Leftovers

a short horror story

by Bill Pate

The cold wind blew scraps of discarded food in circular motions near the trash dumpster. Jerry, the night dishwasher, kicked open the back door exiting from Critter’s kitchen, a very popular eatery on the southwest side of Portland. Dragging a large trash barrel behind him, heavily filled with the discarded remnants of food left behind by customer’s who could never eat all the food served them. That was one of the things that made Critter’s popular. They know how to fill a dinner plate.

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

Lifting the lid to an upright position, Jerry filled the trash, grunting as it was extremely heavy, turned it upside down and felt the weight lessen quickly. Dropping the empty barrel, Jerry was about to shut the lid, when he heard a strange noise. Jerry whipped his body around to see if someone might be behind him. There wasn’t anyone to see except for the trash dumpster. Turning to go back inside again, the same strange noise, almost like a grating sound, but it came from behind him again. Turning to face the dumpster, he realized it came from inside.

“Probably rats,” he mused. Grabbing the empty barrel, he started for the back door. “Before I go home tonight, I’ll get some of that rat poison the boss bought last week. If there are rats in the trash, I’ll throw some of that stuff in there and really give them something to chew on. Damn rats are the last thing the boss wants to hear about. Ain’t good for business.”

Two hours later, Jerry finished sweeping and mopping the kitchen floors as well as his own dishwashing area and placed the broom and mop in the storage area with the chemical supplies. Reaching up on the top shelf, Jerry grabbed a box marked ‘Toxil’, a heavy white substance designed to kill rats and mice once they nibbled on the grainy material.

“Have a safe night, Jerry. See you tomorrow.”

“Same to you Mr. Kenmore,” Jerry said to the night manager, who locked the back door as Jerry stepped into the alley. Jerry walked to the dumpster, raised the lid and threw in four blocks of the poison into each corner. Looking at the mixture of odors, Jerry smiled. “Eat all you can, while you can. It’ll be the last meal you munch on.”

As he was about to shut the lid and go home, he heard that grating sound again.

“Noisy little critter’s.” Closing the lid, Jerry started walking away, then changed his mind. Turning back, he decided to raise the lid to see if he could spot a rat scurrying around. The wind whipped harder around him, sending a shiver through his bones. “Feels like its going to snow,” he chillingly chattered.

Those were the last words he spoke.

Unable to scream, his face muffled, trying to pull away, gasping for air not found, Jerry was being smothered in all the garbage from the last two days. The corn, mashed potato’s, gravies and Critter’s ribs, took on a hazy, warped appearance. Jerry felt himself being lifted from the ground, legs kicking madly, helplessly. Jerry could feel wetness between his legs that felt wonderfully warm, but like the night, became bitterly cold.

Between the garbage being impaled onto his face, Jerry was able to have a brief final glimpse of his attacker. What he witnessed brought a sudden and violent implosion on his heart. Just as Jerry’s feet disappeared into the dumpster; he was dead.

The cold blustery wind picked up speed and caused the lid to slam shut by itself. Inside, it was dark, and the smell was terrible. It couldn’t be seen, but if you stood close by, you could hear grating sounds as Jerry’s arms, legs, and finally his head was devoured. The grating, tearing and chomping from inside the dark green metal continued for hours until the attacker was content and filled with its meal.

The wind beat against the walls of Critter’s, whistling between the cracks of man-made designs, and the cracks of the dumpster.

The attacker settled itself below the garbage and rested. The wind was finally the only thing heard.

The following morning, a motor grumbled as it lifted the dumpster in a high arcing sweep to empty the refuse from the past two days.

Inside, the attacker who dined on Jerry, never found again (not even the bones), sensed dangers it couldn’t yet understand. Pressing its brownish-greenish form against the inside of the metal walls, it watched through its thousand eyes, combined with its thousand suctioning mouths and feelers, watched the waste rumble into a larger garbage dumpster. Within a minute, the dumpster was replaced in almost the exact same spot. The attacker, after attaching itself to the walls, slid back to the center of the metal flooring, appearing to be nothing more than residue. It heard the larger dumpster’s sounds become fainter as it roared away until the sounds were gone completely.

In the early morning light, the attacker was alone. It waited to be fed tiny scraps until another, such as Jerry, would wander too closely and it would feast as it did last night. Last night was the best leftovers it ever had.

It was Friday night, nearly a full week after Jerry disappeared; the snow started falling earlier that day, 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 attacker had gained new life with all the scraps thrown inside.

