It had started innocently enough—a couple of butt burps that had made him chuckle because they sounded like hiccups. They didn’t smell, and they were nearly silent. Just a few little indicators that his gut was working.
That had been roughly an hour ago, and Branch would have parted with his left nut if it would alleviate the attack he was having right now.
The first to go was the lack of smell. He’d been driving for thirty minutes with the windows wide open and it wasn’t doing much good. The car was nearing its saturation point for malodor, and Branch was concerned that he’d have to spring for a full detail before he returned the rental.
The foul smell was an amalgamation of a bunch of different odors: shit, mildew, roadkill, all fighting a deathmatch for supremacy. Roadkill was on top at the moment, and Branch had gagged a couple of times on the stench. It was so rank that he could taste it on his tongue when he made the mistake of breathing through his mouth. The mere act of thinking about the smell brought on another spasm at the back of his throat, and he nearly drove off the road when that happened.
The smell was small potatoes when the pressure started. It also started small at first—little cramps, more long and drawn-out anus announcements, and then the sickening pressure against his sphincter. Every bump frightened him because the O-ring of his bowels had started to give way.
He glanced out the window to try and take his mind off the discomfort. He grimaced when he saw the sign.
Rest Stop 50 Miles.
He wouldn’t make it a fifth of that distance in his current condition, and he started calculating the possibilities.
Do nothing: You’ll guarantee that you’ll be paying a hefty fine when you turn the car back in.
Shit in something: What? The torn to-go bag? The empty medium drink cup? My carry-on?
Pull off and do it on the side of the road: The road he was on was not desolate; he had passed several vehicles going in the opposite direction, and he saw someone following him in the rearview. Plus, the shoulder was very narrow and parts of it were under repair. And then there was the question of what to do with what he did. He still lacked something to contain it.
Pull off next to a field and use a bush: Yeah, right. Branch could just see the headlines. City slicker busted on private property using Old MacDonald’s back forty as an outhouse. He wasn’t looking forward to fines, community service, or maybe even jail time.
Branch shifted in the driver’s seat. He released a long and smelly exit exclamation that sounded like a large balloon deflating. His eyes widened as he felt something else escape.
He didn’t relax but snuck a hand behind him and down the waistband of the drawstrings he’d worn for comfort on the flight. It came back clean.
“Whew, that was a close one,” he exclaimed. But he also knew that the next one would undo the dike, and he couldn’t stick a finger in it to stop the leak.
Branch frantically looked from side to side, hoping to find something, anything. He’d gladly take his chances behind a bush at this point.
Another gut gurgle surged through his bowels. Somehow the dam still held.
Branch was at the breaking point; the next one would release the kraken of feces.
And then, like a beckoning pinup, there it was. Branch nearly skidded into it getting off the road.
It was a porta potty, looking the worse for wear, covered with graffiti and cracks, its door flopping in the wake of passing cars.
And it was just what the doctor ordered.
Branch slid out carefully and started to waddle towards his savior, carefully undoing the drawstrings so he could allow for a quick exit with no splashes. Every step brought another tuchus trumpet solo, and by the time he’d reached the door and stepped inside, it felt like the ass brass section had joined in.
He pushed his pants and boxer briefs down as he pulled the door shut. Miraculously, the latch still worked. He didn’t even take the time to look at the seat; he dropped onto it and let loose.
It seemed endless, a horrific unleashing like a firehose; Branch swore the gusher was filling the catchment to overflowing. Every time he tried to stand the torrent got worse. And the smell, something out of smell-o-vision horror, like a garbage dump after a flood. He normally would have filed this experience for sharing with his buddies over cigars, beer, and bottom bleats judged for length, tonal qualities, and, of course, readings on the smell-o-meter.
Not this time. Branch imagined that this was how a diabolical gas chamber would work. He wasn’t even sure if he’d dare get back in the car because the odor clung to him. He wiped his nose and scowled. His hand smelled like he’d been using it for a strainer, vainly searching for something precious that he’d accidentally swallowed.
The evacuation was endless; every attempt to reach for the little bit of toilet paper that was left brought another spasm and a sound-effect-laden stream. The contents went from solid to chunky liquid, and Branch thought the air had filled with noxious nanobites, swirling like no-see-ums looking for something to feast on.
Relief was slow in coming, but it did come. Branch figured that he was going to have to sacrifice his boxer briefs to get clean. But first, he used the toilet paper. It shredded on his first wipe, coating the tips of his fingers with a sickening slickness.
“Ugh, shit.” Branch grimaced as he stood and dropped the paper in the toilet. He raised his hand, expecting to see something he didn’t want to.
He did, but it was not what he expected. And then the pain hit.
He watched in horror as his fingers slowly dissolved, bones and all. He screamed and immediately felt something strange in his mouth and nostrils. He used his other hand to wipe his nose, and it came away bloody; he choked on a flood of coppery tasting liquid sliding down his throat.
