John and the People of the Earth Page 2

  ***

  People began hearing what was on the brain’s mind a few hours later. Marion was meditating at his desk when he, and everyone else on the planet apparently, heard new and profound thoughts come crashing into their minds:

  “God fucking damn it, fuckin’ shit piece of junk…I swear to God I’m gonna… fuck. Light, where the hells the light? Shitty breaker I unnnghh what the hell.”

  As the strange tirade continued, Marion sat patiently and savored every second. It wasn’t often a man got to experience some one else’s thoughts fighting for space amongst his own and the feeling was pleasantly strong, like a cat’s claws kneading into a soft belly.

  A man on the other side of the office screamed, and someone stumbled past the entrance to Marion’s cubicle, hands on the sides of their head.

  Marion was stone still, beads of anxious sweat forming on his brow and nape. He huffed and puffed and swooned his way to his feet. The brain’s angry diatribe continued unabated:

  “I swear to fucking God why a place like this has a piece of shit boiler this old. It’s gonna kill someone sooner or later. It’s going to kill me right goddamn now.”

  For a few moments the stream of thoughts quieted to a low, sulking grumble. Marion’s brain tingled, like ice was sitting directly on top of exposed nerves. He scanned the office floor. He could hear the soft murmur of someone crying, but most of his co workers were out of their seats and moving around in a confused buzz, some shouting at each other, some shouting into phones, and some simply waiting like cattle in front of the break room television. They balked as the thoughts invaded again a few minutes later, loud and clear.

  “Now listen to me, Mister Arnton, that boilers fit to burst and it’s gonna hurt someone if you don’t replace it soon… I don’t care who you’re talking…what the hell is wrong with you, what are you doing? Take your hands off of your head you stupid loon and listen to me. What the fuck- get the fuck offa me you son of a bitch I’ll-“

  The invisible struggle continued and Marion felt a distinct twitching in the center of his head. He found it difficult to focus as the pitch of violent, red thoughts washed over his mind and grew louder with every passing second.

  His co-workers struggled to stay on their feet, screaming and flailing, ensnared in something they couldn’t comprehend or escape. Many ran for the door as others rolled on the carpet groaning and convulsing.

  A potent, self-intoxicating smile splayed across Marion’s lips as he surveyed the chaotic scene around his little island of cubicle. He raised his hands and laughed.

  The world had just become a much more interesting place.

  Marion was in love.

  Marion believed that he was in love.

  Marion believed that he was at least experiencing an approximation of what he believed was the feeling of love.

  Marion had a strong emotional connection to a giant human brain floating in the upper atmosphere that was broadcasting its thoughts to all of humanity, laying their societies low in the process, and Marion figured that was close enough to count.

  It turned out that the owner of the brain was a man named John King, a brusque and beautifully spoken plumber from the suburbs of Cincinnati. From what Marion had gathered so far, John had a terrified wife and two nearly catatonic children who refused to cooperate. That was about all that had come out before the television refused to display anything but a boring service outage symbol.

  Work was unexpectedly canceled so Marion had plenty of time to contemplate this new and inspiring situation. Strangely enough, his neighbors, a nice gay couple, had disappeared as well, unceremoniously canceling theirs and Marion’s dinner plans in the process. Marion wasn’t insulted and in the absence of stimulating television, felt no regards in helping himself to the intended chicken breasts they’d left behind in the freezer.

  As he sat alone in their dining room, chewing lazily at the cutlets, he could hear people skittering across the pavement outside, followed by echoing screams and breaking glass. A very pretty firelight glowed in the distance outside the window.

  Void of physical company, Marion decided to join the conversation John was currently embroiled in, and spoke towards the chair on the other end of the dining room table.

  “That’s interesting John.”

  The savory alien thoughts were red and blistering with strong emotion as they streamed into Marion’s consciousness.

  “Jenna please, just listen to me. Just…stop it, fucking gimme that…Gimme the damn plate Jenna.”

  Marion smirked as he sawed through a soft breast.

  “Watch it John, she’ll hit you with another plate.”

  “What do you mean? What the hell are you saying? Just calm the fuck down and come here and I’ll… Ahh, God fucking damn it…Ahhh bitch, you bitch.”

  Marion sucked a piece of chicken into his craw with a pop.

  “Oop, she got him. I agree John, she’s a real bitch.”

