Apocalypse by Chocolate

Apocalypse by Chocolate

Cake

• 1 3/4 cup of flour w

• 3/4 cup cocoa powder; Scharffen Berger

• 1 ¾ sugar

• 2 teaspoons baking soda

• 1 teaspoon baking powder

• 1 teaspoon salt

• 1/2 cup vegetable oil

• 2 large eggs, ROOM TEMPERATURE

• 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

• 1 cup buttermilk ROOM TEMPERATURE.

Frosting

• 2 sticks unsalted butter softened

• 3 1/2 cups powdered sugar

• 3/4 cup Scharffen Berger

• 3–5 Tablespoons heavy cream

• 1/4 teaspoon salt

• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

• 1 teaspoon cayenne paper

That’s how it was scratched onto the now yellow piece of paper from my mother. What was once a simple note, stolen and adapted from a Julia Child’s cookbook, had lasted over 30 years. My mother’s chocolate cake is a piece of my childhood. Just like Spiderman comics, Atari’s Pong and Cue Ball Wizard. She’s gotten to old to bake it now, and would probably forget the simple steps she used to always shout at me:

“Mix the dry ingredients first. Then the wet. Slowly mix them together. The wet ingredients HAVE to be room temperature. Scharffen Berger is gourmet, don’t spill even a speck of it. Cayenne pepper is our secret touch…traces back to our Caribbean heritage…” So on, and so on. I was surprised when she distilled all of her recipes onto me. For her generation, it’d make sense to give it to my sister. But I spent so many days in the kitchen with her while my sister was off causing trouble, that it made only sense to give it to her son.

As I was letting the butter soften, and my mother was on my mind, I figured I would call her.

Ring…..Ring…Ring….

All the way to voicemail. Odd. She always answers. Has nothing better to do while watching Family Feud all day. Maybe she lost her phone again. I’ll leave her a voicemail.

“Hey Mom, it’s Darren. Just calling to say hi and to check in. I was making your cake from the recipe book you gave me and I thought you might like a slice of it. I can’t eat it all myself. I’m going to bring it by later today, so see you then. Love you.” End voicemail. I hang up and pocket my phone.

The eggs are room temperature, buttermilk too. Dry ingredients first. Into the big mixing bowl. Wet ingredients next, mixing with a rubber spatula. Turn the mixer on and at the dry to wet softly. After the lumps are worked out my batter is done. A scoop with my flour caked fingers into my mouth will be the judge. I pour it all into a circular baking mold and place it into the oven that’s been preheating.

The timer is set. Bobby Vinton is turned up a little more on my phone’s weak speakers. Maybe I’ll have a glass of wine. Red. Just one though. I’m driving to see mom later. It’ll quench my thirst as I work on the buttercream frosting.

Red wine splashes into my glass. Butter into the mixing bowl. Then the powdered sugar, Scharfenn Berger and rest of the ingredients. I only do half a tablespoon of cayenne because I always thought it took too much away from the sweetness of the cream. Frosting is done. Cake is in the oven for a couple more minutes. I’ll work on my wine now while singing softly to Blue Velvet. My mother would shoot me if she heard me listening to music like this. She’d go on about how the white singers of the 1950’s and 1960’s stole everything from our people; Little Richard, Nat King Cole, Big Bill Broonzy. So on, and so on. My alarm sounds off of my phone. The cake is done. Still some wine left in the glass, I’ll savor it as I let the cake cool down.

The cake has cooled, and I start spreading on the frosting with a rubber spatula until it wears a cloak of chocolate buttercream. I grab a paper plate and slice off a hefty slice to bring to my mom. Saran wrap the top. Check my phone. Almost 3 o’clock. I should probably get this over to her soon. Still, strange she hasn’t called me back. Must have gotten tired of looking for her phone and taken a nap. I should get there right as she’s waking up.

