Filaria - Brent Hayward [70]
The moss. On Crystal’s recommendation, they had all begun eating the strange growth — some gobbling more than others, for they were hungry — since first coming across some, shortly after emerging from the slit in the shaft.
“Be wary,” Mereziah said, stopping in his tracks, looking down at the catwalk and mists far below. His belly rumbled. He cleared his throat. “Listen people, I cannot sanction consumption of this, uh, this matter.” He tried to shout but his voice sounded feeble. He turned, arms out. “I think that eating this plant is the reason why some of us are in such distress. And perhaps it’s the reason why I feel so . . .” He let his voice and the thought fade. Then to Crystal he urgently added, “Did she eat the most? When we found these plants previously? Crystal, is this some kind of drug?”
Crystal Max laughed. “Listen to yourself!” She bent to gather more of the tiny plants once more, which grew in dull green patches at the side of the catwalk. Though it looked like piles of damp dust, the moss, as Crystal had called it when she set eyes upon it, tasted surprisingly good. Still, consumption of the plant might just be the reason why his thoughts were so degraded, and why the large lady had gone insensate.
His gaze drifted across the smooth, inviting curves of Crystal’s twin buttocks. Lingering there. Her pants were torn and he saw a grimy patch of her pinkish flesh.
“Please,” he whined, squeezing his eyes shut to stave off temptation. “Stop.” He reached out, to grab her arm.
Crystal shrugged him away. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” Licking the powder off her grubby digits, she looked at Mereziah with a defiance that set his heart pounding.
Several others in the group, he saw, were also stooping to scrape at the catwalk.
“Wait!” Mereziah shouted, lifting both hands high over his head. “Wait! I have reason to believe that these tiny plants are the source of delusional thinking, of madness, of, of unhealthy arousal!”
He was soundly ignored.
A quiver of anxiety ran through him and he drew a deep breath. “Please!”
The large woman answered him with a renewed scream, rising in tone and volume to drown out his own echo before all sound suddenly ceased. Abrupt, complete: the silence was tremendous. Save for the ringing in his head. He stood, stunned.
“What happened?” he said, but he could not hear his own voice.
Crystal frowned at him, and as the world resumed its crashing noise, she yelled, “You don’t look so good!”
“Crystal,” he said weakly, “please . . .”
She took him by the arm. “You better sit down. You look green. You’re all worked up.” Turning to the others — most of whom, glassyeyed, were chewing — she said, “Listen up, people! We’re taking a break. Pops here needs to sit down. He’s not feeling well.”
“Crystal, I’m . . . fine?” But a jab of pain ripped down his left side and, for a moment, breath caught on jagged peaks it made in his chest. Looking at the lovely, dirt-smeared face of Crystal Max, he imagined for a second that it might be the last image he would ever see in this life, so he let himself be directed to an area where he could fold himself into a sitting position and close his tired eyes. Even though he could no longer see the others he knew they were eating, licking, swallowing that moss. No one had taken heed of his warning. Was it possible they followed him solely out of pity? Or to keep an eye on him, since he was obviously the weakest of the group? His uniform, his position as lift attendant, was a sham. Pain and humiliation was the price he paid for his selfish dreams. His job had been to serve. For the betterment of the world. Now, he was an embarrassment to the memories of his dear parents, a burden to the living.
Crystal, crouching, shook Mereziah gently. “You okay, old man? You’re breathing funny.”
“Yes,” he answered, opening his eyes. “I am all right.” He tried to get to his feet but Crystal gently held him down.
“Rest, old man, rest.”
Eventually, most of the discomfort ebbed from him. He began to feel marginally better.
The rest of