The deep breath that he took to try and collect himself exposed his lungs to the microscopic horrors. They went to work, and soon Branch was drowning in his own blood and watching the rest of his body dissolve. It was unmercifully long before he died, and the processing of what was left of him just added to the trapped odor in the porta potty. Something unhooked the latch, and the door swung open again.
But the odor, and the nanoparticles that nourished it, nestled into hiding places and waited for another person in need. There was always someone.
***
Sheriff Grimes and Deputy Royal scanned the road ahead in search of the abandoned car. Someone headed west had mentioned the sedan standing with a door ajar on the side of the road near mile marker one hundred thirty-six.“You can’t miss it; it’s near a porta pot; helluva place for one of those. Damn glad I didn’t have to stop. Smell just going by it was ‘bout like to kill me.”
“What did he expect, Sheriff? An unattended shitter that’s been sitting there for God knows how long unserviced? Shouldn’t even bother trying to clean it. Probably so saturated with the smell that…”
“Hush up, Royal. I don’t need the commentary.” Grimes’s voice was muffled by the face mask he wore. Grimes was fanatical about any sorts of germs; he carried special gloves with hand sanitizer on the inside, always wore long sleeves even in the harshest of summers, and duct taped the ends of his shirtsleeves and pants to keep from getting nicked or splashed with something that could make him sick. The mask over his nose and mouth was military grade; he’d lost his wife during the pandemic, and his fanaticism about cleanliness had only intensified after that.
The edge in his voice signaled that he wanted nothing to do with this particular assignment. He was only out on this call because he was down two deputies due to a multicar pile up ten miles east of town.
“Sorry, sheriff, didn’t quite get all of that; hey, is that the car?”
Grimes saw the sedan parked partway off the shoulder, a blue porta john with an open door sitting sentry. When Grimes pulled up behind the car he noticed pitting on the finish.
That’s strange, he thought. Report was it was a brand-new model. That one looks like it’s been gone at with a belt sander.
“Sheriff, that’s not a new car by any definition,” Royal said as he unclipped his safety belt. He grabbed the mic and called it in.
“Ahh, dispatch, this is car zero niner. We’re at the location, but the car isn’t as described. It looks like it’s been sitting out in the sun for years. That’s right, faded paint job, external abrasions, pitting. Yes, there’s a porta pot here, and it is the exact mile marker. Okay, we’re gonna need a tow truck. Thanks, out.” He stuck the mic back on its cradle and glanced at the sheriff.
His superior was looking intently at the inside of the porta john. Royal noticed it too. A shoe on its side, a pair of pants pillowed on the floor, flecks of something indistinguishable on the wall.
“Where’s the driver?” Royal asked.
“You have any ideas?” answered Grimes. The sheriff gripped the steering wheel like it was a handhold to keep him from falling.
“Not a one, so we have a description of the driver of the rental?”
Grimes reached up and pulled a folded piece of paper from the visor; when unfolded, it revealed a copy of the renter’s driver’s license.
“Alexander Branch,” Royal read. “Male, Caucasian, six-one, no vision impairment, from Missouri. Any idea why he’s here?”
“Probably business somewhere if he was driving a rental.” Grimes answered. Royal saw the sheriff’s chest rising and falling quickly, as if he were upset about something.
“Sheriff, are you all right? You’re almost hyperventilating.”
“I’m just getting myself settled down, taking in the scene as a whole, making mental notes.” Grimes’s voice sounded a little high-pitched.
“I’ll go and take a look at the porta pot.” Royal opened his door and started to step out.
“Wear a damn mask!” Grimes screeched. Royal jumped and hit his head on the door frame.
“Dammit, Sheriff, you just about made me knock myself out cold.” Royal was going to say more, but he started coughing when he inhaled. “Damn, it’s like a mass grave here that’s been covered with a ton of cow shit.” Royal slid out of the car, shut the door, and walked toward the porta pot with the front of his uniform shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth.
Grimes was frozen in terror as he saw the deputy near the blue plastic outhouse. He watched Royal reach the threshold and lean inside.
Grimes screamed. Royal’s body stiffened and started jittering. A cloud of something like gnats swarmed him. Grimes cried out again and threw the car into gear.
Royal seemed to be dissolving to vapor from the top of his head down. He hammered at his face uselessly, each blow dislodging a chunk of bloody flesh. Grimes watched in horror as Royal stumbled toward the cruiser.
Grimes floored the gas and found that he was moving in reverse; before he could brake, the rear of the car hit Royal.
Royal’s body disintegrated in a bloody shower that covered the back windshield. An eye splattered against the glass and stuck there like a sunny-side-up egg. Grimes shifted the car and peeled out onto the road, trailing bits and pieces of his deputy in the viscous fluid.
