On a soggy afternoon in late July, Ben Mosley lay on his bed and flipped through the pages of Carnage Corps #1 for what felt like the millionth time. The weather outside was most uncooperative for the wishes of a eleven-year-old boy—one of those lazy summer rains that lingered, and the comic had lost its luster hours ago. He looked at the cover and sighed. “Bucketloads of Brazen Action,” he read from a callout banner in the lower right corner. Even brazen action became boring after a while.
Ben rolled over on his stomach and thumbed to the back of the comic. Comic book ads were always fertile ground for some imaginative wandering. He scanned down the small blurbs promising x-ray vision and Mr. Universe’s muscles. One in particular reached out from the page and seized his attention with red ink.
FREE PET SQUID
Under the block letters, an address and a small black and white line drawing of a tentacled monster of the deep filled the rest of the coupon. Ben closed his eyes for a moment, and a smile sprouted on his thin lips. He leapt from the bed, squeezed his bush of brown hair under a ball cap, and grabbed the comic on his way out the door.
“Mom,” Ben called from the foot of the stairs, “can you drive me to Kinkos?”
The sun peeked from behind spent clouds the next morning, and Ben grabbed his Huffy from the garage after a quick breakfast. Fifteen folded copies of the squid coupon were stuffed in his cargo pockets; Ben thought of at least that many classmates that would eagerly send off for a tentacled companion.
He raced down the street and started his coupon delivery at his best friend’s house.
“Oh, hi Ben. Nick’s at baseball practice,” Mrs. Gould said as she opened the door.
“No problem, Mrs. Gould. Could you just leave this for him?” Ben handed her a folded piece of paper. “I’ll give him a call later today.” Ben hopped from the front porch, turned and shouted “thanks” before pulling out a handwritten list of addresses and marking through Nick’s with a black sharpie. He mounted his bike and pedaled to the next house on his list.
When he arrived home later that morning, he found a note from his mom:
Running errands. Back later. Lunch in ‘fridge.
Ben peeked in the refrigerator, spotted his ham and cheese on white bread on a small plate, sighed, and slammed the door. He needed an envelope and a stamp, and after rummaging through his mom’s desk, found both. Unfolding the last coupon on the kitchen table, Ben scribbled his own address in the appropriate spaced, addressed the envelope, and stuffed the coupon inside. He pushed the stamp in place, and put the precious communiqué in the mailbox.
The four to six weeks it took to receive his free pet squid seemed the longest weeks Ben had experienced to date. Each day he came home, tore open the mail box, and shrugged with disappointment when he only found junk mail for his mom. Even issues two and three of Carnage Corps only brightened his day a few notches—although the amount of said carnage increased in each issue.
Ben had survived two weeks of the sixth grade before he came home and found the slightly damp box on his porch. He checked the mailbox first, as usual, and turned to the house with sunken shoulders before spotting the brown package, clearly labeled “HANDLE WITH CARE: LIVE ANIMAL” in bold, block letters.
He ran to the porch, ripped off the strip of packing tape, and pulled out a cube of Styrofoam. Inside the sloshing container, a stringy grey squid, no bigger than Ben’s hand, floated in a dirty pool of water. The thing looked at him with its big, black eye. Ben’s mouth opened, and the word “cool” slipped out.
He rummaged through the box, found the “care and feeding of your new pet squid” instructions, and tossed the coupon book for Admiral Atlantic’s Crispy Calamari back in the package. “Hey Mom,” Ben called as he crashed into the house.
She was in the kitchen, watching one of those all-interview channels, when he came skidding through the door. Mrs. Mosley held up one hand, indicating she’d prefer to hear the rest of the current story before dealing with her very active son.
The host continued, “…so Mr. Wallace, you say the free squids are part of your sales strategy?”
A rather tan man whose hair was too dark for his age smiled at the host. “Well, sort of, yes. With Admiral Atlantic’s new Crispy Calamari, we want the youth of North America to feel comfortable with squid.” He flashed his fat teeth at the camera in another broad grin.
“Do you really believe kids are going to want to eat something that they have as pets in their homes? And are you aware, Mr. Wallace, that some have suggested your “pet squid” are actually genetically modified giant—”
Ben’s mom snapped off the TV. She shook her head and turned to her son. “What will they come up with next?” Then she spotted the container in his hands and frowned. “What, is that?”
“My new pet squid. It came today—I sent in the coupon from Carnage Corps.”
Mrs. Mosley’s eyes grew with surprise. “Squid?”
“Isn’t it cool?” He smiled, put on the big-brown eyes face, and asked, “Can we go to the pet store? The instructions say there’s some stuff we need, to make sure he has a happy home life…”
As with most novelties in a twelve-year-old’s life, the squid became part of the furniture within a few weeks of his arrival in the Mosley household. In fact, the squid’s novelty didn’t even the four to six weeks it took to receive after the coupon was whisked away.
