Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (24 page)

I emerge into chaos.

Any fears of Terri’s screams being detected are quickly annihilated by the riotous cacophony. Hail pellets the roof, ricocheting like bullets, and the fire alarm shrieks at a decibel designed to rupture sanity. Between claps of thunder, I hear phones go off around the store, reporting destroyed roads, emergency conditions, accidents.

I plug earbuds into my cell, then plug my ears, updating my database.

Widespread power outage.

Main Street flooded.

Interstate severely damaged.

Roads obliterated.

People stranded.

Federal disaster.

Death toll unknown.

The death toll is about to accelerate.

Wielding my machetes, I prowl the store’s perimeter in search of Justus.

Thanks to the lack of power, the intercom is gagged. No long-forgotten disco tunes, no cute ads for the Floral Department, no managers summoning employees to the office for interrogation and torture.

Marilyn Manson streams through my phone, providing a killer soundtrack.

Cut, cut, cut.

The generator supplies enough electricity to power cash registers, barely enough juice to light the aisles, and no power for refrigeration. Coworkers rush around the store in search of cardboard to shield the displays and protect cold food. They’re ripping boxes off of shipments, pulling cardboard from the baler—too preoccupied to notice me.

Panicked customers hurry through dimly lit aisles, loading carts with milk, eggs, bread, batteries, and candles—praying they will make it home.

I don’t suffer stress.

Robots are protected under warranty.

For grins, I pass a machete through a line of cartons, spilling milk onto the floor. People back away in horror.

Fun!

I hit the yogurt, sour cream, cottage cheese.

Cut, cut, cut.

Justus may be hiding, may be in disguise and trying to avoid me. I look for telltale signs: someone limping, a trail of blood, the scent of Trinidad Moruga Scorpions.

Leaving Dairy, I move along Aisle 12, smashing containers of pain killers, breaking bottles of cough syrup. When I reach the endcap, I push over a display of vitamins.

An old man yells at me.

To shut him up, I whack him with a machete.

Cut, cut, cut.

At the front of the store, I tour the checkout stands in search of Justus. People wait in line, their carts loaded.

Wendy waves at me, and I wave back.

I head to Produce.

Spot Justus by the melons.

Amazingly, after our scuffle in the labyrinth, his body seems to be intact.

But when he turns toward me, I see the plaster on his wounded arm is stained with blood. He’s holding his other arm against his stomach, attempting to contain the slippery tube of his intestine.

Raising my machetes, I run toward Justus to deliver a double whammy.

Before I reach him, a crack of thunder shakes the building—so loud it sounds like an explosion.

The store goes black.

A woman screams.

So does a man, but I’m not sure if it’s Justus.

I swing the machetes, decapitating, slicing, severing.

Heads roll around my feet, gray matter leaking from the skulls. My ASICS are soaked in blood, and the floor is slick with guts.

I hack some more.

The stench becomes overpowering, unbearable, so acrid I’m crying. Tears stream from my eyes as I hack—eviscerating, gouging, slashing.

Somewhere, over by the Salad Bar, a little boy wails for his mother.

Light streams through the dark, as people activate their cellphones’ flashlight apps.

Marilyn is screaming.

I hear sirens, someone shouting.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!”

I’m turning in a circle, machetes extended, blades of a vicious fan. The louder Marilyn screams, the faster I spin, accelerating as I approach orgasm—

“Sadie, stop!”

Coitus interruptus.

That’s not Marilyn—it’s Marcus.

He’s not just inside my head; he’s invaded my cha cha, my snatch, fish mitten, wookie—I swear, he’s pumping me right here in the middle of Produce, pounding me with vegetables.

Of course, that isn’t possible.

I left him at home.

A butternut dildo bangs my G-spot.

“I’m coming, Marcus!”

I keep spinning, like a propeller on steroids, my orgasm building. Heat blasts through me as I whirl faster, pulverizing anything, anybody in my path, so dizzy I can barely stand. I’m screaming, wailing, as the Big O engulfs me. Centrifugal force pulls at my core, sending me one way then another, rearranging my cellular structure, increasing the space between molecules, so my body is permeable, invisible, invincible. No longer solid mass, light flows through me. I’m inter-dimensional, existing on multiple planes, omniscient.

“Look out! She’s going down!”

“Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oooooohhhhh!”

I fall backward, machetes flying from my hands.

My head hits something hard, and the impact nearly knocks me out. I crash onto the floor. Round objects, the size of heads, bombard me, roll around my body. Beams of lights stream over me. Am I in heaven? If I am, they’ll throw me out. An orgasmic spasm sends me into convulsions.

“Are you okay, Sadie?”

“Amazing.”

Through the front door’s glass, I see fire trucks.

I’m lying in a patch of purple cabbages, a banana lodged between my thighs.

A sign flutters to the floor: Avocados 10 for $10.

“A dollar each, that’s a good price.”

A buzzing sound permeates the store, followed by a flood of light from the overhead fluorescents.

People cheer.

I look around the new wood floor, expecting to see heads, arms, legs, and other body parts. Expecting to see Justus bleeding. Maybe a few penises. Instead I see mutilated watermelons, juice oozing from cracked rinds, bruised squash and cucumbers, smashed tomatoes.

The stink is explained by a toppled bin of onions, crushed by customers scurrying for cover.

“What happened?”

A woman’s voice answers.

“People panicked.”

“Because of me?”

“Not because of you, silly.” Looking up from a pile of desecrated produce, I see Terri. “When the lights went out, a customer crashed his cart into the watermelon bin, then a lady fell into the tomatoes. That caused a chain reaction involving onions and zucchini which ended when you landed in the cabbages.”

“Where’s Marcus?”

“Marcus who?”

My eyes narrow as I take Terri in.

