Better Living Dead Through Chemistry

The curved mountain road disappeared under his tires.

Grant Grahams yawned. Retirement couldn’t come soon enough. He should have already finished, but a medicine company had had a breakthrough. Nobody else had time to deliver their latest in anti-ageing skin cream technology. So, he tacked on an extra day to his work life. It wouldn’t kill him. He blinked and squinted through the windshield of his tanker truck into the night beyond. ‘Wakey wakey, Grant.’

* * *

The curved mountain road disappeared under his tires.

Dane Huxleye shuddered. One more shift, and he’d have finished for good. No more driving these damn tanker trucks. He should have retired one day prior, but the industrial zone had gone into overdrive. Its toxic waste needed emptying. Nobody had a free schedule to handle the task, so he pushed his date back a day. It wouldn’t kill him. He clicked his neck side to side and gave himself a little slap on the cheek to refocus on the headlight-lit road. ‘C’mon, Dane old boy.’

* * *

His headlights sliced through the gloom, reflecting the cat's eyes.

Grant’s eyelids drooped. He had to be careful; he’d known many a trucker who’d fallen asleep at the wheel and caused their deaths. Or worse, the deaths of others. He grabbed his thermos of coffee—extra milk—and twisted the cap off one-handed. The cap spun away and bounced into the footwell at his feet. ‘Bugger!’

* * *

His headlights sliced through the gloom, reflecting the cat's eyes.

Dane’s mind wandered to that soft and fluffy place. He needed to wake himself up. He’d had several buddies die, either alone or taking others with them, due to fatigue. He grabbed his thermos of coffee—black—and twisted the cap off one-handed. He thumbed the lid too hard, and it spun away into the darkness down by his feet. ‘Bugger!’

* * *

His thermos lid slipped behind his brake pedal.

Grant’s heart trilled in his chest, cold and frantic. He’d passed a tight bend, but another was coming up in a few seconds. He had no way of slowing down this beast. He tried reaching for it, but he couldn’t get that far. So, he unclipped his seatbelt and—one hand on the wheel—ducked below the dashboard to find the damned cap.

* * *

His thermos lid slipped behind his brake pedal.

Dane’s heart tripped over its own feet, awkward and clumsy. He’d passed a tight bend, but another was coming up in a few seconds. He couldn’t slow down this juggernaut. He tried to grab it, but the seatbelt restricted him. So, he unbuckled himself and—one hand on the wheel—reached into the darkness of the footwell for the damned lid.

* * *

Headlights glared through each of their windshields, illuminating their cabs.

The chests of both men tightened, making them gasp for air. Another vehicle approached, and they had no view of the road. They were down in their footwells, head beneath the dash, groping in the shadows. They both sat bolt upright, banging their heads on the lower part of the wheel. They yanked the wheels to the side and slammed the brakes with both feet. The thermos lids cracked beneath the pedals. ‘Oh Go—’

Both tanker trucks jackknifed. They slid on the wet tarmac and collided, rupturing their respective tanks. Each driver flew from their seat and smashed through their windshields. They passed each other in the air, having the time to stare, unbelieving, at the other as they crossed paths. They landed at the same time. Grant landed on his behind. Dane landed on his head. Grant broke nothing in the fall and would have survived had he not splashed into a pool of toxic waste. The neon green ooze disintegrated him. Dane landed in a pool of anti-ageing cream and would have survived had he not landed on his head. The landing broke his neck.

The liquid from each tank splashed across the road and intermingled together. From one side, the latest in cell regeneration research trickled. From the other side, the newest batch of mutagenic waste oozed. A brief flash of light, like localised lightning, occurred when the two agents reacted. This crackling goo did what liquids do best—it followed gravity and trickled down the hill.

* * *

The liquid dripped onto his forehead.

Wybert Cheshiree scrunched up his face in disgust. Waking up was terrible, but waking up to slime in the face? That was the worst. He wiped it off with one gnarled hand. His fingers came away luminescent green—the only light in this stuffy darkness. ‘What in God’s name?’

Darkness pressed in at him from all sides, the smell of wood and soil rich in his nostrils. The green goop cast a tiny glow in the gloom, highlighting swirls of wood.

His tight chest wheezed, expelling dust from his lungs. Where the hell was he? It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in a strange place with fluid on his hands, but this was new. With his glowing fingers, Wybert searched the space around him. ‘No.’

Cheap wooden panelling enclosed him on all six sides.

Claustrophobia squeezed his heart. In a box. In a coffin. But where? His last memories before falling asleep were all foggy and disjointed. Police, an angry mob. Had they buried him alive? He pushed up against the lid above. He crowed laughter.

The wood gave way, and a crack zigzagged its way through. More green goop gushed through the splinters, dousing the man.

Wybert recoiled in disgust. But, then again, the ooze had weakened the wood, allowing him to break it further. And, when he thought about it, the sensation was quite pleasant. It was like the tingling pins and needles of cold hands warming by a fire. He punched through the wood and let the liquid soak him. ‘YES!’

The green slop gushed through in a river, and only damp, glowing soil remained when its tide slowed.

He grinned, his old muscles and tendons creaking as they found use. Wet soil was more manageable to dig through than dry soil. He could get out of here alive. Pulling himself by his gnarled hands and kicking his feet, Wybert fought through the six feet of dirt. He scooped the mud, pushed it down, and kicked and wriggled. He grunted like a horse.

The last sod of dirt fell away, and the cool night air rushed in to greet him. Overhead, stars twinkled. Somewhere nearby, crickets chirped. The throbbing luminescence of the ooze was everywhere.

Euphoria bloomed in his soul. He gasped, tasting the clean air—above the chemical tang of the goo—letting it wash the dry must of dust away. He’d made it out once again. Nobody could put down Wybert Cheshiree, nobody. Many had tried, but he’d lived to tell the tale time and time again. He pulled himself up out of the ground and lay there, panting. Between gasps for air, mad laughter zipped from his lungs.

Overhead, a stone towered above him.

Wybert’s laughter died, and something stony scraped within him. He wanted to look away but forced himself to read the inscription. He smiled at ‘heinous crimes’ but faltered when he got to the ‘gunned down by police’ bit. His mouth turned down at the corners. ‘No!’ He spat the word out.

Now that he listened to it, his voice didn’t have the usual command it carried. It wheezed out of him like air out of a tire.

Wybert gasped in horror as the memory rushed at him like a bucket of cold water. He recoiled from the stone and squelched into the collecting pool of pulsating goo. They couldn’t have gotten the better of him; he was always two steps ahead. With a trembling hand—bonier than he remembered—Wybert inspected his body. ‘Oh, no.’

Twelve bullet holes dotted his person.

Fury flared through his veins. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. They hadn’t buried him alive. They’d plain buried him. Well, now he was back. He staggered to his feet, all bone and gristle, and stood there swaying for a few moments. ‘Time to pick up where we left off.’

In the distance, flames flickered. The extraordinary perfumes of burnt chemicals and other niceties plumed into the sky. The river of strobing gloop continued to dribble into the cemetery. It flowed over the other graves.

He grinned a skeletal grin and lurched toward the town’s lights.