Close the door. Keys in the ignition. Cake in the driver’s seat. It’s hot. I don’t want the chocolate to melt onto my seats. Hopefully the A/C will keep everything tame for now. I start driving. She’s about 20 minutes out of the way. Out where it starts to get rural. Got to take the highway to get there, and I hope there’s not any traffic. The lunch rush should be over by now.

As I’m driving, I don’t think I’ve passed a single car yet. Guess I won’t have to worry about that traffic. 10 minutes away now, and I need to merge onto the highway. Route 1. After this light, there’s an on-ramp to get me up onto the interstate. This is the longest red light in the world. The cake is sweating in the passenger seat. I’ll crank the fan up one more notch. There’s not a single car on the road. Is it Thanksgiving, or some other holiday I forgot about? No. It’s August.

The light switches green, and I turn onto the on-ramp. The cake sliding in the seat. I look down and catch it before it runs off. When I look up, BAM! A figure rolls off the front of my hood. Jesus Christ. He looked young. What did I just do? I looked away for one second. Was the light actually green? I’m sitting in a panicked shock. The cake is intact, staring right back at me knowing what I just did. My flashers are on. If someone finally shows up on the road.

I open the door and begin to hear the moaning of an injured man. I walk over to the hood of the car. There’s no blood. I wasn’t going that fast. By the bumper is a teenager, maybe 17 or 18. Long hair. I can’t see his face since he’s lying on the ground.

“Buddy…hey…buddy. I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

He doesn’t respond. I gulp. Fuck.

I bend down and repeat the same words. Shaking him a couple times. I feel for a pulse but pull back immediately. His skin is soaking wet. Sweat maybe. Then, like a shock of adrenaline running through his bones, he sits up and starts throwing up on the bumper of my car. Heaving his whole stomach out.

“Jesus Christ are you alright?”, I ask. He does not look alright. I shouldn’t have wasted my breath with that question. He doesn’t flinch. He sits there, slowly breathing in and out. No regard for the vomit on his mouth or clothes. Maybe he’s high. I hit a doper running across the street. That can’t be a crime can it? I had a green light. Then he falls back over again. I stand straight up and pull out my phone. Dial 3 numbers. But my phone call doesn’t go through. Do it again. Still nothing. Like I don’t have cell service. Just a dead line after punching in 9-1-1.

I begin pacing. This has got to be the most stressed I have ever been in my life. I might have just killed some kid. I’m sitting here on the on-ramp of the highway, next to my puke crusted car and a dead kid in front of it. Would anyone notice if I just, pulled off? No, I can’t do that. That’s just not right. I bend down and shake him again. He starts to get up again. He’s covered in sweat, with blisters on his face. This guy isn’t right.

“Hey—I tried an ambulance. No one is picking up. Let me get you to the hospital. Okay? Let’s get to the hospital”. He starts to stand with me as I grab his hand. Leading him to the passenger door. I open it. Slickly place the cake on the dashboard. I don’t want him sweating on it. Close the door behind him. His head leans against the window. I come around the front and get into my car. Keys in the ignition. Cake on the dash. Patient-zero in the passenger. Punch the gas.

After a bit of driving, he begins moaning again. At least I know he’s awake. The hospital is past my mother’s place, at least the closest one is. I’ll take him up there. Drop him off and be back on my way. Is he sick? What are those bumps on his face? He looks like he has chicken pox…or is it smallpox? Should I be this close to him? Something that bad must be contagious. I’m in too deep at this point. Rolling down my window puts my mind at ease. It reminds me what fresh air smells like, not this puke covered bum in my car. Alright not doing bad. 5 minutes away. Have yet to see another car on the road.

Hopefully—what the hell? He’s up now, reeling back. Like a sick cow he groans, and with the groan comes hot, yellow vomit all onto my window. He keeps going like someone’s stepping on his stomach. He doesn’t have any control of his body. I swipe the cake to the right of the dash, out of the splash zone. Swerve the car.

