Flesh Rot

Spring in Winnipeg is just mud and wet garbage. The sun is too bright. The sky is too blue. My boots are completely ruined. I am standing outside the old Wellington building. The adults call it a heritage site. It is just big and grey and smells like wet pennies. My collar is too tight. My mom made me wear this dumb suit.

"It is a gala, Soben," she said before we left the house.

I hate that word. Gala. It sounds like something stuck in your throat.

Inside, the adults are wearing black robes over their fancy dresses and expensive suits. They call themselves the Cult of the Black Sycamore. They think I do not know what that means. I am twelve. I have the internet. It means they want to buy cheap houses on our street, paint them grey, and sell them for a million dollars. Also, they worship trees. Or maybe bugs. I am not entirely sure. My parents joined last month. My dad said it was good for his real estate business. My mom said it was good for her social network.

We walk through the heavy wooden doors. The hinges groan. The floor in the lobby is covered in black and white tiles. It looks like a giant chessboard. Some of the tiles are cracked. Thick, black dirt is packed into the cracks. There is a coat check lady behind a wooden counter. She has grey hair pulled back into a tight bun. She looks angry.

"Coats," she says.

My dad gives her his coat. My mom gives her her coat. I keep mine on.

"Take your jacket off, Soben," my mom says.

"I am cold," I say.

"You are inside. Take it off."

I take it off. My stomach feels sour. I hate being here. I hate the way the adults look at me. Like I am a smudge on a clean window.

We walk into the main hall. It is massive. The ceiling is so high up it makes my neck hurt to look at it. The ceiling is painted with faded pictures of farmers and wheat. But the paint is peeling. Flakes of old paint fall like dirty snow. Nobody seems to notice. There are heavy velvet curtains covering the tall windows. They block out the bright spring sun. The cult replaced the sun with little orange lightbulbs. It is too hot in here. My armpits are sweaty.

There are long tables covered in white cloths. The cloths have deep wrinkles in them. They are not ironed. People are standing around in little groups. They are holding tiny glasses filled with fizzy yellow liquid. They are laughing. It sounds like dogs barking. Loud, sharp, fake laughs.

"Ah, the Hendersons are here," my dad says.

He walks away. My mom walks away with him. They leave me by the food. This is fine. I like the food table. It is safe here. Adults ignore kids when they are eating.

I look at the table. It is a giant wooden board. It is the size of my bed. It is covered in food. But it is not normal food. It is adult food. They call it a charcuterie board. It is just adult lunchables, but weird. There are piles of crackers. Some are circles. Some are squares with little dark seeds baked into them. They look like bird feed. There is a giant block of yellow cheese with holes in it. There is a wedge of white cheese that smells exactly like dirty gym socks.

There is meat. Salami, my dad calls it. It is red with white chunks of fat. Someone folded the meat slices. They folded them so they look like little tight flowers.

"Why fold meat?" I whisper to myself.

"Because they have too much free time," a voice says.

I turn around. It is Konn. He is thirteen. He lives in the apartment building next to my house. He is wearing a grey hoodie. The zipper is broken. There is a dark grease stain right in the middle of his chest. Next to him is Harper. She is eleven. She is chewing gum. It smells like fake strawberries. She is wearing big black winter boots. The boots are covered in thick river mud.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"We smelled the rich people food," Konn says.

"We came through the loading dock," Harper says. "The security guard was asleep."

"You are going to get caught," I say.

"No we will not," Konn says. He reaches out. He grabs a whole meat rose. He shoves it into his mouth. He chews with his mouth open. "Needs crackers."

"Why is everyone wearing robes?" Harper asks. She picks up a tiny silver fork from the table. She pokes the smelly white cheese with it.

"They are gentrifying the neighborhood," I say.

"With robes?" Konn asks. He wipes his greasy fingers on his pants.

"Yeah. It is a cult thing. My dad says the robes help them connect with the earth. I think they just like playing dress-up."

Harper pulls a piece of cheese off her tiny silver fork. She eats it. She makes a sour face. "This tastes like feet."

"It is expensive feet," I say.

I look around the room. The adults are getting louder. Their faces are red. They are drinking a lot of the fizzy yellow water from the tall glasses.

Someone starts banging a spoon against a glass. Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound is sharp. It hurts my ears. The room gets quiet.