  “Aggh that fuckin hurts… Get back here. Look what you did to my hand. C’mere, just stop… Don’t you touch them. Stop. I said stop.”

  Marion’s hands were on the table now, chicken halfway to his mouth and his rapt countenance staring off into space.

  “That’s not fair. You can’t do that to me. Kids, stop. C’mere. Your mother’s acting like an idiot. C’mon, look at me. Danny, C’mon kid. What’s wrong with you? No, I said no.”

  Marion was breathing hard now. His mouth pursed. Little pleasurable flares roiled over the top of his skull.

  “Gimme him. Let him go, you cant just take em’. Let him go, all right? I’m fucking sorry. I said I’m fucking sorry for whatever the hell it is so just stop. Stop it- Ahhhh-“

  A searing arc of pain shot down the left side of Marion’s face and he shuddered, his breath geysering through his lips and his utensils clanging loudly against his plate. The feeling subsided quickly and Marion sat back against his chair with a sigh and a soft laugh. He eyeballed the ceiling, waiting for the incoherent, angry thoughts to coalesce into sense again.

  A hard sobbing started in.

  “I’m sorry. Jesus I’m sorry. Where are you? Where the fuck are you? Please don’t do this. Don’t take em’ again.”

  Marion’s brow furrowed. A confusing and unfamiliar mellow pall fell over his thoughts. He stood up from his chair and scanned the area like an animal. His breathing was hard again. He licked his lips furtively at the disturbing new feelings.

  He was about to start pacing when a prim yet gaunt looking man in a suit and tie snapped onto the nearby television. The man tugged on his lapels professionally but his paranoid, sunken eyes darted upwards several times before he began to labor through some kind of speech. Marion sat down again and ignored whatever he was saying, mulling over his own state of mind.

  His thoughts had slowed in conjunction with Johns and he knew the sickening truth of these sensations. They were the pathetic, mewling affectations of weaker peoples. Dependent people. He wallowed momentarily in the depressing, sluggish roundness of them and cringed. He preferred the sharp, flickering sear of Johns usual mood, the one he’d debuted to the world with.

  He almost blamed John for a moment, for forcing these distasteful and needless feelings on him, but immediately forgave him. He had, after all, given Marion the gift of freedom.

  “You’re better off without that whore, John. Believe me, I know.”

  He looked over to the television to catch the speaker’s last, desperate snippet, tears bubbling in the corners of his eyes:

  “We don’t know why this is happening, but may God help us all.”

  Marion sullenly pulled his spoon back and let fly a glob of chicken vittles that impacted on the nearby wall with a heavy splat.

  A clamor sounded from the kitchen.

  Marion rose laconically from his seat and went to inspect. He stood in the kitchen archway and found the floor covered with pots and pans and a teenaged boy frantically rifling through the open
fridge. Marion stood there silently for a few minutes and studied him, noting the open window and the beer bottle on the counter with a rag sticking out of its stem. He bent over and picked up a pan and tossed it at the kids back. The boy whirled around with a shriek, spewing lunchmeat and condiment through the air.

  He was wearing a massive pair of headphones and the pinched face between the two ear cups had a vapid, animalistic look on it, like he’d been frantically pulling choice bits out of an antelope carcass before the lion that felled it came back. He looked like he was about to cry when he saw Marion.

  “What- what are you doing? Don’t come- don’t come over… here.”

  The boy struggled with each word and his head continually jerked back and forth as he spoke. He pointed at Marion.

  “Shit’s mine I, uhh, I need… shit… more for me, C’mon, back up.”

  Marion considered saying something, but quickly became bored with the whole situation. He tuned the boy out for a moment to check if John had come to his senses yet. He wasn’t sobbing anymore, but his thoughts were becoming chaotic and fast, like he was panicking with something. The speed and flavor of them made Marion quake and flush. He took a step forward.

  The kid started violently at the step and pressed his hands over his headphones, squeezing them hard over his ears while closing his eyes. His words spilled out of his mouth as fast as he could say them.

  “He’s a fuck that guy. Fuck him. Get him outta here it hurts. Son of a bitch gonna kill us all. Unngh.”

  Marion smiled sardonically and took another step.

  “What did you just say?”

