If the Key Fits
I pull off the freeway. I’m here to make a delivery. As I turn into the suburb it’s like another world. It’s all tidy terracotta tiles. Very different from the smog and grub of the L.A. streets. As I putter along on my tiny Honda, the streets disappear. I’m kind of shocked to see that I’m suddenly on someone’s terrace. Whoever lives here has made it their own, adding some potted geraniums and a bird bath. I’m not sure what kind of bird would want to risk their life for a drink in this weird neighbourhood, but it has to be gutsy. A ramp runs almost vertically away from the terrace. I heave my bike up it and turn down an alley.
This neighbourhood has a reputation. I’ve heard rumours of people getting lost here. They ring for taxis to get them out. Maybe they don’t get lost. Maybe they are murdered by the all-seeing gnomes. They’re everywhere. There are enough of them to take down a burly man or two. Legions, armies of gnomes. They are starting to freak me out. I get to a dead end. Damn. I swing my bike around. Weird. There’s a house behind me. I turn around again, there is an alley ending with a tall, brick fence. What the heck is going on? I swivel my head around; the gnomes have all moved. I’m not sure how, but they are definitely closer than before, all still frozen in their individual tableaus but looking creepier than ever. The terrace with the bird bath for the world’s bravest birds has led me into a trap. And now there’s no logical way out.
Now I am not easily scared. I mean, even though I ride a 250cc Honda motorbike, I stand at 6ft 3in and weigh around 230 pounds. I can hold my own in a fight and don’t shy away from one, if you know what I mean? But this place and the grinning gnomes is making me feel like maybe this is the sort of place you can’t fight your way out of. I only want to make my delivery and get going. But there are no street signs, house numbers, and now the houses seem to be moving around like boats bobbing in the harbour. How is anyone meant to find rhyme or reason in this strange place?
I take the package from my pocket. It is about the size of a pack of playing cards, but heavy like lead. It’s wrapped in brown paper and a number 26 is stamped in red ink sitting neatly in the middle of a five-pointed star. No street address and no name. How did I miss an important piece of information like that? I was too impatient to get going, to get out of the shabby smoke-filled office where Gladys, my boss, puffs on a thousand cigarettes a day. I feel like I have eaten an overflowing ashtray after being in that sad, grey space.
When I look up from inspecting the package I swear to God those little creeps have moved closer. They seem to be crowding together. Is it possible their grins are now scowls? I need to get out of this neighbourhood before I am suffocated by a load of ceramic lawn ornaments. I scope out the houses around me, no one seems to be around. I prop my bike on its stand and walk reluctantly to the house with the birdbath which seems to have randomly appeared again. I could be losing my mind. There is a front door, but it is like it has never been opened. Let me rephrase that, it cannot be opened. When I look closer, I can see the sky-blue door is painted onto the cladding.
I pull my cell from my jacket pocket and check Google Maps. When I’d chosen the best route, it gave me easy directions to follow. Now the map is showing nothing. There are the surrounding suburbs of L.A. joining up to a blank, a void. I don’t understand. Maybe the rumours weren’t true. Maybe people never get out of here, by taxi, foot, or motorbike. I am starting to feel a bit panicky.
The hairs on the back of my neck do that prickly thing and I spin around from looking at the nonsense door. The gnomes have surrounded me. They have crept into a tight semi-circle and there are hundreds of the things. Up close like this I can see they are scowling. And I’m not sure how to say this without sounding stupid, but they have murder in their eyes.
In a fit of desperation, I pull the paper off the package. Maybe this is what they’re after, not my supple flesh? Inside is a wooden box. Nothing flashy, just wood worn smooth by greasy fingers. Opening the box, I find a key.
‘Use the key and let me in. I will fulfill your every desire,’ booms a voice made from dread and dust.
‘Who the hell said that? Where are you? I could use some help here with these murder-hungry munchkins,’ I quip to the ether.
‘I am all. I am beyond and borne of dreams and disease. Use the key!’ bellows the voice.
‘That’s not helpful!’ I yell. ‘How about you show yourself…. and bring a baseball bat.’