“Fuck man…we’re almost there, don’t worry. We’re almost there.” Nothing from him. Like I’m talking to a brick wall. He sets his head back up against the window and closes his eyes. His hair getting covered in his own puke. This is making me want to puke. The whole car looks like a disaster. Just got to get him to the hospital.

The hospital. It’s…on fire. Burning twice as high as it’s two-story structure. Outside are ambulances overturned. Cars crashed. What is going on? Plumes of black smoke cover the sky. Ash falls onto the car. For a second, I think about getting out. Then a man comes running out of the burning rubble. In nurse’s scrubs. He’s on fire. Covered in flame head to toe. He stops after making it out about 50 yards. Falls to the ground and burns to a crisp. I gulp.

I check my phone. No service. Nothing. My mom’s place about 5 minutes back the other way. I can check the news there. Figure out what the hell is going on. Cake still on the dash. Vomit on the window. Burning hospital ahead. Sickness in my stomach. A dying man in the passenger. Punch the gas. Get the hell out of here.

My mom’s house is at the end of this road here. It’s rural. I haven’t seen a car yet, but that’s not atypical. No fires. No smoke from the hospital over here. Maybe it’s some freak thing. Maybe this guy knew about it and got the hell out of there in time. I don’t want to speculate too much. I’m already sick to my stomach. And there’s a gallon of vomit in my car. Nothing to make me any worse. There’s her house. Her car is in the driveway. Good sign. I park behind it. Look at this guy in my passenger seat. I’m not bringing him inside. My mother is frail enough. The sight of him is enough to make your heart stop.

“Hey, I—I just gotta figure out what the fuck is going on. Don’t—don’t die on me in here buddy.” Who am I kidding? This guy’s knocking on heaven’s door, and I’m telling him not to die. I shoulda just asked him to not through up on my upholstery anymore. Out of the car. Grab the cake. Close the door. Up to my mom’s screen door. I open and head inside.

Her house looks normal. Do I smell smoke? No, it’s in my head. The nerve endings in my nose must be frayed from overuse in the last 30 minutes. A million thoughts run through my head. Hopefully when I turn the TV on, things will be settled. I’m looking for the remote. Is there some sort of viral outbreak? Check under the magazines. Or a terrorist attack? Not in the cabinets. An approaching asteroid? Ah, there it is. In between the couch seats. Turning on the TV, hoping for everything to be sorted out. Instead, the answer to my questions is colored bars and a high-pitched blare. Shit. It’s like this on every channel. Something serious is going down right now.

“Mom! Mom are you home?!” No answer. Maybe she’s still resting. Let me just check on my pal in the car. I walk up to the front screen door and look up. He’s gone. Shit. “Buddy! Buddy where are you?!” As I open the door, there’s a giant thump upstairs. Mom.

I dash up the stairs and walk to her room. At the end of the hall. The door is cracked ajar. I push the door open and there she is. Under the covers. But. Above her. Is the guy. He’s…gnawing on her arm, like some sort of feral dog. He looks at me. Blood dripping from his mouth. “Get the hell off of her!” I set the cake down onto the nightstand. Grab the lamp off it and smash it over his head. He’s out cold. I push him off the bed and kick him in the head. Once to assure he’s out. Twice out of pure anger. My mom’s arm is bloody. Gnawed to the bone.

“Mom…Jesus…mom are you alright?” Her face is stone cold. Eyes glazed over. What did he do to her? Or has she been like this? “Mom I came over—to bring some cake…what happened?” I set the cake on the bed. She moves her arm, the unscathed one, slightly. Her hand ending up on top of the cake. Smushing it. “Mom…mom…say something.” I feel for a pulse. And suddenly there’s a shimmer in her eyes. A glint that shows some energy. That she might be alive after all. But I feel no pulse. Suddenly, her jaw unhinges, and her mouth attaches to my arm. She starts chomping down on it, with no stop. Things become…fuzzy…my head cloudy. Eyes groggy. I fall back. Asleep. Never to wake up. The same at least.