Father’s Day

by Colin Alexander

Covered in a blanket of snow, Larry’s fingers were numb when he’d pulled the trigger at 200 yards. He’d tagged the Mulie in the neck instead of the heart; it’d staggered away like it was on black ice.

He’d followed the blood trail for a few minutes, only to find a set of cracked ribs connected to spindly legs, surrounded by viscera and red snow.

Larry’d been freezing, but staring at the guts steaming on the snow made him snatch the wool cap off his bald head, twisting it in his hands.

“Guess I won’t have to haul ‘er back,” said Larry, when something the size of a malnourished fox entered his periphery.

Upon impact, Larry let out a phlegmatic, angry snort. Seconds later he was on the ground, clutching his leg.

“Hell was that?” asked Larry. Whatever it was had gotten him good, tearing through three layers of clothing before sinking its teeth into the meaty flesh of his calf.

Larry limped back to camp, where he was able to sew up his leg with fishing twine. The oblong wound burned and pulsed, his insides sending angry bursts of morse code to the surface.

He left his tent and pack, taking only his water and the keys to his truck.

The pulse from his leg told him *you fucked up* with every step, but the twine held tight, and he made it to the rusted F-250 before losing the light.

He turned the heat up. It was a long drive home.

The morse code from his leg told him to pull over, but he kept driving.

Then his stomach clenched, and Larry yanked the wheel hard right, wheels thwack-thwacking over raised white dots.

He wasn’t fast enough, and hosed sour green bile from the driver side door. Larry shuffled into the gas station to wash up. When he passed the candy aisle, the heat along the edges of the twine in his leg thrummed like a second heart. Larry dumped an armful of chocolate bars in front of the clerk at the register.

He drove home in silence, save for the sound of candy wrappers.

Finally home, Larry dropped his duffle bag at the bottom of the stairs and stumbled to the couch. He didn’t bother taking off his boots, he just sank into the cool brown leather and fell asleep.

He woke in darkness, the roof of his mouth glued to his tongue.

Blindly, he barreled into the kitchen, hip knocking into the center island before twisting his head under the nozzle of the sink. He turned the water on full blast, guzzling for over a minute.

He wiped his face with the blade of his right hand, listening to water hit the floor in darkness. He pried off his long-sleeved jacket, shirt, and pants, waves of heat radiating from his body. His stomach gurgled.

Larry yanked open the refrigerator, finding shelves of boar sausage, eggs and cheese. The freezer was filled with salmon, bison and rockfish. All of it turned his stomach.

He tore through the cupboard, heavy cans falling, denting the hardwood. A bag of dried kidney beans dumped out, skittering across the floorboards.

In the back of the cupboard, he found a foil covered rabbit and two eggs, leftovers from Easter. He didn’t bother peeling off the thin colored foil; instead, he broke the hollow rabbit in two, prying out the thin layer of chocolate like oyster meat.

The chocolate was dry and covered with white film. He ate all of it, and the two chocolate eggs, then an old jar of strawberry preserves. He stumbled back to the couch, wet and sticky, then collapsed.

Cramps, like swift kicks to his ribs, woke him. Larry felt bloated, an overcooked sausage. He found warm ginger ale in the garage, then shuffled upstairs, clutching the wooden railing. In his bedroom, he located a pair of worn elastic sweatpants, which no longer required tying the string belt to fit snugly. He lay on his bed, pulling the thick quilt up to his chin, and turned on the television.

In front of a burning building, a mother clutched her child, and a deep voice declared “Foundation Insurance Supports You.” Larry found himself tearing up, one hand slipping below the sheets to brace his bloated stomach. It shifted.

He was on his feet, rushing to the bathroom; if he made another mess like in the truck, he wouldn’t have the energy to clean up.

Larry made it just in time. He clutched the bowl in prayer position, bare feet on cold tile. He wanted to shower, to wash away the layer of sweat and sickness, but was afraid he’d collapse.

When Larry finally stood, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze. His chest and belly were pallid, almost translucent, and swollen to twice their normal size. As he stared at his engorged belly, something stirred under the skin like a fish under dark water.

His head tilted, and his hand gently touched the spot where something had appeared along his abdomen. To his surprise, something warm and strong pulsed back, like the throbbing in his leg.

Larry had a phone beside his bed, and only had to dial three numbers. He’d have no trouble explaining to dispatch where he was, and what he needed. He’d stopped sweating, and his breathing was slow and regular.

Instead, Larry eased himself down onto a green bath mat, careful to support his hips and stomach, and began drawing a bath.

He tested the water with the back of his hand. He focused on his breathing, feeing pressure building. As he eased into the tub, Larry tried not to think about the Mulie carcass, or the sharp teeth against his calf. He focused on his temporary comfort, and keeping his strength. As more limbs pressed against the surface of his belly, he felt tears streaming down his face.

He hoped he’d stay alive long enough to meet them.