Avery Mann checked his watch, 5:17 a.m., and looked down the street from his living room window. Yes, they were there again. Just like every Monday morning. Leaning against telephone poles, crouching by bushes or hiding beneath street lamps, their dark lumpy forms wrapped in colors of pink or white or yellow or green or black. Waiting. Watching.

Waiting for me, Avery thought.

He laughed aloud, then stopped, remembering that Jeannie and Laurie were still asleep. Avery slipped on his shoes and walked through the living room into the kitchen, then through the door there into the garage. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness he extracted a tiny plastic tie from a pocket and used it to bind the last of the four black plastic bags of trash sitting next to the old push mower. Grunting, he lifted the largest two, pressed the aluminum door latch with his elbow, and went outside.

It was a nice street.

That's what Jeannie had said, and she was right. A few young trees were scattered throughout the block and Avery could taste summer in the air. It felt absurdly good to be taking the trash out.

Some Mondays he'd see old Mike Englund across the street shuffle out with his single trash bag and they'd exchange grins and waves, sometimes talk about Mike's grandkids. But today the bag was already there, slumped like a hooded dwarf against the telephone pole in front of Mike's darkened house.

Avery put the bags down at the curb and stretched, looking down his street at the shadowy suburban shapes of neat cans and bags in front of his neighbors' houses. Like an army of terrorists, seemingly at rest, unrelated and harmless. Waiting for a signal to strike.

Watching. Waiting.

Avery chuckled aloud at his imagination and walked back to the garage.

It wasn't the biggest house on the street.

"That's okay," Jeannie had said. "Let's just get into a good neighborhood now. We can build our dream house later." But it was a good house, in a nice street. In a brand-new subdivision.

"Better than the apartment," he mumbled. Oh, God, yes. He grabbed the other two bags and lifted. I hope I never see another roach again.

He'd worked nights for two years, made enough to keep them alive while he finished school. As they sank deeper in poverty his dreams of big salaries and successes became more elaborate. Just before graduation he interviewed, almost for a lark, with the biggest oil company in the state. And they offered him a job.

Jeannie was thrilled. He couldn't blame her: $35,000 a year sounded awfully good after the oddjob pay he'd been making. But writing software for an oil company just didn't quite jive with his hopes to make the world a better place. He hesitated, asking for time to think it over.

And that night they found roaches in Laurie's bottle.

So the next day he took the job.

They moved out of the apartment and rented a small house. They bought a washing machine and dryer on credit, and he got a new car …

Avery winced at the thought. He still missed his old Buick Century. That car had been with him since high school: his accomplice in young love, his chariot at college, his companion on a dozen trips. The Buick stuck by him like a friend -- maybe better -- through college, marriage, and all those lousy jobs, asking only a constant, prodigious supply of gasoline in return and the odd can of oil.

It hadn't occurred to him until he arrived at his new job, the first day, how guilty he would feel that the old Century wasn't there to share the moment with him. Funny, he'd thought, how people attach themselves to things.

To his surprise, he enjoyed the work, got along well. In a year he was promoted. Then he and Jean took the big leap and bought a house.

This house.

"And it's a good one," Avery said, letting the trash fall a little too hard to the curb. One bag came partially open. He checked his pocket, found no more ties. It's the trashman's problem now, he decided, then jumped.

Because the bags up and down his street seemed to have moved. Not a lot. Just shifted somehow, like toy soldiers nearly caught dancing, now slumped in the wrong places.

Avery felt his skin creep, than giggled. "I need a vacation," he told himself. But how could he? He was way too busy, developing a web page to show the progress of oil barges up and down major American waterways. And won't that make the world a better place.

"Avery, people have to drive", Jeannie always said, when he complained about his job. "That's for certain."

But only one thing seemed certain now, and that was that, as usual, the Manns had more trash than any of their neighbors. Four bags, by George! Not another house on the street had more than two. Avery wondered if someday the waste management company that picked it all up would pin a Gold Medal of Trash to the Mann's garage.

What I can't figure is where it all comes from. The diapers accounted for a lot of it, of course.

Avery was wondering how much money they would save when Laurie graduated to the potty when he heard a noise behind him. He turned.

His bag of trash, the one partially open, had tilted. Nothing had fallen out but the hole in the top loomed threateningly. Irritated, Avery walked back and put out a hand to right it.

When he touched the black plastic, it moved, seeming to mold itself into a solid armlike shape, and grabbed his arm.

He yelled. Not from the pain, because there was none. From surprise at being accosted by a trash bag. He shook his hand but the bag held on.

This is crazy. It's nothing but trash.

Expecting to see his neighbors laughing at him, he looked up.

What he saw was worse.

