Leftovers

The wind was cold as it blew scraps of discarded food in circular motions near the trash dumpster. Jerry, the night dishwasher, kicked open the back door exiting Critter’s kitchen; a popular restaurant on the Southwest side of Portland.

Jerry dragged a large trash barrel behind him filled with discarded remnants of food left behind by customers who could never eat all the food served them. That was one of the things that made Critter’s popular; they knew how to fill a plate.

No one could ever say they didn’t get what they paid for at Critter’s.

Turning left, Jerry dragged the trash barrel to the dumpster and for as cold as the night was, Jerry could feel a slashing line of sweat roll down his back.

Jerry had always been a hard worker. Ask him to do something, and it would get done. He even looked for things to do no one else thought about doing. Jerry was a very loyal employee and it paid off for him. Jerry was the highest paid dishwasher in the city.

Jerry slid the dumpster door open, then grimaced as he lifted the heavy trash barrel with both hands, turned it upside down and felt the weight begin to lessen. In a matter of seconds, he dropped the barrel to the ground, Jerry was about to slide the dumpster door closed when he heard a strange noise.

Jerry whipped his body around to see if someone might have been behind him. There wasn’t anyone or any one thing to see except for the dumpster. Turning to go back inside, he heard the same strange sound, like sandpaper across wood only louder.

Walking back and reopening the dumpster door, Jerry took a quick peek inside just to make sure no one was inside. Wouldn’t be the first time a derelict or some old bum would be found in one of these things.

People have been found; especially during the winter season more so when all the shelters were “packed tight, asshole to bellybutton,” as Jerry would say.

But he couldn’t see a body. Alive or dead.

“Probably rats,” he mused.

Grabbing the empty trash barrel, he headed for the back door leading into the kitchen, and out of the cold night air.

I think before I go home tonight, I’ll get some of that rat poison the boss bought last week. If rats are in the garbage, I’ll throw’em some of that stuff in there and really give them bastards something to chew on. Damn rats are the last thing the boss wants to hear about. Ain’t good for business.”

An hour after closing time, Jerry had dumped the trash one last time and had finished sweeping and mopping the kitchen floors as well as his own dishwashing area. He replaced the broom and mop in the storage room which held a variety of chemical and cleaning compounds.

Reaching the top shelf, Jerry grabbed a box marked Toxil; a heavy, chalky white substance designed to kill rats and mice once they nibbled on the grainy material. Supposedly they would be dead within minutes.

“And if that don’t do it, I got me a scattergun in the closet that’ll fix their ass!” Jerry grinned and chuckled softly.

The night manager came to the back door to let Jerry out, so he could lock up and go home himself. They were the last two people in Critter’s.

“Be careful out there tonight, Jerry. See you tomorrow night.”

“Same to you, Mr. Beaumont.”

Jerry was out quickly, and Mr. Beaumont, just as quickly, pulled the door closed and Jerry heard the sound of the lock kicking in.

Jerry went right to the dumpster, raised the large lid and threw in four two-inch square blocks of Toxil into each corner. Climbing up, he looked into the mixture of food, almost gagging on the odor rising up, but smiled. “Eat all you can, while you can, you nasty sonsabitches. It’ll be the last thing you munch on.”

As he was about to climb down and close the lid and walk home, he heard that same grating noise, as if it was coming from the middle where most of the trash sat in a widening pile.

“Noisy bunch of little critters.” Closing the lid, Jerry started walking home, then changed his mind. Turning back, he decided to raise the lid to see if he could spot a rat scurrying about. The wind picked up tempo and the temperature seemed to drop another five degrees. Combined, it sent a shiver through his body that seemed to wrap tightly to his bones.

“Feels like it’s gonna snow.”

Those were the last words he spoke.

From within the dumpster, something reached up and attached itself to Jerry’s face.

Unable to scream and doubtful anyone was within hearing distance, Jerry tried to pull away, gasping for air while he was being smothered in all the garbage from the last two days.