In desperation I kick my left leg out and take down about 30 outraged gnomes. The other several hundred launch themselves at my shins, my back and some at my face. I’m not sure what I was worried about. They make a delightful smashing sound when they land on the terracotta tiles. Pretty soon, the sands and shards of my enemies is decorating the terrace where all of this trouble began.
I walk over to the birdbath to wash my face and hands. At the bottom of the bath where brave birdies wash their grubby butts, is a number 26. Strange, who numbers a birdbath? I look at the sides of the stand and there, weirdly is a keyhole. What the hell?
‘Use the key, I will give you life beyond,’ the voice echoes through my head.
Something in me says, ‘why not? What do you have to lose? The day can’t get any more bizarre.’ I place the key in the lock, it fits snugly, and I turn it.
The world is pushed inside out, and the darkness is like being inside the minds of a million unhappy accountants. You know, bad and dangerous. And then before me on a throne of molten lava with a chihuahua on its knee sits Satan.
The Piggery
The air is freezing, and even under two thick doonas I wake up shivering, rows of goosebumps speckling my flesh, Lately I’ve been dreaming of moving away, maybe somewhere warm, and definitely somewhere by the ocean. Maybe California, or Mexico, somewhere with more people, more life. If I could escape this place, I’d maybe start my own business, rent paddleboards to tourists, or sell t-shirts on the beach. I’d miss the landscape here. The snow-capped mountains in the distance, the dry air that hurts my lungs on the ride to and from work, it does make it hard to move away. Plus, I have no savings and a crush on Wendy Gilmour. She works in the office, and I wonder if she longs to leave this place too. Does she dream of escape? We have never really chatted apart from the usual canteen banter. ‘How was your weekend?’. ‘Would you like fries or salad?’ She’s fairly new to the area, and I wonder what has brought her to a place like this. A place where the local piggery is the best available job opportunity for the locals, including me.
I run my fingers over my short, unruly curls — they need a trim — but that would mean driving to the nearest town which is two hours away. The fact that I don’t own a car means that I will either have to bum a lift, or wait for the bus that comes to our community every three days. It means sharing space with screaming babies, exhausted mothers, and old smelly men. I would rather my hair grow longer and frizzier. Having no car could be another reason why my dream of escape is just that, a dream. But god I wish that one day, I could rid my nose of the smell of pigs. Even when the snow and ice seems to have obliterated all my other senses, I can still taste their pungent piggy aroma. It’s like an old bacon sandwich left to pool and putrefy in its wrapper. A rank rotten reek that never leaves my nostrils no matter how cold the desert air, or how much incense I burn. I can’t imagine being one of the floor workers, or the feeders. They have their own personal scent which means that I, no matter how lonely or desperate I get, will never go near them.
In the van’s frigid air I swap my sweats for red thermals — my mum would call them long-johns — but she’s dead now, same as my dad, and sister, Kelly. They’ve been gone for four months now. The police report says they died on impact when they collided with a tree. Funny thing is, there aren’t any trees out here. I’ve heard different stories. It’s a small community where nothing much ever happens, so of course there are going to be rumours. Someone said that my family’s bodies weren’t in the car when a passer-by came across the wreck. Someone else said that the car hit an animal. Anyway, they were found, and they were dead. That’s all I know and that’s all I need to know. I don’t need to hear gossip of mangled corpses with missing limbs and decapitated heads. I don’t need to hear about strange markings found on their bodies, like their soft flesh had been pierced by massive snake fangs. All I need to know is I’m alone.
