TWENTY-FIVE

WE’RE surrounded by a distilled essence of life. It howls against a dark nothingness from which it is nearly indistinguishable. There, but barely. The amorphous, boundless, bubbling blob of confusion slushes around like an ocean tide, filling open spaces, slapping against walls and doors. Al and I are already drenched in the stuff and seem no worse for wear, but I really don’t like the look of those undulating waves. Before they can touch us, I hoist Al onto what I hope is a table. Once I’m sure it’s not another death-ray platform, I hop up by her side.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, she clings to me. “Wade, what is it?”

Like prisoners suddenly granted parole, words escape me. “Uh…hmm. Let’s see. Uh…I’m going to go with an octopus the size of New Jersey trying to put itself together after being in a blender.”

Good a start as any. It’s pink, all pink. You already know that, but this isn’t the kind of pink you’d want for a bow on a birthday gift for a three-year-old girl. This is more like the pink you’d see in the lighter parts of a gore pile. Oily pustules rise and burst, releasing more of the same, but in a slightly darker pink. The dimmer parts try to form shapes along the surface. Pulpy tentacles briefly form, only to vanish with a hideous plop. A few manage distorted, complex squiggles, like a series of membranes trying to keep their shape, but failing. Somehow the hissing, bubbling, croaking, popping, and baying coalesces into a single voice:

“Father…father…”

Al grips my shoulder. “It must mean you.”

I whisper back. “That’s a leap. It’s probably speaking metaphorically, like to its creator, rather than to a literal, physically present father. I mean, we don’t even know if it can hear us.”

“Father…is that you?”

Smart-ass goo.

Al nudges me. “Go on. Talk to it.”

I shake my head. “I dunno. I just went on a very awkward date where I put myself out there, and things didn’t work out. Besides, what do you say to something that’s loony-bird crazy?”

“You’re asking me?” She raps her knuckles on my forehead like she’s knocking on a door. “You’re the one with the experience. How do you talk to all those voices in your head?”

Yeah, Wade. How do you?

Tell us! Please, Wade!

Inches beneath the platform, the viscous putrescence wobbles. “Father? Father?”

What the hell. “Yes…uh…son?”

“Father…why…are…we?”

Sure, start with the easy ones.

“Forgot…to use…protection…?”

“Does…our being…have…purpose?”

“Do…you…mean…?”

Al slaps me. “Stop imitating it! If it figures out you’re making fun of it, it might decide to eat us.”

I clear my throat. “Well, son, do you mean all beings, or just you?”

“Is…there…a difference?”

“Well, duh. You’re a big pile of goop made from melted monsters. Al’s a typical human being, and me—well, if you want that answer, you’re going to have to go back to the start and read the book.”

“Why?”

Kids reach an age where they love asking questions. Why’s the sky blue? Why this? Why that? Why did Mommy leave us for that guy with the beard? It’s a game. They don’t want to know the answer—they just figured out that no matter what you say, they can always ask, “Why?”

Luckily, there’s a standard answer my old man used on me all the time.

“Because I said so.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why?”

“Because…I said so.”

The liquid splashes against the platform. The voice gets louder.

“Say…something…else!”

Yeah, that used to drive me crazy, too. I know what Dad would do, but it’s not like I can use my belt on a big puddle. Before I can come up with a more satisfactory explanation for the existential nature of being (like, Why not?), it yowls piteously:

“Aghh! I…will…destroy…you!”

Al’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. “Wade, what’s it doing?”

“Not much. Really, Al, it’s a bunch of goo. It lurched up maybe half an inch, then fell back to bubbling. What can goo do to you other than get you gooey?”

“Rarrr!”

“But it sounds so...hurt and angry. What did it do that time?”

“Rarr!”

“The same, but it’s a little lower now. Basically, it’s draining away.”

I kneel down and put my face closer. “Who’s a big bad pile of goo? Come on. Who’s a big bad pile of goo?”

Al sighs. “Wade, don’t taunt the big bad pile of goo.”

I pull back. “Why not?”

“It’s just tacky.”

(That last one was for you Joss Whedon fans—paraphrased, of course, but what series, who said it, and can you name the episode?)

Al and I sit, and watch, and wait. Light from the globular ceiling lamps plays across the goo, forming weird crisscross lines on the rippling surface that almost remind me of sunset at a lake. It gets lower and lower until all that’s left is a series of puddles.

“Hm. Seven maids, seven mops, maybe half a year.”

Lewis Carroll?

Is he a maid?

All but gone, it gives itself one more go. “Must… hurt…you…”

I try not to laugh. “You’re staying pissed all the way down to the last drop, ain’t ya? Face facts: The only way you can hurt anyone is if they accidentally slip on you.”

“You’re…wrong…father…”

I want to chalk that up to a dramatic flourish from a dying life-form, but the bright lights that flash on one of the soggier consoles make it tough. The screen is way across the room, but even from here, I see monitor bars rising.

“Did you do that?” I ask.

No answer. Unless you call that farting noise from some of the remaining bubbles an answer.

I hop to the floor. As I slosh through the lingering goo for a better look at the terminal, it speaks in a diminishing whisper: “Ow….ow…ow…”

The closer I get to the console, the more I realize the puddles on it aren’t so random. They’re covering the controls. Somehow, it got itself together enough to drip onto the right keys and enter a few commands.

“What does this control, anyway? Crap!”

I get a gander at the screen: images of little doghouses, thirty occupied. Their biometrics are monitored, and about half are skyrocketing. The canine icons above them warp and grow.

“No! No, no, no! It’s the kennel!”

I thought they were sealed off. I thought they were safe. But I was wrong, terribly wrong. A dreadful din erupts from beyond the kennel doors.

“I am Xemnu!”

“I am Grogg!

“I am Zzutak!”

“I am the Titan!”

“I am Shzzzllzzzthzz!”

“I am Orrgo!”

“I am Rombu!”

“I am Fangu!”

“I am Droom!”

“I am Sserpo!”

“I am Monsteroso!”

There’s like four more, but I figure you get the idea.