Graveyard Shift

by M.L. Rio

Tuck, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, was always first. Beside him stood Hannah, who put her hood up at the first rustle of autumn and didn’t take it down again until May.

“But one minute he’s drinking his Guinness, quiet as a mouse”—he smiled, inexplicably, at Tuck—“the next he’s ranting and raving and smashing his head against the mirror in the men’s room.”

freaky, frondiferous doll. “It’s a mandrake,” Tuck told her. “Physicians like the Antonines used them as a sedative for amputations.” Saint Anthony stared down at them with mouth agape in speechless horror. “Is that what all that’s about?” Recovering from her shock somewhat, she directed the beam up at the severed hands and feet. “Yeah. Ignis sacer.” “Ignis what?” “Saint Anthony’s Fire. It was a sort of medieval epidemic. Caused gangrene and hallucinations and made people feel like they were being burned alive.”

“‘I collect spores, mold, and fungus,’” he said, nonsensically.

GB reference ??

A lot of small furry bodies with long spiderweb whiskers and scaly pink tails. Dozens of white furry bodies with little black hoods. Like a mass grave for tiny monks after some religious massacre. “Are those … rats?” “Too big to be mice,” Edie said. “What’s wrong with them?” They were all dead, stiff in the grip of rigor mortis, mouths gaping to show their sharp yellow teeth. Tuck had lived in more than his fair share of shitholes, was no stranger to the sight of dead rodents. But their eyes were wide open—each one frozen in that attitude of paralyzed surprise.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tuck glanced toward the alleyway where the gravedigger had disappeared. “Gathering information.” Another flash. Then a third. The screen illuminated her face from below as she flicked through the photos, as if she were about to tell a fireside ghost story. “All right, I’m sure you got their good side,” Tuck told her. “Would you knock it off?”

His footsteps were slightly uneven, with a hitch and a scrape, a hitch and a scrape. The man in the flesh emerged, dragging a shovel behind him.

He kicked out violently, but the rat’s claws had hooked into his jeans like Velcro. Edie elbowed him hard, elbowed him again when he didn’t stop squirming, and finally turned. Tuck’s tortured expression—face screwed up with effort as he tried not to whimper, straining as far as away from those needling claws as he could in the shadow of the headstone—made her look down at his knees and recoil. The rat was climbing his leg, climbing his body, nosing toward his groin with demented determination.

do they have saint Anthony's fire

The gravedigger looked down, noticed in the dim light of the bar the dirt under his fingernails, the dark residue of the soil pressed into the fine lines of his palms. He cleared his throat. “Pest control. Easier in these university buildings when they’re empty.”

Dr. Jekyll goes in. He’s in there a while. Somebody knocks on the door, and bang.” He smacked one hand on the bar, just to watch the gravedigger jump. “Mr. Hyde comes out. Howling. Howling like—I don’t know. Not a sound I’ve ever heard a human being make. Swinging at everyone and everything in swinging distance. Not just with his fists either—this guy was out for blood. Trying to sink his teeth in people.” The gravedigger swirled his drink around, tugged at his collar as it if were too tight.

Remember me?” He blinked, eyes streaming into his beard. “No,” he managed to say. “That’s annoying, I make a point not to be the sort of girl you forget in a hurry.” “No,” he gurgled again. That incandescent anger peeled her nerves apart like split ends. She could smell her own sweat, and his. “I’m one of your lab rats, Tom. I’m the ghost of lab rats past.” He went still, stopped struggling. Hannah blew a kiss in his ear. “Honey, do you remember me now?”

on anything, but lately she couldn’t help herself. Lately she’d been angry. “Is that what happened to the rats?” When Kinnan hesitated, she tightened the belt again. “No! Different dose—new formula—” She jerked the belt. “What happened to the rats, Tom?” He gurgled. Grunted. Talked faster. “—mycotoxins—attacked—the neocortex—but—” “Plain English, Tom. Some of us never finished college.” “—normative—social behavior—broke down—” “Broke down how?” “—aggression—hostility—cannibalism—”

“Before that. Other symptoms, other signs it’s progressing.” “—mycelial—growth—”

Edie's lump?

When her phone buzzed again, it wasn’t the Anchorites chat. Just Hannah, just her. How about breakfast in bed?

Okay queens

“I know it’s not your dream job, but you can pull a pint,” Theo told him. “You can learn to mix a drink. Shit, I bet Noah would let you do the mushrooms if you really need some fungus to get fired up about.” “And live where? Last time I checked, not a lot of bartenders were making enough to make rent around here.” “I’ve got a spare room. It’s not much, but it’s better than this.” “You can’t be serious.” “Like a heart attack, Tuck.” He couldn’t remember the last time Theo had called him Tuck—not Friar, not Churchmouse, just Tuck. They stared at each other, disheveled and exhausted, each clutching their coffee in quiet desperation. It hadn’t occurred to Tuck until just then that, despite his bustling bar, despite his animal magnetism, despite being such an obvious extrovert, maybe Theo kept coming back to the Anchorite because he was, in some bewildering way, lonely. Tuck cleared his throat.

Besties in the making <33

She’d tried every humidifier and white noise machine and meditation app invented, and still the most reliable way to achieve oblivion was vodka and Klonopin and raspy AM radio in a language she didn’t know.

She had a soft spot for Tamar, mushy and tender as a bruise on an overripe peach. She hated liking people.