A woman steps up to a microphone at the front of the hall. It is Mrs. Gable. She owns the fancy coffee shop downtown. The one that charges eight dollars for a hot chocolate. She is wearing a black robe that has silver threads sewn into it. The threads catch the orange light.

"Welcome, brothers and sisters," Mrs. Gable says into the microphone. It screeches. I cover my ears. My teeth hurt from clenching them.

"These vibes are cooked," I say.

"Totally burnt," Konn agrees. He is eating the blue cheese now. He does not even look like he enjoys it. He just eats it because it is free.

"Tonight, we plant the seed," Mrs. Gable says. Her voice echoes in the big stone room. "The old city must rot, so the new city can grow. We bring the harvest."

The adults all raise their glasses.

"The harvest," they say together. It sounds creepy. Like a choir of robots.

Mr. Henderson is standing near us. He is sweating. His forehead is shiny under the warm lights. He raises his glass. He drinks the fizzy yellow water.

Then, he stops.

He drops the glass. It hits the floor. Crash. Tiny pieces of glass fly everywhere. Some of the yellow water splashes onto my shoe. It feels cold.

"Is he okay?" Harper asks. She stops chewing her strawberry gum.

Mr. Henderson grabs his face. His fingers dig into his cheeks. His skin is changing color. It turns grey. Then it turns green. Bright, shiny, spring-leaf green. He opens his mouth. He does not scream. A wet sound comes out. Like a heavy wet sponge being squeezed.

His nose gets big. It swells up. It looks like a green tomato.

Then it pops.

It is not blood. It is dust. A thick cloud of yellow dust shoots out of his face.

Then, the mushrooms grow. They push out of his skin. They are bright yellow and neon green. They look like the gross, weird fungi you find on dead logs in the woods. But they are growing on his face. They grow really fast. In five seconds, his whole head is a giant, fuzzy ball of bright mushrooms. He falls backward. He hits a table. A silver bowl of black olives falls on the floor. The olives roll everywhere.

I expect people to scream. I expect my mom to come grab me. But nobody screams.

Mrs. Gable smiles. "The bloom begins," she says into the microphone.

The other adults start clapping.

"Are they stupid?" Konn asks. "That guy's face just exploded into a salad."

"I do not think it is a trick," I say. My heart is beating really fast. I can feel it hitting my ribs. I want to run. But my legs feel heavy. Like they are filled with wet sand.

Another woman drops her glass. She grabs her neck. Her skin turns bright green. Mushrooms burst out of her ears. Bright pink ones this time. They look like coral from a fish tank.

"Okay, time to leave," Harper says. She drops her tiny silver fork.

More glasses drop. Crash. Crash. Crash.

The room is filling up with dust. Yellow dust. Pink dust. Green dust. It smells terrible. It smells like old gym socks and wet dirt mixed together. The dust floats in the hot air. It lands on the white tablecloths. It lands on the meat folded like roses.

"Cover your mouth!" I yell.

I pull the collar of my tight shirt up over my nose. Konn pulls his hoodie over his face. Harper blows a giant bubble of strawberry gum. It pops over her nose. She leaves the sticky pink film there.

The adults are not clapping anymore. The ones who are not growing mushrooms are starting to panic. They finally realize it is real. The magic trick is killing them.

My dad is running toward the front door. He pushes a lady out of the way. She falls on the hard tiles.

Mr. Henderson sits up. He is not Mr. Henderson anymore. He is just a walking pile of colorful mushrooms. He reaches out. He grabs my dad's leg. My dad yells. Mr. Henderson opens where his mouth used to be. A cloud of yellow spores shoots out. Right into my dad's face.

My dad stops yelling. He stands completely still. His face turns green.

"My dad," I say. My stomach turns all the way over. I feel sick.

"We cannot help him," Konn says. He grabs my arm. He pulls me backward. "We have to get out of here."

A lady with purple mushrooms growing out of her eyes stumbles toward us. She is wearing a fancy silver dress. Her arms are reaching out. Her fingernails are painted red.

"Get away!" Harper yells.

Harper grabs a heavy metal tray from the food table. It is covered in breadcrumbs. She swings it like a baseball bat. She hits the mushroom lady right in the head.

Clang.

The lady falls down. A bunch of purple mushrooms snap off and roll on the floor. They look like weird little rubber balls.

We run toward the kitchen doors. But Mrs. Gable blocks our way. She has a mask on. A heavy black gas mask. It covers her whole face. She holds a long, curved knife.

Two other cult members are with her. They have gas masks too. They grab Konn.