All the bags of trash in the neighborhood had left their posts and were in the street. They were moving toward him, inching along, like slinkies wrapped in plastic.

I've flipped. Or I'm on Candid Camera. Funniest Home Videos. Whatever. "Dammit, let go of me!" He shook his hand furiously and with an effort pulled the bag with him, away from the curb.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other three bags at his curb rise, like misshapen body bags, and follow.

"Help!" he yelled, ashamed of his fear.

He forced himself to stop in the yard. The first bag remained clamped to his right arm while the other three wiggled into positions around him.

"Can anybody hear me?" He made himself smile. People would turn on lights and open their doors any second. They'd laugh about it together. I'd have been scared, they'll say, but Avery Mann just smiled. "Hey! Somebody give me a little help here!"

As if heartened by his voice, the other street bags wiggled more quickly toward him. Several of the first wave made it onto his lawn and paused there. He glanced at the house.

He turned, his heart pounding faster. Dragging his prisoner, he made for the garage. He'd get inside and get the garden shears and see what --

Suddenly a huge orange bag, more than half as tall as Avery, rolled confidently into his path and settled there. Absurdly, Avery thought of Jonathan Winters plugging "Hefty Bags" in an old TV commercial. He kicked the orange bag, his anger and fear crystallizing in a great surge of strength.

It burst apart. Avery shrank back, wondering what was inside ...

But it was nothing but trash.

Piles of wet, rotting newspapers. Plastic liter-size bottles: 7-Up, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi. A pile of spaghetti, an apple core. A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cereal box, still full, the specially marked offer roughly cut from the back. A torn copy of TIME with George Bush on the cover; George had oil in his eye.

There was trash and trash and more trash.

Avery cursed furiously, forgetting about bags that walked, forgetting the bag holding his arm, forgetting everything except the mess that was now all over his front yard.

He turned, saw dozens of trash bags sitting around him and in the street nearby.

"What do you want?" He looked out at the dark, expensive houses, his nice street. "Hey, Anybody! Help me! Help me!"

The bags shuffled closer. With an angry cry, he kicked the nearest. It burst apart like a piñata of spoiled candy, spewing evil goodies. Turning, he kicked another. And another.

He kicked and kicked until he could see no more bags (except for the one still clutching his arm). Just mounds of rubbish, his neighbors' and his own, heaped together in a smorgasbord of filth upon his lawn.

He sat down in it, panting, and became aware how terribly bad it smelled. Closing his eyes, he fought the urge to vomit. Then he opened them and looked around.

There were more bags, apparently from other streets, approaching his house now. Worse, the individual items of debris in his yard, freed from their plastic prisons, were moving, coming to life.

A paper cup rolled to him and over his leg, and was gone. Squeezing and expanding like an inchworm, a tube of Crest made its way toward him, leaving a white trail of ooze from a wound near its bottom. He was stricken lightly on the side of the head by an empty Teddy-O's can.

Avery struggled to his feet just as a storm of cat litter materialized around him. He coughed and moved out of it. Slipping on banana peels slithering across his path, he fell on a gutted radio. Before he could move, a stream of Pepsi cans pummeled his head and arms.

"Please ..." he began, his voice trembling. "Stop. I don't know what you want. I don't know what you're mad about. It's not my fault. Stop it!"

He felt sharp pain. Looking down, he saw a disposable razor blade crawling up his left arm, leaving a deep gash in its path. Screaming, he shook it off.

There was a sound across the street. A light came on in Mike's house.

"Mike! Help!"

Mike's door opened. A shadowy form stepped out, unsure, and a familiar, rusty voice spoke. "Avery?"

"Mike!" Avery felt dizzying relief. "Yes! I need some help here. It's … it's something crazy."

"Quarter to six," Mike said, shuffling fully dressed into the glare of a streetlight. "God, what stinks? And ... lord love a duck, Avery, what have you done to your yard?"

Mike squinted, ran a shaking hand through white hair. "Avery, are you drunk?"

Avery laughed, in spite of the pain in his arm. "No. Got myself stuck here somehow, I don't know how. Mike, don't tell anybody about this and you're my friend for life. I--"

He stopped because a trash bag from the street had leaped into Mike's path, tripping the old man. Avery ran to Mike, but other bags got there first, rolling over Mike's legs and arms. Avery kicked at the bags vigorously, trying hard to keep from hitting his neighbor.

"Mike! Are you all right? Mike!"

Avery couldn't hear what Mike was saying. He dropped to his knees and used his left arm to pull bags and debris away from his friend.

Somehow, finally, he got Mike back to his feet.

"What?" Avery asked. "What'd you say, Mike?"

"Said you got a mess. Let's get inside--"

There was a noise: whoosh. Avery looked around in time to see a gaggle of silver beer cans flying at them. The cans battered their heads and Mike fell again.

