MELT
A short story of 1500 words
© David Lowe, March 1992
It was almost dawn when the black cat climbed up the creeper to a high balcony. Across the water, a city hummed. Silently the cat slipped through a gap in the curtains. On the bed was a sleeping man. Eyes tightly shut, his arms and upper body thrashed about as if he were being eaten by monsters.
In his dream, Jamie Lloyd was driving on a highway through desert. It was incredibly hot. Laura slept in the seat beside him. For some reason the windows would not wind down, and the fan was broken. Both front seats were missing - Jamie had to stretch to reach the pedals. Ahead, the road shimmered into infinity. In the mirror the view was the same. Bodies with gaping mouths and bloated bellies lay by the side of the road. Jamie felt vaguely responsible.
It grew hotter.
Out of the desert, a field of giant sunflowers grew. The tall stalks became buildings, skyscrapers, a deserted city. Jamie was terribly thirsty. There was nothing to drink. A toothless old man loomed up in front of the car, waving. Jamie swerved, too late. The man hit the bumper with a horrible thump and wheeled over the roof. Laura did not wake. The old man was a sack on the road behind them.
It grew hotter.
Outside, the city began to wilt. Buildings drooped and leaned in upon each other. The steering wheel was painfully hot to touch. It grew rubbery in Jamie's hands. Tires stuck to the road as if they were driving across fresh glue. Jamie squeezed the brake pedal - it squashed like sponge beneath his foot. The gear stick was liquorice, warping and twisting before snapping off completely. Jamie wrenched one hand free from the sticky wheel. Desperately, he tried to shake Laura awake. Her body slumped against the window. Lifeless eyes stared. Her head lolled. In horror, Jamie noticed the girl's face was beginning to melt.
It grew hotter.
Like an Easter egg left in the sun, the roof of the car began to cave in. Jamie held it up with one hand while he fought with the wheel. The windscreen was molten wax. Jamie could not see the road. He tried to punch a hole in the treacly glass. His hand stuck fast in the gloop.
It grew hotter.
The car rolled twice and oozed to a stop like a thrown chocolate cake sliding down a wall. Door handles dripped to the floor. Like a demon, Jamie fought to escape from his gooey prison.
The sleeping man muttered incomprehensibly through a gag of clenched teeth, bedclothes a tangled disaster. One wildly waving arm knocked over a lamp. The cat flicked her tail and crouched. Flailing fists sent the clock radio tumbling to the floor. Green eyes narrowed. On the bed, toes twitched - the cat poised to spring. In one movement she leapt and bit the sleeping man on one exposed foot. Nothing happened. The cat bit again, harder.
Jamie Lloyd sat bolt upright, his hair soaked with sweat. Blue eyes stared wildly without seeing. Slowly, the clutches of the nightmare loosened. Soft light seeped through the curtains. He stopped himself panting.
The room was a shambles. Last night's burnt dinner lingered in the air. A hungry cat miaowed for attention at the foot of the bed.
Shivering now in the morning cold, Jamie looked down at the space in the bed beside him. Where...? Then he remembered she'd gone, and his stomach sank.
Wrapped in a sheet, the young man stumbled over to the balcony and breathed in the city air deeply, like a smoker with his first for the day. The sun swung over the horizon and glinted off a train crossing the bridge. Awful visions lingered on the edges of his mind.
The dream was always the same. At first he hadn't told Laura about it. When he did, she laughed, but the nightmare continued to haunt him.
Because of the dream, the thought of driving a car filled him with terror. Laura's laughter became concern. She told him to see someone about it. Jamie refused. Concern became fear. Each night, like a jealous lover, the nightmare returned. Laura showed him the bruises where he'd hit her in his sleep, torn sheets, wildly strewn books, a broken lamp. He woke to find the girl crouched shivering in the corner of the bed, staring at him like a stranger.
She had said he was losing control, falling apart.
Now he was alone.
Jamie turned back from the balcony and pushed the curtains open wide. To keep himself awake, he switched on the TV and set a CD spinning. The fridge was almost empty. Breakfast was microwaved donuts and black coffee. With a shiver, he looked out at a red car parked in the street. His car. Leaves were piling up around the wheels.
He ironed yesterday's clothes. To kill time, he ironed them again. At last it was time to go to work. Neighbours peered between venetian blinds curiously as the young man ignored the low-slung RX7 outside his door and walked up the steet to the bus stop.
No one sat next to him on the bus. Other passengers saw a drawn, hunted-looking man in a stained suit. Jamie stared out the window. Campaigns he had worked on were plastered on billboards and other buses; he barely noticed them. In the city he changed buses for the North Shore. For the last three blocks he walked.
Jamie stepped through the revolving door of a nondescript glass building and took the lift to the top floor. The girl at the desk of the agency frowned at his wilted tie. Framed advertisements filled the walls.
'Morning Mr Lloyd,' said the blonde receptionist. 'How's Laura?'
'Oh... she's fine, thanks.' Jamie avoided her stare and stepped down the corridor to his office.
That night the dream came again.
Heat. A highway. Desert. Sunflowers. The city. Laura. Again, the awful melting. Like blancmange, the car wobbled and collapsed to a stop. Red paint and plastic bled and coagulated into the street. Jamie battled with the door. At last it gave way. Summoning all his energy, he fought and wriggled out of the wreck like a man set in jelly. One shoe remained stuck fast. He pulled his foot from the shoe and was free.
Jamie began to run. The road was baking hot. He ran until the car was a steaming heap in the distance. A cool wave of relief washed over him. But there was something wrong with his body, a strange sensation in his legs. Jamie looked down.
His feet were beginning to melt.
With a gasp, Jamie whirled back into the real world. He sat up. It was a new day. Groggily, he staggered into the bathroom to have a cold shower.
At breakfast there was an item on the news about a transport strike. Jamie put down his toast and listened. All buses and trains off until midday. Could he call in sick? No. The meeting with the creative directors was at 10am. A knot began to grow in his belly. The taxi number was continuously engaged. In mounting distress, Jamie looked out at the sleeping machine parked in the street. A black cat sat on the bonnet.
The key for the RX7 was hidden on top of the fridge. Stop being ridiculous, he said to himself. It's only a car.
He opened the door and sat down behind the wheel. Jamie breathed deeply. The cat was nowhere to be seen.
He switched on the ignition.
The Alfa purred past strip clubs and car showrooms, air-conditioning on full blast. So far so good, thought Jamie, hands shaking slightly. He joined the river of steel and exhaust and followed the signs to the city.
There had been an accident on the bridge. Traffic moved slowly. Jamie tried to focus his mind on work. Suddenly he remembered he'd left some of the artwork proofs for the new soft drink account at home. Too late to turn back now. He was almost there. Despite the cold air blasting out from the vents, his collar tickled with sweat.
Jamie parked beneath the tall glass building and walked over to the lift.
Inside, it was breathlessly hot. More and more people crushed in as they went up. Jamie was sweating freely. There was a strange smell, rather like burning leather. Passengers wrinkled their noses. Jamie's eyes stared at the glowing numbers above the door, fingers clutching white on to his briefcase. Eight, nine, ten, eleven.
More people got in. It grew hotter.
Jamie saw only the floor numbers. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
People began to leave the lift. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. The lift was empty.
Twenty-nine. His floor. Jamie smiled in relief. He'd made it. The doors glided open. He tried to walk. Something was wrong. Jamie looked down.
His shoes were melting.
Gently, the lift doors closed. Jamie screamed.© David Lowe, March 1992