"Hey! Let go of me!" Konn yells. He kicks. His muddy boot hits a cult guy right in the shin.

The guy grunts. But he does not let go.

They grab Harper.

I back away. I bump into a small table. A giant silver bowl of meatballs is on a metal stand. Under the stand is a small tin can of fire. The blue gel is burning to keep the food hot.

"We need a sacrifice," Mrs. Gable says. Her voice sounds deep and muffled through the mask. "The parasite needs fresh blood to spread to the river."

"Let them go," I say. My voice shakes. I hate my voice right now.

"Bring the girl to the altar," Mrs. Gable says. She points the knife at Harper.

"Wait," one of the masked guys says. His plastic name tag says David. "Is that the blood dagger?"

Mrs. Gable looks at her knife. "Yes."

"Is it the gluten-free one?"

Mrs. Gable stops walking. "What?"

"The gluten-free blood dagger," David says. "The dark lord is celiac. We voted on this at the board meeting last Tuesday."

"This is the spelt dagger, David," Mrs. Gable says. She sounds very annoyed.

"Spelt has gluten!" David yells. "I told you! It was in the group chat!"

"It is an ancient relic, David! It does not matter!"

"It matters to my gut health!" David screams. "And the dark lord's gut health!"

"Are they seriously fighting about bread?" Konn asks. He is still struggling, but the guys holding him are distracted by the argument.

This is my chance. The silver bowl of meatballs is right next to me. The little can of blue fire is burning bright.

I push the bowl. It is incredibly heavy. The hot metal burns my hands. I ignore the pain. I push harder.

The bowl tips over.

A giant wave of brown gravy and little round meatballs spills all over the floor. It splashes directly onto Mrs. Gable's shoes.

"My suede boots!" she yells.

But that is not the worst part. The little can of blue fire tips over too. The blue gel spills out. It hits the carpet. The carpet in the Wellington building is very old. It is dry. It drinks the fire.

Whoosh.

The flames jump up. They are bright orange. They are loud. They crackle like a giant bag of potato chips being crushed under a boot.

"Fire!" David yells. He lets go of Harper. He starts patting his robe. His robe is not even on fire, but he is panicking.

The other guy lets go of Konn.

"Run!" I yell.

We run. We push past the fighting adults. We push past the wandering mushroom zombies. The smoke is getting thick. It smells like burning plastic and roasted meat. The meatballs are cooking on the burning carpet. The fire alarm starts ringing. It is deafening. It drills into my skull.

We hit the swinging wooden doors of the kitchen. We push through. The kitchen is totally empty. The caterers already ran away. Smart.

We run past giant metal sinks. We run past giant silver ovens. We hit the back door. The loading dock. We burst outside into the spring night.

The cold air hits my face. It feels amazing. It is wet and cold and smells like mud. Not dust. Not gym socks. Just good, dirty Winnipeg spring mud.

We scramble down the alley. We jump over deep puddles of melted snow. We run all the way down to the riverbank.

The Assiniboine River is right there. It is fast. The water is brown and full of white chunks of broken ice. It sounds angry as it rushes past the muddy banks.

We stop. We are panting. My chest burns. I bend over and put my hands on my knees. Konn falls onto his back in the thick mud. He does not even care about getting his hoodie dirty. Harper peels the sticky strawberry gum off her nose.

We look back at the Wellington building. It is glowing. Bright orange light pours out of the tall glass windows. The roof is smoking. The fire alarms echo off the other buildings.

"Do you think they got out?" Harper asks. She sounds tired.

"My parents are in there," I say quietly.

I think about my dad. His green face. The yellow dust. My stomach tightens. It feels like a cold, heavy rock is sitting inside me.

I watch the thick black smoke rise into the dark sky. But the smoke is not just black. There are little green sparkles in it. Tiny floating lights. Spores.

The wind blows. A strong, cold spring wind off the water. It blows the smoke toward the river. The green sparkles float down. They drift over the rushing brown water.

I watch them fall. Did they hit the water? I squint. It is too dark to tell.

"Did you see that?" Konn asks. He is sitting up now.

"Yeah," I say.

I look at my hands. They are covered in dried gravy and wet mud. The sirens get louder in the distance. The city is waking up to the fire. But the river just keeps moving, dark and fast, carrying whatever fell into it far away. I wipe my hands on my pants. We just sit there in the mud, watching the giant grey building burn down.