When the dumpster first emptied, it felt weak after several hours and needed nourishment. The scraps provided that strength. The foul stench from the rotting food filled its slime-ridden form with new life.

It wasn’t just leftovers that gave it life. Add the chemicals to those leftovers: salt, pepper, sage, dill weed, mustard and especially monosodium-glutamate (MSG), a crystal-salt used to flavor foods that was also medically proven to be a cancer causing agent. In this case, MSG helped in the spawning of this strange, but deadly attacker.

On this wintry Friday night, an old man walked next to the dumpster long after Critter’s closed. He had no place to go and no one cared about his existence. Bundled in an old navy peacoat, a Giants baseball cap pulled over 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 sat on the snow covered ground next to the dumpster. Inside his coat, the old man reached in and pulled out a pint of brandy. Twisting off the lid, he took a heavy pull, feeling the heat from the brandy bring him some comfort from the freezing wind and wet snow.

Then he heard a noise coming from inside the dumpster. His first thought was as Jerry’s. “Rats. What the hell, too cold to be sitting here.” Standing, he took another swig of brandy, put it back in his coat pocket, and lifted the lid leading into the dumpster.

He started climbing inside.

He knew he would stink to high heaven in the morning, but tonight he would be warmer than if he stayed on the streets.

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 for a moment, he reached for the lid and closed it over himself as he began kneeling down. With the lid and himself halfway where each were supposed to be, that’s when he felt his right leg being jerked lower into the dumpster. The heavy pull caused him to let go of the lid and it slammed shut, putting him in complete darkness.

The old man’s thoughts ran in two’s. “Either it’s a very big ass rat, or somebody’s in here with me!” Just as those thoughts ran through his brain, he managed to scream once as he felt something cover his face and draw him lower.

The attacker’s slime.

When he felt the greasy, slimy film coat every part of his unwashed skin; his final thought was that this wasn’t man or beast. Before he died, before his eyes were sucked from him their sockets, he could see thousands of eyes and mouths, watching as tiny feelers ripped him apart, and this thing started dining on him; the old man’s last thought: INHUMAN.

The attacker dined on this body as it did Jerry’s. It sorted out its own pattern of ideas and sensed this leftover was 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 to a night of contentment. Hopefully, better than this one.

Saturday night brought nothing more except leftovers from inside Critter’s. The new dishwasher hadn’t come close enough for the attacker to grab, and had to settle with what was available.

The new dishwasher figured all the noises coming from inside were mice or rats, but as he said when he went home that night, “I don’t get that much to worry about getting rid of them. If the boss wants them dead, he can do it himself.”

Sunday night was more of the same. Once, the grating noise from inside, caught Rob, the new dishwasher’s attention, but he didn’t want to venture too close or even think about looking inside. He went back inside Critter’s after dumping the garbage and then went home.

The attacker wanted more of what it found to be great leftovers; humans. It also sensed that tonight it would be without again.

The hours passed and the attacker waited underneath all the garbage atop it, Waited and hoped (if it had emotion to hope) with a craving for fresh leftovers. When it appeared nothing would come into its lair, the attacker slithered to one corner to give itself rest.

Just past four in the morning, 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 their approach and groped upward in its own personal anticipation.

“How much, Crocker?”

“Same as before, Danny. Fifty a pop.”

Danny reached into his heavy coat pocket and gave Crocker five one-hundred dollar bills. In return, Crocker handed over a plastic bag with ten hits of acid. Taking the bag, Danny reached inside and popped one of the tabs of acid under his tongue. Within a couple minutes, he could feel his senses “coming alive”, as he would say.

“Good stuff, ain’t it, Danny.”

As Danny was about to speak, the attacker began its grinding noise, getting the attention of both men.

“What’s that?” asked Danny.

“How would I know? Probably just rats, maybe the wind blew something over, or some old drunken fart is sleeping it off in the garbage. If it’s rats, I got something for them. If it’s some old man in there, he’ll wet his pants when he sees this.” Reaching inside his parka, Crocker pulled out his Ruger P95, lightweight but deadly. He walked to the dumpster and raised the lid.

Crocker’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness, and pulled away from the fetid odor. “Smells like the inside of an outhouse, know what I mean, Danny.”

“Must be my ex-girlfriend in there,” Danny chortled.

“Maybe, but I don’t see her or anyone in here.” Crocker aimed his Ruger inside. “I think I see one of them rats.” Crocker fired three times, believing he killed a rat or two.