All of this mooning has my teeth chattering and late for work. I tug on black jeans, two pairs of thick socks, my rubber boots, a plaid shirt that was my dad’s and a hooded sweatshirt. I know I’ll get hot on the ride, but I’ll appreciate the extra layers later. Breakfast is a black coffee. I grab my work keys and slam the Winnebago’s door shut. I use a padlock to keep the freaks out, not that anyone would try anything stupid enough to break in. I have nothing worth stealing and the ’Bago has no engine, making it about as useless as I feel. I do like the ride to work. It only takes me twenty minutes, but I get to watch the sun rising behind the mountains. Their snow-speckled eruption look like the teeth of a prehistoric monster chewing through the altiplano. A few cars pass me on my journey, but they don’t stop. People know now not to offer me a helping hand or any sort of favour. I’ve pretty much alienated most of my workmates by never accepting their offers of a lift, a beer after work, or a home-cooked meal — thanks Mrs Davies I’d rather not have to eat pork belly, watch Jeopardy, and be gawked at by your 40-year-old bachelor son. I seem to only get the attention of the men, which means nothing to me. The women seem to steer clear, but I catch them sometimes sliding glances over my long fingers on the serving spoons, my green eyes, and my unruly afro.
My dad also worked at the piggery. He was a mechanic, and would fix the refrigerated trucks, conveyor belts, hoists, anything with a motor. He used to tell me stories that I never really believed. He said he’d seen pigs the size of bulls being slaughtered. He said their size was astonishing. They were strung up by their hind legs, with hooks through their hocks. The burly slaughtermen using their long, shiny knives would slash through the pig’s throats, sending gallons of blood gushing from their twisting and tormented bodies, washing the men in a gory paint. He also said there was a secret lab where men in white coats were doing experiments. The tale he told was that he’d been on his way to repair a sliding door at the rear of the building and seen pigs being tortured with centipedes. The pigs were trapped, the steel cages cutting deep into their flesh. Their pink hides were covered with thousands of centipedes which were biting them, injecting their venom, and making the pigs squeal and scream. They were shitting themselves in their panic. The ear-splitting noise and the disgusting faecal hum made him leave as fast as he could. He was a great storyteller and loved trying to scare me.
I do see a lot of centipedes on my way to work, skittering across the road, their legs pistoning and their bodies shimmering in the sun. When I’m five minutes out from work I spot one, flattened on the road. As I mindlessly swerve around it something knocks me off my bike. It’s flung across the road, and I’m snatched by something big enough to bite me in two. The breath is knocked from me, as the beast crushes its revolting mouth around my chest. Teeth and pincers impale me, and my ribs splinter as I gasp and gurgle in the thing’s grasp. The heating desert dust grates into my eyes and I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing. The thing is huge and armoured, and has multiple meaty haunches like those of the biggest boars in the breeding sheds. My pitiful attempts at screeching seem pointless; no one lives out here, no one is driving by, and the thing is scuttling across the desert at a phenomenal speed. I wish I was at work now; I wish I’d been kinder to my co-workers and was safe in a passenger seat listening to Christian talk-back and chatting about the weather. Instead I’m unceremoniously dropped into a very deep desert hole and left stupefied and crying. I’m trapped, with the sandy soil rising on all sides of me, and the quiet sky filling with the first birds of the morning.
The hole only allows me room to crumple in on myself. It’s about twenty feet deep — more like a shaft or tube — and there are no handgrips, ladder, or any way I can think to escape. I’m covered in putrid saliva, hog-sour and rotten. The tang and musk of death has smothered my body in a dripping ooze. I wipe my face with the edge of my sweatshirt, but the slime binds my lashes together and clogs my nose. I stand up and start to scream, but my pulped ribs catch and hitch with each breath, the snot and tears crusting on my face, and my throat aching for silence. I suddenly realise that my cell should be in my pocket. I pull every pocket I can find inside out releasing lint, a lip gloss, and my work keys. I search again, the frantic scrabble of my fingers reminds me of Geoff Kincaid. He works in the slaughterhouse, and I’ve never seen him in clean clothes. He’s a man who’s proud of his power. A man whose name is known to all of the families in the district. He comes from a long line of slaughtermen, and they think they rule, not only the killing floor, but everyone they come into contact with.