Like a thousand misshapen dancers, trash came rolling from all around the yard to pile itself upon Mike.

Avery reached for him. With horror, he saw that a spool of dental floss had looped itself around Mike's neck. Mike made noises and grasped at his throat.

With his free hand, Avery struggled with it, saw that the floss was drawing itself tighter. He saw Mike's eyes bulge, pleading with him, growing dim. Avery pulled as hard as he could, tears squeezing through his eyelids.

Finally, the floss broke.

Avery shook Mike's shoulder, patted his cheek. "Mike. It's okay now."

He shook Mike again. "Mike. Please."

Mike did not respond.

Avery began to sob.

And still the trash piled itself onto Mike's body.

Coffee cans. Shampoo bottles. Kleenexes. Rotten fruit. Chicken bones. Fragments of wallpaper, burnt popcorn, soup cans, old shoes.

It massed itself higher and higher, until at last only Mike's face extended from the heap. Then the swirling parade of waste hesitated, as if waiting for applause.

It killed Mike, Avery realized. He tried to help me and it killed him.

But it's just stuff, and we are men.

"Heh. Sure never got trashed like that before," said Mike.

Avery looked up, saw Mike's dead eyes rolling, saw his lips move again.

They said: "This is another fine mess you've gotten us into."

Avery shuddered. He moved away. That's not Mike. Somehow they've taken over his voice.

"What are you?" he demanded.

"I'm the ghost of Christmas trash," Mike's mouth said, grinning. One rolling eye winked. "I'm gonna make you an offer you can't, ah, refuse."

Avery stumbled, caught himself. There seemed to be a rumbling beneath him ... louder, louder ...

Then the noise stopped and cracks appeared in the lawn around them. Like some kind of abominable crop, garbage began to emerge.

Decaying pumpkins. Old comic books: Green Lantern, Swamp Thing. Rusty electric guitar strings. A G.I. Joe with one leg missing.

Avery was past amazement now, past any kind of surprise, only numb with disgust. "What is all this stuff?" he whispered. "Where's it coming from?"

"It's the filthy modern tide," said Mike, grinning. "Sorry. You probably think my puns are offal."

Junk continued to rise from the holes, as if they were miniature volcanoes. Wrapping paper and pretty bows, a toaster oven, a teapot. Air filters, oil cans, computer paper, ceiling fans. A can of Raid, a microwave.

"Got to move those microwave ovens," Mike sang. He tapped a beat with his head: back and forth, back and forth. "Gotta move those color TV's."

A tiny model of the Starship Enterprise slid out of the top of one trash mound and turned toward Avery.

"Set phasers for kill, Mr. Spock," shouted Mike. "Fire! Fire!"

Avery ducked, but the Enterprise turned with him and caught him in the face with a jet of warm gasoline. He looked down, shaking it off, and saw that his right arm had disappeared halfway into the garbage bag still holding him, becoming part of him, or he part of it.

Frantically, he kicked at it.

A hole appeared in its side and diapers began to fly out. One by one, they flew overhead and opened, dropping their nefarious bombs upon him.

Beer cans battered his head again.

"Try the silver bullet," Mike said. "It won't slow you down."

Still the earth oozed its waste. Dozens of toy guns popped out of one orifice, banging loudly and ineffectively. The Time magazine he'd seen earlier flew angrily around his head, George Bush shouting "Read my lips!" as it tore itself to shreds.

Mike laughed. "You never thought to ask where the land for the subdivision came from, did you?" he asked, and laughed again.

"What … what are you …"

"You fool. You fool! They built it over a landfill!"

With Mike's laughter still in his ears, Avery ran for the other side of the house. Just then the rumbling noise started again, but louder now -- much louder.

He got to the front door as the porch light came on.

"Help me!" he screamed, beating the door with his left hand. His right was now invisible up to the shoulder.

Inside he heard Laurie crying, footsteps, someone turning the lock.

Jeannie threw open the door. "Avery!" she cried. She looked at him, saw him cut and bleeding, covered with every sort of filth, then looked past him at the yard, at Mike's body.

Her eyes were afraid. "Avery. What have you done?"

He opened his mouth but couldn't hear himself speak, so loud had the rumbling grown behind him. He turned and saw something burst forth from the earth.

It was nearly half as long as Avery Mann's entire yard. Though only a foot thick, it was expanding, popping angrily into a different, more familiar shape: blue lines turning to sleek metal, white cracks thickening and becoming a vinyl top, black shreds on the bottom sucking in air and forming whitewalls.

When Avery recognized it he understood. Realizing he could never escape, he froze in the doorway.

The old Century came roaring down upon him.

Copyright 1997, 1998, 1999 by David T. Jarvis

All Rights Reserved