The corn, mashed potatoes, gravies, and Critter’s ribs and chicken; some of the very best food in town, now took on a warped, hazy appearance. Jerry felt himself being lifted away from the dumpster, his legs kicking wildly, helplessly. He could feel the wetness between his legs that for a brief moment felt wonderfully warm, but like the night, became bitterly cold, then, forgotten.

Between all the garbage he was being pulled down into, some of which impaled his eyes, nose, ears and mouth, Jerry caught a brief glimpse of his attacker, and wished he hadn’t.

What he witnessed brought on a sudden and violent implosion to his heart. Jerry was only thirty-one.

Just as Jerry’s feet disappeared into the dumpster, he was dead.

The cold and blustery wind picked up speed and caused the lid to slam shut by itself. It sounded like a gun being fired but no one heard it.

Inside, it was dark, dank, and the smell was atrocious.

The grating, tearing apart and chomping sound from inside the dark green metal dumpster continued for hours until the attacker, or whatever it was, was content with its meal.

The wind never stopped, beating against the walls of Critter’s, whistling between the cracks of the man-made design, the length of the alleyway, and through the cracks in the dumpster.

The attacker settled itself below the garbage and rested.

The wind was all that could be heard.

__________

The following morning, the snow stopped and the wind nothing more than a cold breeze, a motor grumbled as it lifted the dumpster in a high-arching sweep to empty the refuse from the last two days.

Inside, the attacker still remained who had killed Jerry (who would never be found, not even the bones), had sensed danger it couldn’t fully understand. Pressing its brownish-green form against the insides of the metal wall, watching through its thousand eyes, combined with its thousand suctioning mouths and feelers; watched the waste tumble into a much larger dumpster. In another minute the dumpster was replaced almost in the exact spot.

The attacker, after attaching itself to the walls, began to slide down to the middle of the metal floor and appeared to be nothing more than leftover residue.

It heard the larger garbage dumpster’s sound become fainter and fainter as it roared away to another destination, another pick up.

In the early morning light, the attacker was alone. It lay dormant, waiting to be fed tiny scraps, until another meal, such as Jerry, would wander in too closely and it would feast as it did last night.

Last night was the best leftovers it ever had.

__________

It was another Friday night, nearly a full week since Jerry had disappeared. The snow started falling earlier that morning, sticking like glue, piling higher with each snowflake. It would be Monday before the dumpster would be emptied again but the attacker didn’t know or care. Inside the dumpster, the attacker had gained new life with all the scraps thrown inside.

Inside Critter’s, waitresses were running around inside a packed house (as always), taking customer’s orders, rushing to get the orders into the kitchen and making sure each customer received something to drink. Not one customer could say a bad thing about the service or the food. Critter’s was the most popular restaurant in town.

Outside, the attacker waited.

When the dumpster was first emptied, it felt weak during the first few hours and required nourishment. The scraps thrown in provided that strength. The foul stench from the rotting food filled its slime-riddled form with new life, and if possible, a purpose.

But it wasn’t only the leftovers that gave it life. Add the chemicals on those leftovers. The same chemicals the cooks in critter’s kitchen used to prepare the best food in town.

Salt, pepper, sage, dill weed, Cajun spices, hot sauces, dry mustard, and especially, monosodium-glutamate, better known as MSG, a crystal-salt to flavor foods, and which has been medically proven, if taken and used to extremes, to be a cancer-causing agent.

In this case, MSG helped in the spawning of this strange deadly attacker.

On this wintry Friday night, while Critter’s was packed, and the food served just the way you like it, an old man stumbled into the alleyway leading to Critter’s backdoor.

He banged on it several times until someone opened it and he asked if there were any bits of food he could have as he was broke, tired, hungry and drunk. One of the bus boys who opened the door looked around, found a couple of ribs and some fruit and put them in a bag and tossed it to the old man. The bum took the bag and sat behind the dumpster where the wind wasn’t so bad.

After he filled himself, he stood up and walked about five blocks to a shelter run by a church group. When he arrived, he was told there were no beds or space available. The place was packed with the homeless. The attendant on duty gave him an address of another shelter but it was four miles away and at his age (79), he’d never make it. He bundled up as best he could and trudged his way back into a cold, brutal night.