On a quiet Saturday in early October, Mrs. Mosley stared at the tank for a good five minutes before making the decision to “set the thing free.” The tank was filthy, Ben hadn’t talked about his “cool” new pet since the day it arrived, and she found herself feeding it from the can of squid flakes each morning. Besides, it had grown—quite a good deal really—and if it grew much more, it wouldn’t fit down the toilet.
She hefted the tank into the bathroom that morning, titled it into the stool, and watched the pinkish-grey thing slide into the bowl. It stared at her with its big, black eye as she pulled the lever and sent it on its way.
The leaves ripened in October, snapped from the trees and became yard waste. Winter months vanished under hours of video games, snowball fights, and Ben’s first school dance. By mid-February, Ben—and all of his friends—were ready to explode. The first few days of Spring-like temperatures found them in a vacant lot across the street from Tony Souza’s house, playing a game of pick up baseball.
Ben cracked a fly ball toward the edge of the lot. The baseball slipped through some heavy weeds and lodged in the shadows of a drainage culvert that led into a black tubular extension of the city sewer.
“Way to go, Captain Lost-a-ball,” Tony, a scrawny, dark-haired bean-pole, hollered at Ben.
Nick, the only outfielder at the time, waved. “I’ll get it, no problem.” He started to jog toward the ditch.
“Don’t!”
Nick stopped, turned, and frowned at Tony’s fourth grade cousin, Manny as he waved his arms like rapid-fire semaphore.
“Don’t go in there.” Manny jogged to Nick’s side, and was soon joined by the other boys. “Last night,” he panted, “I saw…something.”
“Saw what, you little twerp?” Tony pushed his cousin. “His imagination,” Tony said, circling his head with one finger, making the universal sign for crazy.
“No. No, something big reached out of that tunnel last night. Like a snake or an octopus or something.” Manny’s eyes swelled. “I looked out the window when I couldn’t sleep.”
Nick shrugged. “Whatever. Look, I’m getting that ball back, all right?” He waded into the weeds, picking his way carefully as his head oscillated from side to side. The opening to the sewer drain was a few feet away, and he inched closer and closer, and then he was gone.
“Nick!” Ben shouted. He sprinted toward the spot of his friend’s disappearance.
“Help,” Nick muttered, lying on top of a matted pile of waist high weeds and grass. “Something has my leg.”
Ben moved in closer and grabbed one of Nick’s hands. He glanced up, catching sight of something long and dark whipping from the sewer grate. Tony flanked him, grasping the other hand. Both boys pulled, yanking their friend free. They tumbled backwards, up the slope and away from the ditch.
“What the hell…” Nick glanced down at his right foot, and it was naked—stripped of shoe and sock. A dark red mark, a little like a rope burn sprinkled with little circles, spiraled from his knee to his ankle. “It kinda hurts, guys,” he whimpered.
They helped Nick to his feet and ushered him across the street to Tony’s house. Everyone forgot about the ball lost in the ditch, and Manny started sleeping with the light on.
Ben’s mom was in the kitchen as usual, watching the all-news channel this time, when he came skidding through the door. She held up one hand, indicating she’d prefer to hear the rest of the current story before dealing with her very active son. Ben was used to this routine; he’d seen it before.
The talking head continued, “…and on to news of the weird. Margaret Matchwood of Peoria, Illinois had a strange run-in with an uninvited guest last week. She assumed the long, unexpected object in her toilet was a snake, so she called her local pest control professionals. Upon arrival, they actually removed the tentacle of a giant squid from her bathroom. Authorities have no…”
Mrs. Mosley snapped off the TV. She shook her head and turned to her son. “What will they come up with next?” Then she spotted the look on his face and frowned. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
Ben sat down on the steps leading from the front door. He dropped his head in his hands, and propped his elbows on his knees. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he spoke. “Mom, whatever happened to my pet squid?”
She rubbed her hands together, walked over, and joined Ben on the steps. “I flushed it sweetie. Last October. Sorry. You didn’t notice—”
“I think it just grabbed Nick at the lot.”
“That’s nonsense, sweetie. That squid is dead, probably died just after I flushed him.”
Nick shook his head. “I saw it, Mom. Something like it anyway. In the sewer today…it grabbed Nick and pulled him down.”
She thought for a moment, and her reassuring smile bled into a concerned frown. “Ben, sweetie, just how many of those squid coupons did you pass out?”
He shrugged. “I dunno, about fifteen I think.”
Mrs. Mosley lurched from the stairs and snatched the phone. “Tell me exactly who you gave them to, okay?”
A week passed before the heard the knock on the door. Ben and his mom were having dinner—something dumped into one casserole dish with plenty of noodles—when a heavy wrapping sounded from the entryway.
“I’ll get it,” Ben blurted as he rushed to the door.
A tall stranger in a wrinkled suit stood on their porch. “Hello, are you the man of the house?”
Ben shook his head.
“No, this is my son. I’m his mother,” Mrs. Mosley said, having slipped up behind Ben. “Can I help you?”
The stranger reached into his coat and produced a badge. “Yes ma’am. Arthur Hancock, EPA. We’re asking everybody in the neighborhood to stay away from their toilets for the next 48 hours.”
