Mandibles Read online

  Dr. Ruiz peeked his head into the room. "I just gave Mr. Davidson the Novocain. I think he sat on one of the needles, so when he's numb, you steal his wallet, yes?"

  "Sure thing," said Roberta, giving him a mock salute.

  "Good, good, we need the money. Too many people brushing too well. Bad for business." Dr. Ruiz winked at her. "See you at the root canal."

  "Oooooh, my favorite! Save a good spot for me."

  "I will. Bring popcorn," Dr. Ruiz said as he left.

  Smiling, Roberta took off her gloves and dropped them into the wastebasket. Since his five grandchildren were visiting from Arizona, Dr. Ruiz was even more cheerful than usual. He was going to take them to Universal Studios' Islands of Adventure over the long weekend and had even invited Roberta to tag along, probably to watch the youngest two children, while Dr. Ruiz took the older ones on ferocious roller coasters. It sounded like fun, but once the temperature passed the ninety-degree mark, standing outside in long lines lost a great deal of its allure. Besides, she already had plans.

  She'd only gone out with Tony once, but he was pleasant enough and certainly worth a second date. And he was black, so maybe her parents would get over their conniption fit. Two months ago, she'd dated a white guy and they hadn't spoken to her since. They never much cared for the idea of her working for a Hispanic, either. Her parents probably wouldn't mind if she ran off with some bone-through-the-nose cannibal as long as she was dating within her own race.

  Her friends often told her that somebody in her late twenties shouldn't be concerned with what her parents thought of her boyfriends, but Roberta couldn't help it. She wasn't about to change her dating habits to suit them, but their opinions certainly mattered to her, even the blatantly stupid ones.

  As she walked out of the room, Agnes set down her can of root beer and waved her over. "Mr. and Mrs. Taylor just called at the last minute to cancel their appointments," she said, covering her mouth as she yawned. "They were pretty mad that we're not going to be open tomorrow."

  "Weren't they just coming in for tooth whitening?" Roberta asked.

  "Yeah, but they needed it for their son's wedding on Saturday. Evidently the whole event is going to be ruined because of us."

  "Well, there are lots of dentists in Tampa, I'm sure that somehow their son's wedding will be saved from disaster. What're your plans for this weekend?"

  Agnes yawned again. "Sleeping. Studying."

  She was fifty-two years old, but had gone back to school and started taking night classes after her divorce last year. Roberta admired her ambition, even if the instances of oversleeping and being late for work were becoming a bit too frequent. "Sounds like a good plan."

  "Nah, wild sex would be a good plan, but I'll probably have to be happy with sleeping and studying."

  Roberta gave her a pat on the shoulder then walked back to the room with Dr. Ruiz and his patient, Zachary Davidson. Zachary was forty, well tanned from outdoor work, and ruggedly handsome. He wore an orange Buccaneers tee shirt. He'd been in three times this month, and Roberta couldn't quite figure out how much of his curmudgeonly nature was an act.

  "Numb yet?" she asked.

  "Gettin' there," Zachary said in his cigarette-ravaged voice. "Hey, did you see that show on the Discovery Channel last night? The one about mummies?"

  Roberta shook her head. "I don't have cable."

  "You don't need cable. A guy sold me this descrambler thing, lets me pick up all the satellite TV signals I want, and I don't have to pay some damn cable company every month. Those cable companies, they screw you over every which way they can. I tried it for a month, they didn't even send me a bill, just a note that said 'Bend Over.'"

  "Aren't you worried about getting caught?"

  "Hell no. Satellite signals come through the air, right? Ain't nobody tellin' me what I can or can't do with the air on my own property."

  "A good point," said Dr. Ruiz.

  "Did you see the mummy thing?" Zachary asked him.

  "No. My grandchildren are visiting. Nothing but cartoons."

  "Oh. That sucks. Anyway, they were showin' these mummies and how this guy made his own mummy, just like the Egyptians did. It was freaky. I've got a few people I'd like to mummify while they're still alive, but that's another story. Like that guy who does those lawyer commercials, you know him?"

  "I might," said Roberta.

  "Yeah, you know him. Loud guy. Got that stuff in his hair. I wouldn't trust him to get me out of a jaywalkin' ticket. But I guess people call him, or he wouldn't be able to afford TV commercials. People just got no common sense these days."

  "Maybe another shot will numb you more quickly," said Dr. Ruiz.

  Zachary chuckled. "I'm just playin' around. Except for that damn lawyer. Whoa, look at that!" He pointed at the floor near his feet and sat up in the chair.

  Roberta didn't see anything. "What was it?"

  "A roach, I think."

  "Are you sure?" asked Roberta, crouching down.

  "It kind of looked like an ant, but it was too big. I hope it didn't crawl over anything you're goin' to put in my mouth."

  Roberta glanced around the floor. "I don't see it. I'm sure it wasn't a roach."

  "Well, I saw somethin', unless you slipped a little bonus juice in my Novocain. You may want to get this place fumigated."

