Chapter 1

Seven o’clock. Morning. That’s what the nightstand clock told me. I stared at the ceiling and reminded myself of the time by counting each s qecond as they ticked to the heartbeat strumming on my eardrums.

7:00:01. 7:00:02. 7:00:03. 7:00:04. 7:00:05. 7:00:06…

My forehead throbbed, and I palmed it with both hands. The monotony kept my eyes open, but it was painful.

7:01:23. 7:01:24. 7:01:25…

The thunderstorm birthed a crack in the ceiling I hadn’t noticed before. Dark patches grew around it like malignant cancer, and the moisture welled and dripped onto the floor. It was out of tune and didn’t time with the beats. It was annoying.

7:03:32. 7:03:33. 7:03:35… 7:04:36…

I lost count after 200.

I lurched into the bathroom and caught myself on the edge of the sink. I waited, with my head drooped over the bowl, for the icy floor to warm my feet before I attempted to be alive. After I peeled back my eyelids with a thumb and forefinger, I tried to gaze into the mirror but struggled to find an image through the layer of gunk that caulked my eyeballs. It was probably for the best. Spotty and mangled hair, bloodshot eyes, canker sores, breath that could kill the undead—I couldn’t stand to think of it. It’s depressing to realize that even your own body didn’t respect you. The feeling was mutual.

The eye-gunk crumbled in flakes when I brought the effort to dig them out. “All right, guy, I know that you hate me, and I hate you. But we’re in it for the long haul, you son of a bitch, so we mind as well make it work out,” I grumbled to the ogre in the mirror. Goddamn was he an ugly fucker.

I fished through the crowd of bottles in the cabinet underneath the sink, shucking them out one-by-one until I found it: my flask of effervescent mouthwash. I uncorked it and drank in with my head tilted up to savor the sensation of the green liquid cauterizing the morning aftertaste. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff, hits the spot good. I brought out the best bubblies on the worst days. It made the hurt and pain of life go away in a day’s worth of burning spearmint.

I left the mouthwash to foam and swirl down the drain and stumbled to the kitchen.

My stomach howled and screamed at me like a spoiled brat nearing the candy aisle of a supermarket, and I listened to it. Oh sure, I knew the fucking bag of backed-up acids and mucus would like nothing more than to hurl breakfast back out just to be a little cocksucker. But damn it, the bastard wanted to be fed, and I was obliged to indulge it. You obey your body, full stop. Unfortunately, your body is never obligated to return in kind.

I reached for the refrigerator. “Just some protein, Lyle. Just get some protein into your body, wake up, and make those bastards at Summit happy.”

My foot slipped and my body, reaching beyond its center of gravity, gave way, and my hands pained red after I slapped them against the counter. I grasped it for dear life and steadied myself from the fall. The foot that slipped felt like it was standing in mud. I bent it up and scooped the goop off my soles. The residue from the mess clung to my hands when I shook it off, and the sludge burrowed between my toes and refused to evacuate. As if triggered on cue, something dripped into my hair in plops. The goo drenched through my hair, and I struggled from clawing my scalp off. My stomach stopped complaining.

I abandoned the wastelands of the kitchen for the safety of the living room, not taking the time to catch my breath from the revulsion. Ah, the dearest living room—the last refuge of man. But something felt wrong. It looked fine at a glance, but nature birthed eyes to deceive. My feet knew the truth when the carpeting hissed like a mushy sponge as they sulked across it. The fibers couldn’t contain the water and formed foot-shaped ponds after my feet lifted from the carpet. A bone-chilling gust blew through the room, and I ducked my head into the neck of my shirt to shield myself from the morning’s spittle.

Confused, I turned up and expected to discover that the storm had torn off the roof, but it was intact. I examined the room and, on closer inspection, found an open window allowing in remnants of the storm. With a sigh, I stepped over the planters scuttled from the sill, closed the window, and then slumped onto the couch. As I leaned against the cushions, I sopped my foot into the carpet to clean the goop off the soles.

“What a horrible night,” I mumbled. Sad for me and horrible for my apartment. Poor thing didn’t stand a chance against the maelstrom from pulverizing it into bits. It couldn’t withstand the onslaught of the elements as they violated its kitchen even though no windows were in that room. It writhed in agony as the wind drenched the living room with torrential fury even though the window was closed last night. Yes, my poor place was no match for nature’s elements.

Come to think of it, something didn’t seem right.

Not yet ready to consider issues of logic, my head throbbed at the perplexity and forced itself between my knees. My brain frazzled and only allowed me to admire my carpet. Synthetic blue fibers woven in curt stubbles, like the kind you find in an office room except more inhospitable. It looked nice as long as you didn’t have to step in it. Though, I had to admit those three-toed footprints were a nice decorative feature.

Three-toed footprints?

There they were: three-toed and partially webbed imprints waterlogged in pools against the carpeting. Like a lizard’s almost.

Just like a lizard.

Lizard.

Son of a bitch.