Toxoplasma Odocoileus
by Colin Alexander
Herb’s breasts felt tender, and though he’d fought the urge all day, he found himself waddling through stands of Jeffrey pines in the fading light to soak his swollen calves in the lake.
A week ago, his hunting trip in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada showed all signs of becoming a good hike wasted.
“Skunked,” said Barry, dressed head to toe in digital camo, rifle slung over his shoulder. His statement was punctuated by the twang of a chunk of teriyaki jerky dislodged from between his central and lateral incisor.
As Barry unfurled floss from his fingers, the largest deer Herb had ever seen filled his scope. Had he not been so excited for an opportunity to finally chamber a round after days of Barry whining about patients not brushing and lower back pain, Herb might have glassed the buck a moment, following its movement down the hillside. Had he observed the massive animal only a few moments, he would have seen it crashing through the brush in a serpentine fashion, barely keeping its footing as it lumbered down the valley towards the river. Had he focused on the buck’s eyes, bloodshot, blindly searching, he might not have taken the shot.
But Herb had talked about the trip for months, spending that afternoon thinking about every patient staring up at him, mouths crowded with picks and suction.
“Bek a buh?”
He’d continue cleaning, or adhering a temporary crown, but they’d ask again when he finished, dabbing their mouth with a paper bib.
“Your trip. You bag a buck?”
Twenty patients a day, five days a week, all staring, vicariously disappointed.
The moment that great, bony rack broke through the foliage, Herb yanked the trigger.
His shot would’ve missed entirely, but for the creature’s gargantuan size. A cry echoed through the valley, Barry clapping him on the back.
It took twenty minutes, following the blood to its source.
Ahead, Barry yelled: “Something got to yer buck.”
The giant was hollowed out, haunches and rack barely connected by burst ribs.
“Wolves?” asked Herb.
Barry shrugged.
“Least you got yer rack,” he said.
Barry trundled off to piss, Herb setting on the antlers with a butcher’s saw.
The sudden pain in Herb’s calf made him drop the serrated blade, falling forward, antlers barely missing his left eye, piercing his shoulder below the collarbone.
He must have screamed, the way Barry burst out of the forest, rifle in hand. Barry took his floss from his front pocket, snapping the barb off a fish hook, using it like a needle and thread. Herb’s shoulder wounds were superficial, but the strange circular wound on his calf required stitches to hobble back to camp.
“Took a whole chunk, like a cookiecutter shark,” said Barry, back at their trucks.
Herb insisted Barry take the hard-won rack; Herb had plenty at home, but now he carried a story for his patients.
By Sunday, Herb’s blood boiled, and he barely left bed.
Mid-week, he managed to limp around the house in his robe drinking tea. He felt heavy, like he’d fallen into a river wearing his winter jacket.
Sleeping in his recliner below a canopy of last season’s fourteen-pointer, he dreamed of cool, flowing water.
Herb woke, bone-sore. Dragging himself to the kitchen, he put his head under the faucet until liquid gurgled out his mouth, lungs on fire.
Pulling away, he burst into tears.
He wiped his face with the backs of his palms, sobs transforming into laughter.
“Hell’s going on with me?”
Something inside Herb shifted. Lifting his sweat-soaked undershirt, his skin rippled, eels under dark water.
Herb’s landline rang, and his skin became placid. He stumbled to the phone.
“Hello?”
“How’s the convalescent?” asked Barry, who’d taken Herb’s patient overflow.
Herb found his hand supporting his distended belly, eyes inexplicably brimming with tears.
“Ya there?” asked Barry.
“Yeah,” said Herb. “Much better.”
“Need anything?”
Herb swallowed a wave of nausea.
“Nah,” said Herb. “Back on Monday.”
“Rest,” said Barry. “Drink lots of fluids.”
In bed, Herb couldn’t get comfortable. Rotating his bloated torso was like a Cadillac making twelve-point turns.
He drifted off, soothed by the gurgle and splash of cascading, ice-blue water.
When he woke, shafts of amber cut through the window. Herb grazed his jaw, feeling a wobble beneath. Reaching inside, he withdrew two teeth, first and second molars.
He placed them on his bedside table like cufflinks, then walked towards the front door, the dank smell of the lake on the breeze.
His distended reflection overflowed in the circular hallway mirror.
Yet as he exited into the humid dusk, he felt graceful.
He shuffled forward without footwear, impervious to stone and briar. The closer to the lake, the lighter he felt, like returning home after a long absence.
Another tooth came loose, and he didn’t bother naming it, he just swallowed, feeding what was voracious inside him. He could hear water lapping against the shore, felt mosquitos buzzing about, though none dared pierce his skin.
When his toes touched the cold mountain runoff, a paradoxical warmth filled Herb. It was too dark to see his reflection in the lake, but he knew that if he could, he might never stop staring, because he was the most beautiful he’d ever be. His cheeks were flushed, and even in the near darkness, every rock and twig below the waterline was radiant.
If it felt this good to put his feet in, what would it feel like to wade deeper, up to his calves? How good would it feel to cool the heat building inside like an industrial furnace, melting the hard parts, ossifying the soft.
He felt a seam burst open, and where the black water rippled he saw rainbows of vibrant color, a spectrum wholly new to his eyes.
The sound of mosquitos faded, followed by the light. Herb should have felt confusion, fear, pain.
But as the water around him churned with strange, feeding life, only a mother’s joy remained.
The Molotov Cocktail 