  "We keep it very sanitary in here," Dr. Ruiz assured him.

  "Oh, don't worry, I trust you," said Zachary. "Just lettin' you know that you might have a roach problem. I can recommend a good guy to take care of it, if you want. You've gotta watch his ass to make sure he don't rip you off as far as the cost, but he'll get rid of those things, I promise you."

  "I know somebody," said Dr. Ruiz. "Now just take a deep breath, relax, and we'll get started."

  * * *

  *-CHAPTER TWO-*

  "Do you think they'll come back?" Patricia Ketchum asked, nervously scratching her forearm.

  Her husband, Joe, pulled the curtain aside a bit and peeked outside. "They're long gone. There's nothing to worry about."

  "Are you sure? What if they come back and we don't hear them in time?"

  "Do you honestly think we won't hear them?"

  "We might not. And the lock isn't working, remember?"

  Joe kissed her gently on the lips. "Relax. We'll be fine. I promise."

  "But think of what would happen if -- "

  Joe put his hand over her mouth. "It takes twenty minutes to walk to the lake, so even if the kids decide not to go swimming, we've still got forty minutes. But we're wasting time. Let's hurry up and get naked."

  He removed his hand from her mouth and kissed her again, this time with passion. She responded, putting her arms around him, but her eyes kept darting back to the door of the camper, as if expecting the kids to burst in at any second.

  Joe pulled away. "Quit looking at the door," he said.

  "But what if -- ?"

  "Look, if they catch us in the act, I'll personally drive them to each and every appointment with their psychiatrist, okay?"

  "It's just that -- "

  "Sweetie, I'm not sure if you realize this or not, but we have very, very loud children. We'll hear them coming."

  "I know, but -- "

  "The danger is not in us getting caught, but in Andy never coming back because Michelle pushed him into a swamp. We'll be lucky if this camping trip doesn't end with one of them impaling the other with a flaming marshmallow-on-a-stick. We'll have plenty of notice."

  "Yeah, but -- "

  "Don't talk."

  "But -- "

  "Don't talk."

  "Joe -- "

  "If you say one more word I'm breaking out the bondage equipment and we'll screw those kids up for life. I'll do it. Twenty years from now they'll be blubbering to the other convicts about Mommy's ball gag."

  Patricia smiled. "You don't have a ball gag."

  "You don't know that."

  "We'll be quiet, right?"

  "Of course." Joe began
to lift Patricia's tee shirt.

  "I should leave the shirt on, just in case we need to get dressed quickly."

  "How on earth did we ever make a second baby?"

  "Your parents took Michelle for the weekend that one time, remember?"

  "Yes, I remember," Joe said with a sigh. "Okay, the shirt stays on, but I'm not penetrating you through those shorts."

  "You don't have to be crude."

  "I said penetrate! That's the least crude description there is! That's what a doctor would say, for God's sake!"

  Patricia glanced back at the door. "I think I hear the kids!"

  "You don't hear the kids."

  "I do!"

  "You're wasting valuable penetration time."

  "What if they -- ?"

  "Here, I'll help you." He knelt down, unzipped her shorts, and pulled them down to her ankles. She lifted her feet and he removed them completely.

  "Make sure they're within reach," Patricia said.

  Moments later, they were on the bed. Joe nibbled on her ear as he thrust into her. "I love you."

  "Do you think we're rocking the camper too much?"

  Joe began to thrust harder. "Shhhh."

  "I think I hear the kids!"

  "You don't hear the kids," Joe assured her, picking up the pace even more.

  "What if -- ?"

  Joe began to thrust as hard as he could. That did it. Patricia closed her eyes and began to moan softly. "Ooooohhhh God."

  "Ooooooohhhhh," Joe agreed.

  They continued rocking the camper and moaning for another few seconds, until suddenly Joe let out a sharp cry of pain.

  Patricia opened her eyes as he stopped thrusting. "What's wrong?"

  "Ow, damn! I did something to my back."

  "Are you okay?"

  "I can't move!"

  "What do you mean, you can't move?"

  "I mean I can't move! I hurt my back!"

  Then Patricia gasped. "Oh, shit, I hear Michelle!"

  "Are you serious?"

  "Yes, of course I'm serious! Get off me!"

  "I can't!"

  Michelle's voice was getting closer as she called out "Mommy!" over and over, clearly in tears.

  "Joe, you have to get off of me!" Patricia said, her voice on the verge of total panic.

  Joe pushed himself up, forcing himself not to scream as agonizing pain shot through his back. Patricia immediately scooted out from under him, causing Joe to lose his balance and fall off the narrow bed onto the floor.

  "Joe! Are you okay?"

  "Dead, actually."

  "Get dressed! Hurry!" Patricia stepped over him and began to put on her shorts.

  "Just throw a blanket over my corpse."

  As Patricia hurriedly finished getting dressed, Joe realized that his back no longer hurt. The fall must have worked like a chiropractor. Maybe he'd suggest that technique the next time Patricia had a headache.

  "Mommy!" wailed Michelle, right outside the camper door.