“How did you escape?”

“Escape what?”

“The cage.”

Cocking her head, she studies me. “Stay right here, hon. I’m gonna ask those nice firemen if they have an EMT. You may have a concussion.”

I’m thinking about getting up, wondering how I’ll get home, when a black boot appears in front of me.

Justus.

Machetes dangle from his hands, juice dripping off the blades. How he can he stand upright with his intestine spilling from his gut? The sucker is strewn over the floor. Did you know the small intestine of a human is about twenty feet long? That’s six meters, almost seven yards. Every time Justus moves, the thing drags behind him like a hose. Pus oozes from his blistered face, and his right eyeball hangs from the socket.

I’m trying to remember what I know about zombies. They eat brains, don’t they?

“Get up, Sadie. You’re not paid to sit around.”

I stand slowly, my eyes glued to Justus, or the thing that looks like him. I don’t want a zombie munching on my frontal lobe, snacking on my medulla oblongata. Stepping backward, I trip on a cabbage and hop over a length of intestine. Upon closer inspection, I realize the intestine is an unraveled ace bandage. If he’s not a zombie, maybe he’s a simulacrum that looks and acts like Justus.

This has to be the work of Terri the Terrible.

Once again, she’s outdone me. She’s discovered how to upload a human brain into a robot. Not a crumby wannabe robot like that imposter in Deli, but a state-of-the-art humanoid.

That’s the only logical explanation.

The boot is a nice touch, so is the neck brace. Realistic.

Justus, or the thing that looks like Justus, says, “Get to work, Sadie.”

“Your ace bandage is undone.”

He glances down, reels in the strip of fabric.

“You’ll need a broom and dustpan to clean this up.”

“I need an Umarex Tactical Force TF11, CO2, Black Machine Gun.”

I stumble out of the store.

A fire truck is parked out front. Red lights pulse through hail and rain, shimmer on the wet pavement. A fireman rushes past me. Medics carrying a stretcher disappear into the store. I hurry through the parking lot toward the bike rack, my head bowed against the downpour. My bicycle is soaked. I run the sleeve of my fleece jacket over the seat and handlebars, but it’s a hopeless cause.

The ride home sucks. The river overflowed the banks, destroying the road, and the bike path is flooded.

I pedal through a foot of water.

There’s a lump on my head, and I feel kind of dizzy. I hate to admit it, but Terri’s diagnosis of a concussion may be accurate. Or maybe I’m deranged, looney, out to lunch … the English language has a lot of words for crazy.

How can Justus not be dead? I know the accident was real. I saw it. The cops
said
it was real, so did that insurance lady. Justus
must
be dead, so how did he show up tonight? People can’t
really
come back from the dead, can they? (When I get home I’m gonna Google
zombies
.) Did anybody
tell
me he was dead? Did I read it in the paper? See it on TV? I can’t remember. OMG. I think I’m cuckoo, ape shit, nutty as a fruitcake.

But, what if I’m not?

What if I’m as sane as you?

My fleece jacket provides no protection. Rain seeps through the fabric, plastering my shirt to my back. Mud splatters my face, and my mouth is full of grit. Tasting salt, I realize I’m crying.

Sad Sadie has returned.

I pump the pedals harder, angry at the weather, angry with myself.

The gears slip, and I skid into a puddle. Dirty water splashes me as the bike tilts. My sneakers (practically new) sink into mud. Tears and rain run down my face.

I think of Marcus back home, waiting for me.

I need to see him, want to talk with him.

And he needs me.

That thought keeps me going as I push my bike along the path.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all the self-help books I’ve read it’s this: avoid mind games at all costs. You know the games I mean. For women, it’s playing hard to get to pique his interest, trading sex for services, giving him the silent treatment when he’s done something you don’t like. Men play different games. They feign undying love when all they want is sex, make dates at the last minute because Mr. Happy has a hard-on. The worst mind game is what Marcus did to me: stringing me along—eating my food, hanging out, biding his time and wasting mine while he looked for a better situation. I thought we were above games. I believed our relationship was based on mutual trust, honesty and respect. But now I realize Marcus is a master of manipulation.

The bastard has been playing me.

I arrive at my condominium, my clothes soaked to my skin, my bike a muddy mess. Wearily, I climb the stairs, sneakers oozing water with each step. When I reach the landing, I dig the key out of my pocket, slip it into the lock and open the front door.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Of course, there’s no answer.

Am I really expecting one?

Shivering, I remove my wet jacket.

The apartment is strangely quiet, except for my footsteps on the floor’s exposed WonderBoard. I haven’t had the time or money to replace the carpet.

Standing at the picture window, I watch sheets of rain wash through the courtyard, causing lights to flicker on what appears to be a lake, but really it’s the lawn. Somewhere, drowned beneath the rush of water, the sandbox where Caramel played is buried.

I cast my X-ray vision around the living room, searching for evidence. No fingerprints. No DNA, other than what would be expected. The dumpster is filled with empty plastic bottles. No law against using bleach.

On my way to the bathroom, I stop in the kitchen and put the kettle on. After the evening’s events—the shock of seeing Justus returned from the dead—I need a cup of Kava.

Pausing at the thermostat, I bump up the heat.

My fingers are cold and numb, so I have trouble turning the bolt on the bathroom door. I’m not sure what I expect to find, but I’m imagining a romantic bubble bath for two. Since Marcus is sans legs, we should fit comfortably in the small tub.

I push the door open.

The room is dark.

Usually, when he’s sleeping, he makes a wheezing noise. But tonight the bathroom is silent, eerie.

“Marcus?”

I sweep my hand over the wall, searching for the light switch.

The word
dead
scrolls across my mind. As fast as I erase it, it returns.

Dead.
Dead.
DEAD
.