  The boy’s eyes popped open and he shrieked, grabbing the beer bottle off the counter. He whipped a zippo out of his pocket and began to try and light the rag, but it wouldn’t spark. He rambled hysterically and his hands trembled.

  “Fuckin asshole up there screamin’, screamin’ at me.”

  Marion inched closer, grinning with his arms reaching forward.

  “You shouldn’t say that.”

  “Shut up shut up shut up-“

  Marion’s shadow loomed over him.

  “You shouldn’t insult people you don’t even know.”

  The boy was nearly catatonic as Marion’s fingers crawled over his face and his thumbs sunk deep into his eye sockets. He screeched and dropped the bottle to the floor but not the lighter. He continued to strike it as Marion sent him spinning across the tile to crack his head against a sharp corner of the kitchen counter. He flopped to the ground belly up and lay there twitching.

  Marion whistled low. He stepped to the sink and turned the knob, but no water came out. Annoyed, he spooled out some paper towels and lazily wiped the blood off his hands. John’s rampant thoughts still rushed through his head. He looked up with contentment.

  “Well. That’s much better. We should get together, John.”

  He gingerly stepped over the body and into the living room. Soft, soothing music streamed from inside the giant ear cups.

  “First thing in the morning.”

  Marion woke early to relative silence, from within and without.

  John must be sleeping, he thought.

  He rolled over the side of the bed and headed downstairs to a bowl of milk and cereal. Sitting at the table he could see the boy’s upper half peeking out into the entrance of the kitchen, the sunlight from the broken window baking his now even more vapid face. The music had stopped, and the T.V was black, not even the outage symbol remaining.

  Marion finished quickly, eager to be off. He considered what to bring, and decided on nothing. He lived in Cleveland, a mere four-hour drive from Cincinnati, and was a naturally light traveler. Whatever he needed he’d find on the way.

  He halted at the door and looked back to the kitchen and the body of the boy. He scratched his head and walked back to stand over it. His nose wrinkled as he realized he’d forgotten to close the refrigerator door the night prior and something had already begun to stink. He tapped the door closed and in the process noticed the unlit beer bottle still lying on the floor. He picked it up and examined it for a moment and then stooped to peel the rigid fingers off the lighter as well. With a shrug and a step back he lit the rag and tossed the bottle into the kitchen to watch it explode.

  He nodded as the space was immediately engulfed by enticing orange flame, and after another moment strode smoothly out the front door.

  Marion pulled his keys from his pocket as he sauntered toward his car in the eerily quiet morning. A subtle stink of ash and garbage hung in the air and he could see the snaking remnants of smoke curling over the horizon in several spots.

  As he stepped off the curb he spotted a man hunkered down in front of a large coach bus on the other end of the street. Glancing over at his own tiny compact he discovered that it had been obliterated, burnt down to a charred and brown metal skeleton. After a shrewd moment he tossed his keys into a nearby sewer grate and waltzed down the street.

  As he approached he could see that the man was wearing a shabby little pair of ear buds and was tensely tilting a jerry can into the busses tank. He muttered as Marion sidled up to him, unaware that he was being flanked.

  “Gonna wake up soon, gonna wake up soon, gotta move, gotta move. Can’t be in the open when he does, can’t can’t can’t.”

  Marion tapped on his shoulder and he spun around, dropping the can. His face contorted with desperate, animal fear as he pulled a pathetically tiny knife from his pocket and froze, staring.

  Marion looked him up and down.

  “Nice bus.”

  Two agonizingly long yet entertaining weeks later and Marion was weaving his way through the outskirts of Cincinnati. Having had to abandon the bus long before due to clogged roadways, he was making his way on foot to the city’s center. His hair was dry and nettled, his pants were dusty and his previously well-ironed shirt was covered in numerous scabby, maroon-colored stains.

  And John’s brain was getting bigger.

  Marion looked up into the sky and admired it again. In the last two days alone it had doubled in size and unnatural light and took up a good third of the sky directly above the city, painting the landscape in the shadow of a luminous eclipse. As it grew closer its presence became more intense, an almost audible hum. A pervasive and vibrant energy hung in the air and Marion soaked it in like a manic, basking lizard. His dark eyes had sunk into his head and lines were forming on his tight, optimistic face.

  John’s thoughts had become less specific and more emotional as time went by. He was running from something, his mind leaping constantly between panic, wild anger and desperation. His fear was palpable and spurred Marion on, lest whatever he was running from caught up with him before Marion did.