  "Don't come in here, honey!" Patricia called out.

  Joe sat up, grabbed a pillow, and set it on his lap just as the door flew open. But Patricia quickly scooped their ten year-old daughter into her arms and left the camper before the pillow or the nakedness it was guarding could be glimpsed. Joe tossed the pillow aside, thankful that it was Patricia's and not his, and then stood up and began to put on his clothes.

  Oh well. At least he'd had a little bit of sex.

  He stepped out of the cabin, where Patricia was trying to console Michelle. "What happened?" he asked.

  "Andy's in some kind of trouble," Patricia explained.

  Michelle sobbed and nodded to show her agreement.

  "Was he playing with those fireworks like I told him not to?" asked Joe.

  Michelle shook her head.

  "Where is he?"

  The little girl tried to answer, but by now she was sobbing with such intensity that she couldn't speak.

  "Can you take us to him?" asked Joe, feeling like he was trying to communicate with Lassie.

  Michelle nodded.

  "Good. Let us throw on our shoes and we'll go get your little brother."

  * * * *

  They jogged down the path toward the lake for about five minutes, but then Michelle directed them off on a side trail through the woods. The children had been given very specific instructions not to leave the main path, and Joe could see a nice padded-out lecture in their future.

  He'd purposely picked this campsite because it was way out in the boondocks and hardly anybody ever came here. The reasoning behind this was to have a relaxing vacation, a truly self-delusional concept.

  They slowed their jog to a brisk walk as they moved through the trail. Joe had a mental image of Andy lying on the ground, twitching, blood trickling from the twin fang marks on his ankle. They should have grabbed the snakebite kit from the camper before they rushed off.

  A few minutes later, they emerged from the path into a clearing. Andy stood at the far edge of the clearing, about fifty feet away, and Joe sighed with relief to see that the eight-year-old boy looked unharmed. Andy grinned at them and waved, but it was clear that he'd been doing a lot of crying.

  "Oh my God..." said Patricia.

  Joe turned his attention away from Andy and looked at the ground. No wonder the kids were so scared. The clearing was filled with four-or-five inch-high mounds of loose dirt, dozens of them, about a foot in diameter. They looked like anthills, except that those didn't usually have quarter-sized entrances.

  "Are you okay?" Joe called out.

  Andy nodded.

  "Good. Don't move."

  As Joe stepped forward, something scurried out of the nearest mound. A red ant. Easily the biggest one he'd ever seen. It had to be two inches long. He crouched down to get a better look.

  "Wow, can you believe this thing?" asked Joe, picking up a small stick. "I've never seen an ant even close to this size. This has got be some, like, Amazon jungle ant or something."

  "Don't get too close to it," Patricia warned.

  "I won't, I'm just ... man, that is one _big_ ant."

  Joe poked the creature with the stick. It crawled on the tip and began to scurry up the wood toward his arm, so he quickly tossed it away.

  "Stay right there," Joe told Andy. "I'm coming to get you."

  * * *

  *-CHAPTER THREE-*

  Trevor Sotter decided for the seventeenth time that day that his job really, really sucked.

  He knew that the feeling would be short-lived. He worked for the corporate accounting department of Lavin, Inc., and while it was hardly a rewarding job and far from what he thought he'd be doing at age thirty-six, he only had to work when people dropped stuff in his in-bin. The rest of his day could be spent working on his novel. Usually things were pretty slow, giving him plenty of time to write, but the third working day of each month, the "drop dead deadline" for getting everything done that needed to be credited to the prior month, was always ridiculously busy. So he was forced to work overtime, a concept that went against everything he stood for as a human being.

  Essentially, his job involved moving money from a cost center to a profit center and vice-versa. Well, no, to be truthful, _other_ people moved the money, and he simply did the data entry to record the transaction. Actually, although he'd been working here for two years, he still wasn't one hundred percent certain what was actually affected by the work he did, but he knew _how_ to do it, and that was good enough for him.

  He picked up the next transfer sheet. It was for eight cents. Eight lousy cents. What a waste. Trevor was going to earn more than eight cents just recording this stupid transaction. Then he realized that he wasn't going to earn all _that_ much more than eight cents, and felt bummed-out again.

  His novel was called _Snot_. He'd let several people read it (the first couple of chapters anyway) and they all thought it was nothing more than an endless stream of childish bodily functions gags. They just didn't get it. It was a _satire_ of en
dless streams of childish bodily functions gags, and a darn meaningful one. He wouldn't have devoted seven years and thirty-four drafts to the book unless he truly believed in its message.

  But he couldn't work on it now because he was wasting too much time selling his soul to Lavin, Inc. None of his co-workers understood his desire to write, to create, to change the world through his words. They were going to be working in corporate accounting for the rest of their lives, except for Fred Hibbson, who'd been promoted last week. Trevor had to admit that his co-workers were all pretty nice to him despite their lack of understanding, so he'd invite them to his lavish champagne parties in his Beverly Hills mansion, but they'd be flying coach.