emergency.”

  Nick fiddled with the coffeemaker. He hadn’t used it since he wrote Love Scars and Marks. “Oh shit, how is he?”

  She wobbled a hand back and forth. “He’s messed up, as you can imagine, but he’s talking. Got a description of our guy, and the vehicle he’s driving. No name, though.”

  “That’s a shame. I’m getting tired of calling him ‘our guy’. It sounds like the title of an early 90’s sitcom. And I refuse to call him ‘the Maggot Maestro’; I don’t give a shit what the internet says. Delbert though, he’s okay?”

  Reed nodded. “Long-term, they say he’ll be fine. He won’t be walking for a while, on account of the two crabs they found in the tissue of his legs, but other than that, their primary concern is infection. Our guy, and dammit you’re right about the sitcom thing, isn’t exactly a master surgeon.”

  “No shit.” Nick fumbled with some coffee grounds.

  “What are you doing? Do you not know how to make coffee?” She smiled. “Do you usually drink it out of a box with a little straw?”

  He propped himself up on the kitchen counter. It was the only thing keeping him on his feet. “It’s been a while. I’m also tired.”

  Reed tipped her hat. “Then step aside, Dawkins. We’re gonna need some good shit. Today we catch ourselves a creeper.”

  Chapter 9

  Now this was more like it.

  Clark couldn’t have picked a better time to release the Cancer Man video. Just after dark. When Myiasis comes to life. Maximum exposure.

  It was the most popular thread on the history of the site, second only to the RIP Flypap3r post. He was fine with that. Who was he to steal the girl’s thunder? She may have been misguided, but devoted. Loyal. A rare trait these days.

  The responses in general were closer to what he’d wanted to see with the Animalgamation. At the least, no one on the site had described it as lame. A few bleeding hearts wept for the knuckle-dragger he’d chosen as a centerpiece, but nothing compared to the blowback he’d gotten for the animals.

  Funny, that.

  More incredibly, it had inspired other artists. Painters, meme creators, musicians, editors and artists of every medium had taken his work and spun it off into their own. The cycle of artistic inspiration and expression continued.

  And then it all broke free. His Cancer Man—his brilliant homage—had transcended Myiasis and gone global. Most people outside of the site didn’t “get it” of course, but it wasn’t for them. Let the soccer moms, activists and pundits mewl and whine. He’d found his real audience, and they wanted more.

  He tapped at the keys in his lap; a message for his new and adoring fans.

  Working on the next piece now. Stay tuned, more to come. -MM

  Daylight filled the room with the squeaky creak of the front door. Clark turned to the source and squinted at the two silhouettes walking into the lobby.

  “Welcome to the Shady Thicket Inn, folks.” The jovial desk clerk in the thin glasses greeted the new arrivals.

  Clark assessed their viability as his next subjects.

  “Room for two, please, two beds.” She wore something worthy of an office environment. Hyper-modern haircut. He was dressed for the job he wanted, a sports cap and an ironic t-shirt, which meant he carried all the weight. His arms were full of black bags. Some kind of equipment.

  They weren’t together-together. Disappointing. This scene called for an intimate connection.

  But they did look like media, which wouldn’t be a bad twist. And it would definitely guarantee publicity.

  Hell with it. What were the chances another couple would come along? This was what he’d been waiting for.

  Clark closed his laptop and shoved it in a black bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder and assumed the lackadaisical stance of a human turnip.

  “Hey, you fellas look like you could use a hand with all that there.”

  Nailed it.

  The tall one grunted and set his bags down. “Actually, yeah man, that’d be great. I’m Daryl. This is Reggie.”

  The little one—Reggie—nodded in Clark’s direction. “Pleased to meet you.” Reggie didn’t appear pleased in the slightest. Behold the disingenuousness of social etiquette.

  The desk clerk swiped Reggie’s card. “You folks are up on two. Second door on the right.”

  Clark picked up two of the equipment bags and shifted his own laptop bag on his shoulder. “Heavy stuff you dun got here.”

  Daryl hefted the other two bags behind him. “You’re sure we’re not putting you out?”

  Clark let fly an enormous guffaw. Too much; dial it back. “Not at all, good sir, why, it’s on the way up to my room on the fourth.” Better.

  Reggie signed a receipt and followed them across the lobby to the stairs. “Thank you, mister—?”

  Clark glanced back at the desk clerk. He was preoccupied with a credit card receipt. “You can call me Clark. You guys in Forest Down for business or pleasure?”

  Reggie sniffed. “In this town? For pleasure? Ha.”

  Clark laughed; a genuine laugh this time. Reggie was alright. His kind of woman. He wondered what she would be like afterwards.

  “I hear you.” Clark led them up the stairs and onto the second floor. “I’m doing some work out yonder on the edge of town. Been staying here the last few nights myself. It’s not too bad. Yo
u know, for a backwater bed-and-breakfast.” He stopped at the door to their room and opened the door. “They don’t lock the doors here when there’s an empty. Only in small-town America.”

  Daryl and Reggie followed Clark into their room. Like most of the other rooms at the Shady Thicket, it was simple, like stepping into another place and time. A single large oval mirror on one wall. On the other, a nightstand with a lamp. The only difference between this room and the one Clark occupied was the second metal framed bed. Clark only had the one.

  He set their bags on one of the beds. “Well. Here you are. You guys enjoy your stay.”

  Daryl dropped his bags on the floor and shook Clark’s hand. “Thanks man, awful nice of you.” He and Clark both looked at Reggie. She focused on her phone.

  Clark moved to the door and then stopped. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, you guys are news, right?”

  Daryl fiddled with his hat. “That obvious, huh?”

  “It makes sense, with everything going on around here. Nick Dawkins, yeah?”

  Reggie rejoined the conversation, on high alert for a story. “Do you read Nick Dawkins?”

  Clark clapped his hands together. “I do. Did you know…?”

  He leaned into Reggie and lowered his voice.

  “That movie they’re about to put out, The Inn? You’ll never guess this one.” Clark pointed at the floor repeatedly. “He based it on this place.”

  Reggie lit up like an old prospector who found the mother lode. “Is that true?”

  Clark showed her his teeth. It was the fastest way to disarm a person so far as he knew. “Absolutely. In fact, there’s a crucial scene in the story—I’m sure it’ll be in the movie too—that takes place in the room I’m staying in.”

  “Really?” Reggie raised an eyebrow at Daryl. “Could be good B-roll.”

  Daryl rubbed his chin. “Yeah, great idea. You said you were up on fourth? You mind if we take a look?”

  Don’t oversell it. Wait for it.

  “Ehhhh, I don’t know if I have the time. I was just about to get out to my work site, actually.”

  Clark held his breath. Take the bait, take the bait, you want it.