The attacker felt an object rip into its form but felt no pain; it only knew this leftover would be his. Moving up the side, Crocker lowered his arm and fired two more rounds.

Crocker’s face took a sudden twist to shocked surprise as he felt his hand, then his arm being dragged into the darkness. Danny watched as he took another tab of acid, seeing Crocker crawl into the dumpster. “You must be crazy, going in there just to kill a couple rats, man. C’mon, dude, let’s get outta here. It’s getting way to cold to be standing around here watching you get your jollies off dusting rats.”

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

Danny walked over to the edge and peered inside. His eyes widened in disbelief. There lay Crocker, or what was left of him, covered in a brown-greenish slime, being torn apart in small pieces, being devoured or disappearing before his very eyes.

“Damn, Crocker, this is some good stuff. I better slow down, dude. What I’m seeing can’t be happening!”

Backing up to catch his breath, thinking about what he had seen, trying not to throw up on himself, Danny walked back to the opening, looked inside again, thinking he was seeing things. This time he didn’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 are, come on out, dude. This ain’t funny, man.”

What he couldn’t find, found him. It wasn’t Crocker.

As Danny was being hauled inside, his last thought before he felt something sucking on his brain, “… this acid is too much, dude.”

The attacker sank back below, feeling great satisfaction as it felt the extra treat of a second leftover … two in one night.

If it could have smiled, it would.

Monday morning rolled around and with it came the motor as the trash dumpster was lifted high in the air and the attacker glued itself to the sides so it wouldn’t follow the path of the rest of the debris. When the dumpster was lowered, and the truck was gone, the attacker deposited itself in the middle of the metal floor and waited.

Monday afternoon, the lid was raised and the attacker felt water sprayed all over its mass. When it first heard the lid open, it prepared itself to begin feeding, but never expecting this.

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

The man holding the green tube disappeared, went behind the dumpster, bent over and turned a valve to an open position. Inside, the attacker watched as water flowed out a small hole and could feel itself being sluiced away with the water.

Suctioning itself against the walls, it was able to pull itself free, but the man came around to the front and sprayed more water, covering the sides as well as the bottom once again.

It felt itself being ripped away, and if its thousand mouths could have screamed, it would have brought down buildings. As it began to dribble through the opening, it laid on the hard packed snow.

After the man who hosed the inside was satisfied with the washing, he felt better knowing when the Board of Health showed up, he wouldn’t get any points taken away for having a sanitation problem. Walking to the rear of the dumpster, he saw what debris were flushed out and continued to wash it into the street where a small stream formed and the attacker was washed away until it fell through a storm drain and was gone from sight.

Later that afternoon, the Board of Health came by, inspected Critter’s, and gave the most popular eatery in the city a clean bill of health for the next ninety days.

The night was quiet except for the wind whistling through the cracks in the sidewalks, between the bricked walls of Critter’s, and the slight spaces around the dumpster.

Since the dumpster had been cleaned, five trash barrels had been dragged from the kitchen and dumped. Each barrel was full of discarded scraps of food left behind by customers who could never eat all the food served them. Critter’s knew how to fill a dinner plate.

It also contained salt, pepper, dill weed, mustard, as well as other spicy ingredients, and especially … MSG.

I would take another three weeks before it would happen again.

On the first night, there was a faint grating noise coming from within.

Waiting.

Two days later, cross town, at the home of Lisa Montgomery, the police were at her home investigating her sudden, if not mysterious disappearance.

The neighbors thought it strange. Usually, twice a day, she could be seen sitting on her front porch, snow or no snow, rain or shine, waving hello to the kids in the neighborhood, the passing mailman, or one of the neighbors to find out the latest gossip.

“She rarely leaves home,” said one neighbor.

“Usually she leaves her house twice a month when her kids come to take her out shopping or for a drive. She can’t drive, you know.”

Lisa Montgomery is eighty-seven and in a wheelchair.

The wheelchair was still in the house.

This one as well as eight other mysterious disappearances have the police baffled. No fingerprints, no blood, no nothing.

One officer, walking around the house, entered the kitchen, thinking maybe a large knife might be missing. Upon searching, he couldn’t see or find anything out of the ordinary.

Like the others, no blood. No signs of a struggle. “This is the damndest thing,” thought the officer.

While he stood in the kitchen, against the sink area, a rumbling from the pipes, like a grating sound could be heard.

The End