After wandering aimlessly, sometimes finding stairwells and doorways a brief respite from the chilling wind, he again came across the same alleyway leading to critter’s back door. Only now, Critter’s was closed.

He had nowhere to go and no one cared if he lived or died was his way of thinking.

Bundled up in an old Navy peacoat, a Giants baseball cap pulled down to his ears; his body covered with three shirts and two pair of pants, the knees worn away from misuse and age; his feet covered by old, nearly bottomless tennis shoes, the old man reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a pint of brandy, half empty. Twisting the lid off, he took a long pull, feeling the heat from the alcohol bring him some minor comfort from the freezing wind and wet heavy snow.

Then he heard a noise coming from inside the dumpster, or was it just the wind? He heard it again.

His thoughts were exactly like Jerry’s.

“Rats. What the hell. Too cold to standing out here.”

Standing, he took another long swig of brandy, put it back in his pocket and lifted the lid. And started climbing inside.

He knew he would stink to high heaven in the morning, but tonight he would be warmer than if he had stayed on the streets. Besides, come morning he could walk over to Brandywine Center, get a shower, fresh clothes, a free breakfast and all the coffee he could drink. Then he would go from there to Maytown Development, grab a free lunch and either read, watch television (Dr. Phil and the news like clockwork), or sleep until they closed at six.

Sometimes a caseworker would be there to try and help you get back on track and get a fresh start in life. Hell, old Andy, you’re 79. Ain’t no new tracks out there for me.

After six though, the object was getting shelter before eight or all the places were packed to the rafters like tonight.

The only reason he missed his chance tonight was because he ran into a few drinking buddies (not really drinking buddies but they had booze).

As he hoisted himself up and over the side, the odors had already filtered into his stuffed breathing passages. He shivered more from the smell than from the cold.

Standing knee-deep in the garbage, he reached for the lid and closed it over himself as he began finding as comfortable a spot to lay down as he could. As he was settling in, that’s when the old man felt his right leg being jerked lower in the dumpster. The harsh pull both surprised and scared him. It was too dark to see what it was. A rat maybe?

The old man’s thoughts ran in two’s.

Either that’s a really big ass rat, or somebody’s in here with me! Just as those thoughts ran through his head, he managed one scream as he felt something covering his face.

The attacker’s slime.

When he felt the greasy, slime-filled mass saturate every part of his unwashed skin, his final thought was that it was neither man nor beast.

Before he died, which was quickly; before his eyes were squeezed from their sockets, he briefly saw its thousand eyes, its thousand mouths, and its thousand tiny feelers that acted as scalpels, quickly ripping him apart into tiny pieces, and this thing started dining on his flesh, the old man’s last thought: INHUMAN!

The attacker dined as he did with Jerry.

It sorted out its own pattern of ideas and sensed this leftover not as enjoyable as the first one. Nevertheless, nothing was left of the old man except for a half-empty bottle of brandy.

The attacker stretched its distorted mass. Its edges bubbling under all the other leftovers and settled down for a night of contentment.

It wondered what other leftovers it would have on future nights.

Hopefully, better than this one.

__________

Saturday night brought nothing except more leftovers from inside Critter’s.

The new dishwasher (“just call me, J.J!”), hadn’t yet come close enough for the attacker to grab and it had to settle for what was available.

J.J. had figured all the noises coming from inside were from mice or rats, but as he had said before he went home that night, “I don’t get paid that much to worry about getting rid of them. If the boss wants them dead, he can kill them himself for all I care.”

Sunday night was more of the same. Once, the grating noises caught his attention when taking out the trash, but good old J.J. didn’t get any closer than dumping the trash barrel and had no desire to look inside. He went back inside Critter’s and after closing time and cleaning up, he went home.

The attacker wanted more of what it found to be great leftovers, and somehow figured out the meal was called humans. It forlornly decided it would be without his favorite meal again.