“What?”
“Minor, er, issue with the waste disposal system here in town. We have portable toilets stationed at each corner.” He pointed to the end of the street. “You might want to skip washing those dishes tonight, too. And forget about a shower.” He smiled.
“No, I meant: what is the EPA?”
His smile vanished. “Environmental Protection Agency,” he mumbled, before turning and marching to a black car flanked by two National Guard Humvees.
Ben snuck out of his house, joining Nick at Tony’s place in the morning. The vacant lot had been cordoned in the night, turning Tony’s neighborhood into a virtual demilitarized zone. National Guard troops scurried about wearing full combat fatigues. After mustering the appropriate courage, the boys strolled across the street to one perimeter sentry.
“What’s going on?” Tony asked, stretching his eyes to see past the barricades.
The soldier shrugged. “I’m not a liberty to say.”
Nick poked Ben and pulled him back a few steps. “They’re going into the sewer. Look.”
Ben’s gaze followed his finger. A flash of orange flame erupted from a group of soldiers, and the boys could smell something like burning diesel fuel. “Nick, they’ve got flamethrowers.” A smile grew across Ben’s lips, wishing he could sneak into the sewers with the men—it was something straight out of Carnage Corps #5, “Flames of Fury”. He backpedaled across the street. “C’mon, I want a front row seat.”
Ben and Nick grabbed their bikes and pedaled to Ben’s place, stopping only long enough to sneak an old crowbar and flashlight from the garage before scooting down the street to a storm drain. The iron grate was heavy enough, but with a little cooperation, the boys were able to pry it loose. An empty rectangular hole now stared at them from the middle of the gutter.
“I’m not too sure about this,” Nick took a few steps away. “Those Army guys looked pretty serious.”
Ben shook his head and scrunched his face at Nick’s error. “National Guard, dummy.”
“Well, whatever grabbed my leg was pretty serious.” He pulled up his pant leg. “It still hurts.”
“Be a chicken, then. I’m going in.” Ben squeezed himself through the opening and wriggled until he broke free, landing in a puddle of stagnant water. “Nasty!”
Nick’s face appeared in the rectangle of sky above him. “What, what’s nasty?”
“Just some brown water, you coming?”
Nick shook his head.
“Fine, whatever.” Ben glanced into the emptiness in either direction. Picking left, he clicked on the flashlight and stumbled after the dim yellow beam. He had to crouch in the tunnel, and his footfalls echoed with dull splashes in either direction.
He followed the tunnel forward for a distance, choosing to remain on the same path at the first few crossroads. The water now soaked halfway up his calves. Ben hesitated at the next intersection. The air became thick, musty, simply oozing with a rank, rotten odor. His dim flashlight beam eeked forward into the tunnel ahead, but a little splashing sound drew his attention to the right. He swallowed hard and swung the light in that direction.
The thing was gigantic, writhing wet and grey with what seemed like dozens of tentacles probing through the shadows toward Ben. One huge eye, a black disk on the side of the thing’s head, regarded the boy, and a singular moment of recognition passed between former pet and boy. Ben panicked and dropped the flashlight. It sputtered out with a dull fizzle. He dropped to the ground, half-swallowed by the murk, in search of his light.
Shouts echoed down the shaft behind the giant squid. Ben thought he could hear Nick’s voice along with some men. The squid wrapped his legs, yanking him toward its clanking beak, when the tunnel burst into a blinding ball of fire.
“No—stop!” Ben screamed.
The National Guard vanished from town within their 48 hour time frame. The portable toilets disappeared as quickly, and Agent Hancock of the EPA gave the sewer system the “thumbs up.”
A few weeks later, on a soggy afternoon in late March, Ben and his mother went to the movies, leaving the house empty. The kitchen table was empty too, save for three items: a clipping from the local paper, a flyer from church, and a dog-earred copy of Carnage Corps.
The article, cut from the business section of the local paper, read:
Squid CEO Indicted
WilhelmWallace, former chief executive of Atlantic Seafood, Inc. has been indicted on several counts of mail fraud and unlawful trafficking of dangerous and genetically modified animals. Mr. Wallace could not be reached for comment. His lawyer has issued a statement calling the charges “preposterous” and “akin to liable.” Sources indicate the squid, engineered for hardiness to aid in survival during transit, were part of a guerrilla marketing campaign for the Admiral Atlantic’s Crispy Calamari, a microwavable snack. Atlantic Seafood’s parent company, Global Business Dynamics, also owns the publisher of Carnage Corps, the comic book that originally featured the free pet squid coupons.
The flyer was for a church picnic:
St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church
1st Annual Seafood Roast
Featuring: Barbeque style calamari
March 29th – 5:00 to 8:00 PM
Come enjoy food and fellowship. All proceeds to benefit city sewer repair.
The kitchen window opened to the backyard, and through that window, just behind the house, one could see a large, inflatable pool. A large tentacle dangled over the edge of the pool, twitching slightly against the bright, primary-colored plastic.
Commentary:
This story was written for a very specific market, and that market is gone.
