Death & Candy

Death & Candy

“Still?” John's voice echoed in disbelief. Travis chuckled as they secured Mrs. Williams into the back of the ambulance.

“After about an hour, he came out and then went back in. Code Brown,” he whispered, snickering. The two burst into laughter.

Max opened and closed the driver’s side door. “What’s so funny?” he inquired, annoyance evident in his voice. He fumbled, barely able to put on his seatbelt.

“Some meme we saw earlier,” Travis mumbled, sensing Max's irritation. Max was unusually quiet that evening. No crude jokes, no wild tales of sexual escapades. It was odd, but a welcome break from his constant babbling between patients. The shift ended, and the three men were changing in the locker room.

“You okay there, buddy? Awfully quiet tonight.”

Max looked over with an odd smile, nodding. “Tired, I guess.” His fingers played with an open bag of candy in his pocket. After his Code Brown escapade, he had gathered the rest of the equipment, grumbling obscenities at Travis. “Leave me all the heavy stuff, will ya?” He smiled as he left, not before helping himself to a brand new bag of Werther's Hard Candy. The old lady had bags of it in every room of her apartment. He shoved the bag into his oversized jacket and left, waving goodbye to Travis and John.

As he squeezed his huge frame into the tiny two-door car, he smiled again, almost maniacally. “That Travis, so high and mighty. 'We don't take things from our patients. It's disrespectful,'” he mocked, rolling his eyes. He pulled out of the parking lot like a maniac, heading for the nearest McDonald's. He ordered his usual midnight snack: three double cheeseburgers, two large fries, and a diet coke. Diet. Yeah, that’ll help, thought the teenager as he handed Max his order, shaking his head. If he kept eating that way, he wouldn't fit in his car much longer. It groaned as it continued out of the drive-thru.

A shower and a good treat awaited him. He grabbed the new bag of candy and jumped into bed. Max had the last laugh on those suckers. While they weren't looking, he had tossed a few candies into both Travis and John's pockets. Tomorrow, he would file a complaint that his partners were stealing. Then they would be thieves too, just like him, just like every human being out there. It was take it first or go without. That was how Max's world worked. Besides, it wasn't like these people were going to need the stuff he took. Food, cash, sometimes a watch. He considered it a finder's fee. He couldn't live on his wage, that was for sure. It was like a tip! Paying the ferryman! He laughed to himself.

He sat, scrolling through social media, trolling, being his usual cheerful self. As he did this, he continued to pop one Werther's after another until his hand reached down into an empty bag. He tossed it on the floor along with his phone and turned off the lights. Max's eyes shot open. Someone had just yelled rather loudly into his ear. “You piggy.” The words were clear. A woman screaming less than an inch from his ear.

He glanced around his room. Still, nothing out of the ordinary. Max shrugged, blaming the sugar. He told himself it was just a dream. He burped loudly, placing a hand to his chest. He gave it a light tap with his fist. Indigestion, nothing more. He was used to the acid reflux. He reached for his Tums, tossing a large handful into his mouth. The chalky foam slid down his throat. He rolled over, closed his eyes, and tried to go back to sleep. Again, someone screamed in his ear. “Thief.” But this time, a hand touched his cheek, more like a finger, long and bony. It poked his fleshy cheek hard.

This time, Max sat upright, burping again and again. He coughed, trying to dislodge the sensation in his throat. Indigestion did this to him. Maybe next time, instead of the burgers, he would order the fish sandwiches. Fish was healthier, right? He was asking himself this, in the dark, in the quiet. He burped again, but this time it was the all-too-familiar taste of Werther's candy, but not quite. The taste was revolting, caramel with chalky fruit-flavored foam coming back into his mouth. He gagged and spit it into his trash can. He lay on his back, trying to breathe it out. Was it hot now? Had the heat kicked in? He looked over at his space heater. Nope, no heat. He wiped his brow, surprised to see the amount of sweat on his fingers. He burped, over and over again, until he stood, panicked. He raced to the bathroom, ripping his boxers down and plopping onto the toilet. He held onto the toilet seat and pushed. What came out of him didn't make the sound he expected. It was like bullets hitting the insides of the toilet.

Another wave of ammunition hit the porcelain, over and over. Max screamed as he let go of each one, hands and knuckles white as if he were holding on for dear life. Finally, sweating and exhausted, it stopped. Poor Max. He closed his eyes. He was so tired that he fell asleep right there on the porcelain throne. It was short-lived. As another wave hit him, he held onto the toilet seat again, praying. Then, to his horror, he started to throw up. What did he throw up? Full Werther's hard candy. He could barely breathe. Eyes wide, as they projectile vomited out and onto the wall in front of him. They were everywhere. He sat there, gasping, drool and caramel bits hanging from his mouth as he took long, ragged breaths. It was time to call for help. With shaky hands, he dialed 911. “Please, please help me!” he screamed. There was no mercy as they kept coming out both ends, faster and faster. “I need an ambulance. P-please.” He choked out the words, gagging and spitting them out at the same time. “Can you hear me?” Instead of the comforting voice of a 911 dispatcher, he found himself listening to an old woman laughing.

“Tsk tsk,” she began, “That's what you get for eating too many sweets.” The woman laughed, turning it into a continuous cackle. Max slumped to the floor. He continued to expel candy, hundreds and hundreds of candies. All he could hear was Mary laughing at him. He rolled in agony over the mountains of candy on his floor, his furniture. Everywhere he looked, it was covered in candy. Those goddamned candies.

When John and Travis came back from their scheduled days off, they heard the bad news. Max had dialed 911 a few days before, screaming like a madman at the dispatcher. Screaming, “I'm sorry, Mary, I'm sorry, just make it stop.” When the paramedics arrived at his home, he was covered in a sticky brown substance. It covered his entire home. Walls, ceilings. It was awful. It smelled like candy and decay. For his safety, he was placed in the hospital. Travis, feeling bad for the guy, went up to visit him after his next shift. He found Max sitting quietly, heavily medicated. He stared out the window. He was restrained in his wheelchair. According to the staff, he would scream and scratch at his skin, screaming, “They're coming out of me, they're coming out of me everywhere.”

He drooled and stared. After several useless and uncomfortable moments trying to start a conversation, Travis watched a thick line of caramel-colored drool ooze from both sides of Max's mouth, slide down his chin, and onto the bib fastened around his neck. The smell was what got him. Travis stood, covering his nose, while reaching into his pocket with the other hand, pulling out a Werther's. He unwrapped it, pushed it between Max's lips. “Here, man, chew on this. Your breath smells like candy and death.” He turned, feeling happy, truly believing he had done a good deed. Max gasped.

By the time he reached the elevators, nurses and orderlies were rushing to control the sudden situation. Right after his friend left, Max had begun to choke. He was clutching at his throat, trying to scream, but that damned candy had sucked right back into his throat when Max gasped. It was firmly lodged in the back of his throat, just out of reach. He lay there, head turned as they worked on him. Eyes wide, staring at Mary. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, angrily glaring. The monitor flatlined.

The doctor called the time of death.