  This was during the day. The nights were harder and left Marion frustrated. Early in the evening John would often launch into bouts of sobbing and malingering whining that tried Marion’s patience. The unwanted visages of strange people and desires associated with them would float through his thoughts as John wept, souring Marion’s mood and fraying his nerves, but he persevered, comforted by the thought of their impending meeting.

  Things were lively in the big city.

  Fire and carnage were everywhere and shadowy, jittery figures scampered through the burnt out husks of cars and buildings, flitting on the edge of Marion’s vision as he walked confidently down main street.

  John was close. Marion could feel him and something was wrong. His transmission had suddenly gone from his usual panic and vitriolic ranting to resignation and detachment. Marion started walking faster.

  An unfortunately fat and slow shadow passed behind a nearby car and Marion leaped over and pulled it out onto the pavement squealing and flailing. It was a greasy old man covered in three layers of coats, several hats, and a perfect combo of shrill white hair and beard. In the absence of a pair of decent headphones he had instead done a messy job of filling his ears with what looked like sealing caulk or pos
sibly kids glue. He quivered as Marion pulled him off the ground by his scruff.

  “Where is he?”

  The geezer’s lips flapped and flung spittle.

  “Wha-wha-wha-wha-“

  Marion gave him a smug slap in the face.

  “Where’s he at?”

  The old man farted out a few desperate blubbers. Marion put his fingers in each of the man’s nostrils and pulled.

  “Where’s the brain man? I know you guys can feel him too. Where’s he at?”

  The old man gasped.

  “T-t-t-they took him.”

  Marion yanked on the man’s flowing hair, making him squeak.

  “Okay, good. Where to?”

  “Uh, uh, uh s-seventh.”

  “Seventh and…?”

  The old man’s face scrunched into a hard pinch, trying to remember. Marion placed his fingers over his eyelids and pressed lightly.

  “Market, market its fuckin market street fuck.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Marion dumped him back on the ground and jogged off.

  Things continued to escalate pleasantly as Marion entered downtown. Human screams filled the air and the sky surrounding John’s brain had faded to a perfectly romantic sunset orange.

  Marion took cover behind a building corner as he came upon seventh and market. In the center of the spacious, vacant intersection a large crowd of headphone-wearers were gathered around a post that had been erected in the middle of the street. Marion walked over and began nosing his way through. As he closed on the center, he could see a figure strapped to the post, and knew it was John.

  Marion’s face lightened into a soft, relieved smile.

  John was scarred. A long, wobbly slash trailed its way down the left side of his face, bisecting his eye. The wound was scabby and brown, dirt crusting along its fresh and ragged edges. His frayed moustache mirrored his unkempt hair and he wore a shredded pair of brown overalls and black t-shirt that were covered in grime.

  Marion gazed at his weary form and then looked up at his colossal, aberrant and beautiful mind with a sigh.

  The crowd was agitated, and most of the people there were doing a combination of angry shouting, babbling, flailing and other bizarre movements. Marion moved through them airily until he reached the front where the crowd compacted around a single man with a butcher’s knife in hand, slowly encroaching on John’s post. Marion started clawing his way through the knot.

  John eyeballed the knife with weary dread as it drew closer.

  “Fuck you, you piece of shit. Fuck you. C’mon you son of a bitch, C’mon.”

  Veins popped on his forehead and the whole crowd trembled at his rage, swaying on their feet. The man with the knife began hyperventilating and backed off momentarily before redoubling and lunging forward.

  John cursed violently and the man tripped on the approach, plunging the knife deep into John’s thigh. As he screamed bloody murder, everyone in the crowd convulsed and fell to the ground wailing.

  Marion gasped, but remained standing. He shuddered and gulped at the influx of rich, heady pain. He stood agape for a moment but shook it off quickly and made his way over to John, stomping on hands and limbs in the process.

  As John’s howling tapered off a deep rumble echoed through the sky and the ever-present hum of energy rapidly phased into a sharper, pressurized whistling. The sky darkened to a bloody red and shimmered with heat.

  The brain was growing, wrenching its way through the Earth’s atmosphere. Marion looked up blankly.

  “Hmm.”

  John was staring down at the knife, grinding and hissing through his teeth as Marion stepped up and placed his hand gently on the back of his head.

