Free Tequila's Sunrise by Brian Keene

voice—a deity, perhaps, screaming. It was a terrible sound. She clasped her hands over her ears and tried to block it out. She’d heard screams like this before. Perhaps she’d even made them, at one time. They sounded like the symphony of birthing pains.
    A large puddle of liquid tissue had formed on the sheet in front of her, right between her legs. As she watched, something wriggled from the puddle—a one-inch tentacle, about the thickness of a pencil. There was an eyeball attached to one end of the tendril. It stared at her, and as she watched, the pupil dilated.
    In the background, the deity was still screaming. She no longer cared. Her attention was focused on the tentacle-thing. The creature groped feebly at her gown, and then pulled itself forward. She slapped her hand down on it, pressing it into the mattress and grinding her palm back and forth. The tentacle squeaked—even though it lacked a mouth—and then lay still. She removed her hand. All that remained of the thing was a pinkish-white blob of mucus. Slime dripped from her hand.
    Silence returned. The disembodied screaming stopped. So did the thunder. The flies and the birds turned to vapor. The hole in the sky closed up, and second later, the drop ceiling reappeared.
    “Please,” she whispered. “Please... please...”
    Then, new voices spoke. A man and a woman.
    “She used to love to paint. I thought bringing some of this might help, but she can’t even hold the paintbrush.”
    “Yes. Her motor skills are decreasing rapidly.”
    “How long does she have?”
    “In this stage of Alzheimer’s, it is difficult to say. I’ve seen some hang on for years after the fourth stage has set in. Others go quickly. All we can do is keep her comfortable.”
    “I just hate bringing Mika to see her like this, you know? I’m worried about how it will effect her.”
    “That’s understandable, Ellen. And while some studies suggest that it’s beneficial for patients, we can’t even really be sure that your mother is aware of the presence of those around her. I know it’s not much comfort, but at least she’s calm and peaceful, for the most part.”
    “Who are you?” she moaned. “Where are you?”
    She closed her eyes and let her cheek loll against the pillow, wishing the sky would rain flowers again.
    “Who am I?” she whispered. “Please...”
    The voices disappeared.
    At last, she slept.
    When she awoke again, the room was dark and cold. She shivered. There were flowers on the dresser, but she no longer knew what they were.
    ***
    ***
    This story started as nothing more than a fragment. About one-hundred words of it was originally written for one of those multi-author collaboration projects—two dozen authors each contributing to one short story. Unfortunately, the project never came to fruition. I no longer remember who was involved or what the premise was. All I know is that it was never published (if it had been, I’m sure I’d have a contract or a copy of the book around here somewhere).
    Anyway, I bought a new computer and I was in the process of transferring my files over to it when I ran across this old, forgotten fragment. I re-worked it into this story. Alzheimer’s has impacted my family in a very personal way. It’s a truly terrifying disease. I find it especially scary because none of us really know what’s going on inside the mind of the victim.
    “Fade To Null” has only appeared once before—in my now out-of-print short story collection Unhappy Endings .
    BUNNIES IN AUGUST
    One year later…
    He shouldn’t have come here. Not today. Especially not today.
    This is where it happened, he thought. This is where Jack died.
    Gary stood beneath the water tower. It perched atop the tallest hill in town, right between the Methodist church cemetery, and the rear of the tiny, decrepit strip mall (abandoned when Wal-Mart moved in two miles away), and a corn field. The tower was a massive, looming, blue thing, providing water to the