The hours passed, and the attacker waited beneath all the garbage covering his mammoth self. Waited and hoped (if it had such an emotion), with an intense craving for fresh leftovers. When it appeared, nothing would come into its lair, the attacker lay dormant and slowly fed itself on what was available.

Just past four in the morning, perhaps the coldest night of the year, two men, one in his mid-twenties, the other, late thirties, walked briskly into the alley next to the dumpster.

Inside, the attacker heard the commotion and slowly slithered upward to better hear them talking in rapid tones of excitement.

“Shit, Crocker, it’s a cold fucker out here.”

“No shit, Sherlock. That’s why it’s called winter.”

“Funny, but I’m not laughing. So how much, Crocker?”

“Same as before, Danny. Twenty-five a pop.”

Danny reached underneath his heavy coat, pulled out a roll of bills and peeled two one-hundred-dollar bills and handed it to Crocker.

In return, Crocker dug down in his own coat and pulled out a plastic bag, reached inside and handed Danny eight hits of acid.

“Ya know, Danny, I can get more anytime you need, just say the word, and anything else for that matter. Just say the word and I’m there.”

Taking the acid, Danny never said a word. He just put seven in his coat pocket and the other one he unwrapped the cellophane and put the acid under his tongue. Within a minute, he could feel his senses coming alive.

“Good stuff, ain’t it Danny.”

As Danny was about to say “fuckin’-a,” the attacker began its grating noise getting the attention of both men.

“What was that?” asked Danny.

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe rats. Maybe the damn wind blew something over or some drunken shit is sleeping it off in the garbage. If it’s rats, I got something for their ass. If it’s some old man, he’ll piss his pants when he sees this.”

Reaching behind his coat, Crocker pulled out his best friend, Mr. Saturday Night Special, walked over to the dumpster and raised the lid, then climbed up and looked inside.

Crocker’s eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness and at first, he pulled away from the fetid odor.

“Danny, it smells like the inside of an outhouse in there. Know what I mean?”

“Must be my ex-old-lady in there,” laughed Danny.

“Maybe, but I don’t see her or anyone else in here.”

Crocker aimed his gun inside. “I think I see me a rat!” Crocker fired three times, believing he killed a rat or two.

The attacker felt the metal rip through its form but didn’t feel any pain (it didn’t know what pain was supposed to feel like), but it knew this leftover would soon be his. As it moved up along the sides, Crocker lowered his arm and fired two more rounds.

Crocker’s face took on an unexpected look of shocked surprise as he felt his hand, then his arm, followed by the rest of him being dragged into the dumpster.

Danny watched as he took another hit of acid, watching what looked like to him, Crocker crawling into the dumpster.

“You must be crazy as hell going in there just to kill a few rats, dude. Let’s get the fuck outta here, Crocker. It’s getting way too fucking cold to be standing around watching you get your jollies off dusting rats.”

Crocker couldn’t respond even if he wanted to. He was already dead.

Danny walked over to the dumpster, climbed up and peered inside. His eyes widened in disbelief. There was no Crocker. Where did he go?

“Hey man, if you can hear me, get your ass out from under all this garbage and let’s get the hell outta here!”

No answer.

All he could see was a greenish-brown sort of film slowly bubbling and the, for the briefest of seconds, Danny saw what was left of Crocker; a portion of his face being ripped apart, shredded, and being devoured and then Crocker just disappeared.

“Damn, Crocker, this acid is some strong shit, man. I better slow down on it, cause what I’m seeing, I ain’t believing!”

Backing away to catch his breath, thinking about what he had just seen, trying not to throw up on himself, Danny shook his head, looked inside only closer this time, thinking it was the acid playing tricks with his eyes.

This time he couldn’t see Crocker at all. Danny reached down and sifted through the top layer of trash.

“I knew I was seeing things. Hey, Crocker! Wherever you’re hiding, come on out, man. Why are you trying to scare me?”

What he didn’t find, something else found him, and we know it wasn’t Crocker.

As it was Danny’s turn to be hauled inside, his final thought before he felt something sucking at his brains, “This acid is way too much.”