  “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

  John twisted his head to shake off the hand.

  “Get the fuck off me. Don’t touch me you wacko bastard.”

  Marion placed the hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s alright. I’m here to help.”

  John looked up wearily.

  “What? Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m a good friend. We’re going to get along fine.”

  John gave him a suspicious, desperate look.

  “My leg. Jesus Christ my leg.”

  Marion looked down at the knife stuck deep in the meat of John’s thigh. It was bleeding profusely, the stain already reaching the bottom of his pant leg. Marion smiled and slowly slid the glistening knife out of the wound. John wheezed.

  “There John, I need you to calm down.”

  “My leg, my fucking leg.”

  Marion breathed a little laugh. The din of the brain continued to grow.

  “I’ve been enjoying this world a little bit too much for you to end it so soon, John, so don’t worry, I’m going to get you out of here.”

  Marion began to unwrap the mess of ropes and cords that held John’s hands behind the post. Several of the dazed rioters scattered around them had managed to struggle to their knees and were shouting and babbling again at the low roar and red horror of the encroaching brain. The man who had skewered John’s leg was crawling his way towards the post. Marion looked over John’s shoulder and spotted him.

  “Hold on.”

  He reached over to John’s leg and pressed hard on the bleeding hole. John screamed, his head lolling and all the agitants rolled back on the ground and continued to moan.

  “You bastard.”

  Marion waved in a placating gesture and went back to the knots.

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  All the color was draining from John’s face.

  “Just- just get me out of here. I- I need to find my family.”

  Marion stopped. He moved his face directly in front of Johns.

  “Don’t start with that please.”

  John sagged down to his knees.

  “Help, help me out of here, I just… need to find them.”

  Marion kneeled and slapped him across the face.

  “Shut up.”

  “Danny and… and Mary, they’re waiting for me.”

  Marion slapped him again, leaving red marks across his stark white face.

  “Shut the fuck up, John.”

  Tears were streaming down John’s cheeks, and the black sadness came slithering into Marion’s mind again, coiling around his comfortable core of familiar anger. He punched John in the stomach and face wildly and suddenly. His voice rose shrilly.

  “I said shut the fuck up, John. I don’t give a shit about your family.”

  Blood seeped from John’s mouth and he coughed.

  “The divorce wasn’t fair.”

  “You shouldn’t care about your pathetic family.”

  “I only hit her once and she just…”

  The noise of the brain had risen to a deafening roar.

  “…took off like it was the end of the end of the fucking world.”

  Marion composed himself and pulled a small revolver out of his belt and pressed it against John’s forehead.

  “This isn’t fair to me John.”

  John whimpered.

  “I’ll never see them again.”

  John waved his hand around the landscape.

  “Why the fuck would you connect to trash like that, when you have a world like this?”

  John looked up, his one good eye bleary.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Jenna.”

  The Earth trembled and cracked.

  Marion sighed.

  “I love you. I don’t need anyone.”

  He fired.

  Marion’s head snapped back.

  He heaved as everything that had ever been John King disappeared in a flash and left him alone forever. His mind shriveled, recoiling from a sudden and profound absence of things it hadn’t realized it was already taking for granted. His vegetable of a personality rattled viciously around his hollow skull in its re-discovered isolation.

  The moment the bulle
t pierced John’s brain, its larger brother in the sky evaporated like a bad dream, and everything was still. The sun shined, the sky was blue again, and the scalding heat passed over the streets as a warm, gushing breeze, filling Marion’s nostrils and billowing through his shirt.

  He choked. A hideous gag wormed its way up his esophagus. He dropped the gun and squeezed his throat.

  “No.”

  A sob exploded from his mouth and tears burst from his eyes. He dropped to the ground and wept. He twisted and rolled, fetal and clenched as the buildings burned down to ashes.

  A day later he was still crying.

  A month later he was still crying.

  Years passed and his eyes still hadn’t dried.

  About the Author

  Christopher Bennett is a writer similar to the Blob, if the Blob ate books instead of people. He’s currently working on his BFA in creative writing and chilling in Florida, a sad swampy sanitarium that he loves oh so much.

  Contact the Author

  Christopher Bennett

  6553 Centerwalk Dr. Apt A

  Winter Park FL 32792

  616-570-6554

  chris33538@gmail.com