He U-turned and roared back toward town, mercifully avoiding seeing Royal’s body shrink to nothing, leaving the uniform, boots, and mirrored sunglasses in a heap on the ground. The fetid swarm hovered above the leavings and floated back into its blue hiding place.
***
Pam Knox, the portly dispatcher, scooted her rolling chair across the floor to grab the mic on the console next to the switchboard. She’d gotten a strange, garbled message from Grimes.“Say again, Sheriff; I didn’t get all of that.”
Static, and then silence.
She thumbed the mic again. “Sheriff, repeat message. It was unintelligible.”
Still nothing. She was startled by screeching tires and a loud thump outside the substation.
Raising herself slowly from the chair, Pam padded to the front door on aching feet. She gasped.
Grimes’s cruiser had hit one of the parking barriers, the front end spewing steam from the crushed radiator. Grimes emerged from a deployed airbag and began working his way out of the front seat. Pam pushed her way out the door to offer help.
“Stay away! Possible biohazard contamination! Get on the horn with Hazardous Materials in Sandstone!” Grimes was halfway out of the car, his hands held high.
“What do you mean, Sheriff? Where’s Royal?” Pam stared as Grimes extricated himself and got a safe distance from the car. He started to remove his clothing.
“Got to burn these…pull the building firehose out here…find the bleach and bring it to me!”
Pam was flummoxed, not knowing what to do first and seeing her boss drop trou and underwear in the parking lot. He kicked off his boots and used his feet to lower the socks. Neither one of them noticed the small cloud slowly forming over the back of the cruiser.
Pam stood in shock, ogling her boss’s body, which had occupied a good bit of her private fantasies. Grimes noticed her noticing, and screamed, half in fear, the other half in anger.
“Get your shit together, Pam! I gave you orders!”
“Uh, sorry sir, I’m on it.” She caught a whiff of something rank, like the drunk tank after a busy night. The toilet always overflowed on nights like that, and it usually fell to Pam to do the cleanup.
She backed into the substation, not noticing the small cloud that followed her in. She quickly found the bleach and grabbed the nozzle of the firehose to pull it along. On her way out, she passed through the cloud. When she got to the door, she wrinkled her nose.
“Who farted?” She grimaced as she pushed her way through the door.
Grimes sat on the hot asphalt in a fetal position, facing the door. He stood when Pam appeared.
“Throw me the bleach!” he yelled.
Pam did and waved her hand in front of her nose.
Grimes saw the gesture and stopped raising the bottle. “Pam, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. Got a whiff of something like passed gas…” She stopped when she felt something trickle down her cheek and raised a hand to wipe her face. It came away slick with something. She pulled her hand away and they both screamed.
The viscous liquid on her hand was a bloody mix of skin, eyelashes, and ocular fluid. Grimes watched in horror as the dispatcher dropped to her knees, shrieking. Pam collapsed when she saw her hand dissolve.
Grimes upended the bottle of bleach over his head and shut his eyes and mouth tightly as the caustic cascade scoured him. He shook his body like a soaked dog and inched toward the firehose, coaxing it away from Pam’s liquefying remains. He pulled it close, grabbed it, and turned on the valve.
He got nothing. He’d have to go inside the station to turn it on. He took the first step forward and then smelled the same odor from before. Like a pile of turds left to fester in the desert. He felt a burning pain in one of his feet. When he looked down, he saw the last of it dissolve. He tried to get his balance, but fell face-first into Pam’s liquefied remains.
It didn’t take long for his body to join hers. The cloud of nanites swirled as new creations joined it, using the sustenance to self-replicate. The mass was soon the size of a flailing man-figure, and it used the air currents to find its way toward the rest of the town.
***
“It’s doing exactly what we projected, just faster,” the lieutenant remarked as readouts unspooled on the large viewing screens at the front of the room.“Yes, the programming for self-replication upon eating was definitely a nice touch.” The uniformed colonel nodded. He turned to the two scientists: a man in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, and a woman in a smart business suit and Gucci pumps.
“How soon can we corral the nanobites and pack them into a bomb?”
“We’ve already sent the retrieval team to get the hive,” the woman said with a slight accent the colonel placed as Eastern European. “Once we have the hive, we can start loading them into the delivery devices.”
“What about the swarm that found its way into that town?” the colonel asked, fearing a public relations nightmare.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt answered in a privileged New England accent. “We’ve got vacuum drones crisscrossing the town as we speak. The new swarm was a lot more volatile than the others; they seem to have superseded the programming and are hunting for sport.”
The colonel smiled. “I like it. The more vicious and voracious they are, the better. Those bastards will never know what hit them.”
He continued, “It is rather ironic that their world will end in neither fire and ice nor groans and whimpers. Horrible vermin, they will die in the smell of their own waste.” He began laughing maniacally.
He was interrupted by a loud Brrrrraaap!
He had just finished asking, “Who farted?” when the newest swarm enveloped all of them.
They failed to appreciate the real irony—that they had dealt it.
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