The attacker sank back to the bottom, feeling great satisfaction (if it could feel that sensation), as if it felt the extra treat of a second leftover.

A bonus.

If it could have smiled, it would.

__________

Monday morning rolled around and with it came the motor as the trash dumpster was once again lifted high in the air and the attacker glued itself to the sides, so it wouldn’t follow the path the rest of the debris.

When the dumpster was lowered, and the truck was gone, the attacker once again resting in the center of the dumpster simply waited for more leftovers.

Monday afternoon, the lid was raised, and the attacker felt water being sprayed all over its mass. When it heard the top opening, it started to prepare itself to begin feeding, but wasn’t expecting this.

Staring upward through its thousand eyes, it saw a man holding a green tube with water pouring from the tip, cleaning away the odor that had built up over the last three months. It was three months ago the attacker first felt signs of life.

The man sprayed the floor and walls at least a good twenty minutes, then disappeared and went behind the dumpster, bent down and turn a valve to an open position.

Inside, the attacker watched as water flowed out of a small hole and it could feel itself being slowly sluiced away along with the water.

Trying to suction itself with its thousand feelers against the inside walls, it was able to pull itself free, but the man came back to the front and began spraying more water causing it to lose its grip.

It felt itself being ripped away from the metal walls. If the thousand mouths could have screamed, it would have brought down buildings. As it began to slide through the opening, it eventually laid itself out on clumps of wet icy snow.

After the man finished hosing off the inside and satisfied with the wash job, he felt better in knowing when the Board of Health inspectors showed up, he wouldn’t get any points taken away for any sanitation problems. His kitchen and dining area were already spotless.

Walking to the rear of the dumpster, he saw what debris was flushed out and continued to wash the remains into the street where a small stream formed, and the attacker was washed away until it fell from a storm drain and was gone from sight.

Later that same afternoon, the Board of Health showed up, inspected Critter’s, the most popular restaurant in the city, and gave Critter’s a clean bill of health for the next three months.

They never bothered looking at the dumpster area, but the owner could never be too careful. He had a reputation to uphold.

__________

The night was quiet except for the wind whistling through the cracks in the sidewalks as well as along the brick walls of Critter’s, and the spaces around the dumpster.

Since the dumpster had been cleaned, five trash barrels had been dragged from the kitchen and emptied. Each barrel filled with discarded food left behind by customers who could never eat all the food piled high on their plates. That was one of the things that made Critter’s so popular. They knew how to fill a plate.

The trash also included salt, pepper, dill weed, dry mustard, various sauces, as well as other spicy ingredients, and especially monosodium-glutamate: MSG.

It would take three months before it would start over again.

That same night, if you listened closely, a faint grating sound could be heard.

It was waiting.

__________

Two days later, crosstown, at the home of a Mrs. Margaret Montgomery, two police cars as well as a detective were there investigating her sudden and mysterious disappearance.

The neighbors thought it strange. Usually twice a day you would see her on her front porch, snow or no snow, rain or shine; waving hello to the kids as they went to and came back from school. The same wave and greeting to the passing mailman, or at neighbors, and maybe find out the latest gossip from them.

“She hardly ever leaves home,” said one neighbor.

“She might leave her house like twice a month when her daughter or son come over to take her shopping or out to eat, or maybe even for just a drive. She can’t drive, you know,” said another neighbor.

The detective knew now.

He also knew Margret Montgomery is eighty-seven and in a wheelchair.

The wheelchair is still in the house.

There were no signs of forced entry, nothing to indicate a struggle. This was a puzzle, but the forensic unit would be there shortly to dust for prints, and hopefully come up with something to possibly target a suspect other than her kids.

One of the officers entered the kitchen, spotted a knife rack, but saw all the slots were filled. There was nothing out of place except it was in front of the sink where they found the wheelchair.

No blood. No signs of violence.

“Strange,” thought the officer. “You would think there would be something. Then again, what kind of struggle could an old woman put up anyway.”

He was facing the kitchen window, looking out onto a small backyard recently mowed; when he heard a gurgling, almost grating sound coming from the pipes below the sink.

It stared up, waiting.