I’d been on the loading dock, catching the afternoon sun on a winter’s day two years ago. My feet had turned into blocks of ice, and I was tired of the constant mutter of my supervisor. Nothing seemed to please Kerry-Anne that day. She was griping about how sloppy the mince was, how oily the cutlery was and on and on. I’d stepped out to look for a missing box of hashbrowns, and been lured by the warmth on the dock. I’d closed my eyes, only for a moment, but the darting grip of urgent fingers ripping at my overshirt made my eyes pop open in horror. I opened my mouth to scream and was gagged by a bloodied hand clasped across my face, stifling my wail. My dad had taught me well though and as Geoff Kincaid fumbled and tore at my clothes, I brought my knee up between is brawny thighs with a determined force. He bellowed and promptly vomited his lunch onto his blood-speckled overalls. He’d had the nachos, the smell of pork mince and bile searing my nostrils. He fell to his knees, clutching his groin and cursing me a stupid whore. He’s never come near me again, but sometimes I catch him watching me, with hatred in his eyes.
My mind stutters back to the here and now. I can smell that same smell, of pigs and blood and death. I’m coated in it. Either my phone is smashed somewhere along the road, or I never put it in my pocket. I think back to my morning routine and can’t pinpoint my actions of today. They’re the same every day — wake up alone, shiver and shake my clothes on, drink a coffee and lock the door of my shitty home. But I’d give anything to be there now, curled in my bed, pressing snooze on my alarm for five more minutes of peace. Oh god, what if I’m never found? Surely they’re missing me. I’m pretending that someone cares enough to be wondering where I am. I’m imagining a search party comprised of my fellow canteen workers. Surely they’ll find my bike and phone and realise I’m in trouble. I start to madly scrabble and jump at the walls of my prison. The sandy soil, full of rocks and mica rain down into my eyes and mouth. I spit dust and dirt from my already parched mouth. The tiny particles slice and splinter into my sight, stinging my eyes. The nails on my hands are becoming ragged, and the skin scratched, snarled, and scuffed as blooms of blood blend with the grout of my grave. That’s what this is, a tomb. I’m already dead, I just haven’t been eaten yet. Slumping to the ground I curl into a tiny ball. I can feel the sun starting to warm the air of the desert. It might kill me before that thing does.
My mind is in a state of confusion. What was that thing? Could it be what killed my family? It’s definitely big enough to crush a car. Where did it come from? Maybe it was developed at the piggery. But how do you create a creature that is part pig, and part centipede? I wonder at the people involved, the scientists and farmers, the breeders, and boffins. Maybe my dad was telling the truth. He’d talked of torture and experimentation, is this the creation; a formidable creature with at least twenty legs. It’s huge, how would they control it. Maybe they’ve lost control. Maybe that’s why it’s out here snatching people from their bikes and prying people from their cars; digging holes in the dust, just big enough to store a human. Hopelessness overwhelms me. I wish that I’d done more, been more, seen more. I’m a pathetic woman, trapped and helpless. Even with my leaking lungs and creaking ribs I scream until my throat feels ripped and shredded. I’ve done nothing with my life and will never achieve any sort of greatness, or happiness. I’m just meat for the meal of my killer.
I must have slept or passed out for hours, but a cramp through my leg sends a shooting spasm into my calf and I rudely wake into darkness. It’s snowing and a snaking trail of melting ice slides down under my layers like a ghastly worm. My body is buckled and bloody, and my lungs are burning with each frigid inhalation. I try to catch snow in my mouth to quench my thirst, the flakes falling in my face blur my vision and irritate my frantic mind. I listen to the silence and press my hands to my ears. The pulse of my blood and the beating of my heart pounds beneath my skin. A scuffle of snow and sand into my pit startles a retched sqwark from my brutalised throat. In the Utah night the sight of a pig meshed and melded with a centipede is incomprehensible. It moves over the hole and the swine-stink of fetid saliva makes me heave, roiling my empty stomach into a burning knot. The eyes peering at me are small and alien, and I wish for a gun, or a knife, something to defend myself with. Shaking overwhelms my body and I huddle at the bottom of my suffocating shaft. The thing lunges and in one motion my right arm is ripped from its socket, creating a gory mudpuddle as spurts of blood spray into the dirt. Hot urine streams down my legs and I choke and splutter with dread as the pigipede chomps and slavers above me. My body is jolted by shock like a tethered and electrified carcass, and I know that I will never see Wendy again.