Mutant Matinee by Patrick Moody
“Get that mop ready, Squish.”
Sam sneered back at Angela, her Starlight Cinema cap slightly askew. She knew he hated that name. He hated it even more. Ever since he’d started working at the theater, he’d never failed to step in someone’s spilt soda or melted butter, and now, even after several cleanings, his shoes still squished and squelched wherever he walked. It was like he was destined to spend every working hour in someone else’s sticky mess.
They’d been sent into the theater a little earlier than usual, due to a few complaints from patrons. Sam didn’t have to guess who they were complaining about. A strange family, that was for sure. Oddly shaped. Not in a body-shaming way, but…odd. Like scarecrows stuffed with straw, or an anthropomorphic bag of potatoes passing itself off in human clothes. There were four of them, parents and two kids, but looking at them, you wouldn’t be able to tell which was which. They raided the snack bar. Pizzas. SEVEN large sodas. Eight nachos and three burritos. Angela, who’d worked the register, noticed something off about their eyes, the way the sweat gleamed on their too-yellow skin.
“Enjoy the show,” she said absentmindedly.
The man nodded, his sweat reeking of popcorn butter. “Yes. Salty. Hot.”
One of the children held up a cup. “More butter. Miss, help?”
Angela looked to the parents, who only stared just as intensely as the child, and she walked to the self-serve station. As one, they turned and watched as she filled the extra-large soda cup with melted butter. The kid made a gesture, and after a time Angela nodded, pouring in salt until it formed a white, crystalized mountain on top of the butter.
The child tore it from her grasp, greedily holding the artery-clogging concoction to his distended belly.
Angela could only stare as the strange foursome lurched and waddled their way into Theater Six.
All through the showing, patrons had been trickling out, complaining of a strange smell coming from the back of the theater. Sam went to the projector room, just to be sure it wasn’t anything mechanical. But even from there, he could smell it. Something salty and sweet and sickly, all at once.
By the time the lights came up, everyone had gone.
“Wait,” Angela said, stopping Sam as he readied his mop. “Did you see them pass by?”
“Who?”
“You know. Them.”
Sam hadn’t, and found that surprising. They weren’t exactly hard to miss.
“Whatever,” he said tiredly. “Next show is in ten. Let’s do this.” He took a single step, the bottoms of his sneakers squishing loud.
“Right behind ya, Squish.”
Sam could almost hear the smirk.
Back and forth, up and down they went, sweeping up spilled popcorn, candy wrappers, the errant sour patch kid or empty cup, all the while advertisements played from the speakers. Until Sam entered row 7.
“Ang, stay back, okay?”
Her flashlight zoomed to his direction.
“What is it?”
Good question, he thought, examining the four chairs. The pizza and nacho boxes were strewn everywhere, soda cups thrown haphazardly. The leather was beyond saving, that was for sure. Yellow, buttery sludge covered every surface. No reupholstery in the world could fix what had been done to it. It dripped everywhere, puddling in the seats and running down the sloped aisle in goopy rivulets. He took another step. Squish.
“Butter?”
The voice startled Sam. He looked around the theater, and even fully lit, couldn’t see who’d just spoken.
“Butter.” Another voice said. Demanding and harsh.
“Salt.”
“More.”
“Good.”
“Tasty.”
Squish.
Sam let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Of course. He decided then and there to throw out those goddamned shoes and get something slip resistant.
He looked down to see what he’d stepped in this time. Sour Patch Kids? Congealed Pepsi?
Sam screamed, stumbled back, his rib bashing into an armrest.
They oozed around his heels, all four of them a soupy mix of human remains. Organs floated lazily in the yellow ichor.
“Angela!” Sam screamed, readying his mop like a spear.
Through the butter-scented viscera, a single, slimy eyeball turned up to him. It winked.
—
Patrick Moody is the author of THE GRAVEDIGGER’S SON and CREATURES OF CLAY. His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including LOVECRAFT IN A TIME OF MADNESS, DARK MOON DIGEST, A MONSTER TOLD ME BEDTIME STORIES, HALLOWEEN HORROR VOL. 2, KENTUCKY FRIED HORROR, and has been adapted into audio dramas on CAMPFIRE RADIO THEATER and THE WICKED LIBRARY. He lives in Hamden, CT with his wife.
