Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  “It’s dark,” says Mr Roeg.

  “I noticed that.”

  “There’s no lights on inside Godiva,” he adds.

  “Should there be?”

  “I thought there might be people here. Preparing.”

  “I see.”

  “There should be lots of people here.”

  “Says who?”

  “Mr Brannagh. He told me the followers were gathering.”

  “Well, he says a lot of things,” I reply. “He might not have the legion of disciples that you think he does.”

  I would be surprised if he has amassed a large following, considering the heinous nature of his crimes. The people of this planet will be sickened by his actions. I open my door and step onto the paved drive. The cold air hits me as I look up at the building. There’s definitely no lights switched on in Godiva. I stare at a few of the windows to see if I can see anything out of the ordinary. But there are just curtains and blinds. No faces inside. No inquisitive sets of eyes. The only sounds are birds and insects chattering in the gardens and the dense forest beyond.

  Mr Roeg also exits the vehicle and together we walk toward the path that winds down to the labbia pen. As we round the side of the house I can see mist swirl above the pool, the water illuminated by submerged lighting. Everything else is deathly still. The statues amongst the shrubbery are dark, half-lit shapes.

  We tread down the path until it brings us to the entrance of the labbia’s enclosure. I peer through the metal fence and hear nothing. No bleating animals or rustling leaves.

  “It should be unlocked,” says Mr Roeg. “Godiva was to give us access right through to the bunker.”

  “Is it safe to be in there?” I ask. “I was under the impression that labbia have pretty sharp teeth.”

  “Yes, but they don’t attack unless threatened.”

  “What constitutes a threat? Sneaking into their pen after midnight?”

  “It should be fine.”

  “Well, considering the size difference between you and me… it’s probably fair that you go first and I’ll follow,” I say.

  “Messiah…” says Mr Roeg, clearly a little worried. “How would that be fair?”

  “Because you might get lodged in their throat. That would give me time to escape.”

  My companion’s face, as usual, is quite unreadable.

  “I’m joking,” I say, and open the gate.

  As it happens, Mr Roeg has to lead because I have no idea where we’re going. Beneath the overgrown grass is an old path. I can feel the ancient tiles beneath my feet. We duck and step around low-hanging branches. There is a choir of insects around us, singing along to each other, but there’s no sign of the labbia. I can barely see in front of my face, the tiny glow of my phone’s screen the only torch. Further along the path I notice a small light ahead of us. I push aside more branches. There’s a small, wooden shack.

  Next to the faded, dilapidated door is a small orange globe. It’s covered in cobwebs but provides enough light for us to see each other. While the wood of the structure is clearly old and the door doesn’t look like it would withstand a swift boot, there is a very modern security keypad next to its handle. An intriguing anachronism.

  Mr Roeg reaches up and punches in a number. I watch his fingers. The number is 3801. He then presses an enter button. The door clicks as it unlocks. My vertically challenged acquaintance then turns the handle and opens the decaying door.

  As I was expecting, there is nothing inside the shack except for a concrete floor and a stairwell. There are chipped, cold metal rails on each side and the stairs descend into complete darkness.

  “No lights, Mr Roeg?” I ask. “For one of the richest men on the planet, Mr Brannagh doesn’t like to spend much on electricity.”

  “I’m certain there will be lights in the corridor at the bottom,” says Mr Roeg.

  We walk down what feels like one hundred cold concrete steps before we arrive at a door on our left. The temperature drops and the chill twirls its fingers in patterns across my skin. We open the door to a well-lit corridor. Long halogen tubes hang on cobwebbed chains from the mottled, rust-brown ceiling. The grey of the walls and floor are stained red in patches, as if blood has congealed into bruises.

  Mr Roeg waddles in front of me and we pass many closed doors, each with large sliding bolts to keep them locked. From the outside. But there is no one around. No patrolling security guards. No overweight men in bloodied butcher’s aprons, wielding chainsaws. No horror of any kind. Brannagh could afford to have a small army down here to protect his scheme. But so far there is no one here to defend these clandestine atrocities.

  One of the doors we pass is slightly ajar and I stop.

  “Mr Roeg,” I say.

  He stops and turns.

  “What’s in here?” I ask.

  “It’s one of the preparation rooms.”

  I push on the door and what I find is unusual by most people’s standards. The walls are the same colour as the corridor, but there are metal benches in the centre and along the outside of the room. The air is sodden with the stench of blood. That unsettling, coppery odour is everywhere and the red splatter is on the floor, the walls and the metallic surfaces. It looks more like an abattoir than a morgue. On a bench to my right are implements. There are a few knives and scalpels as well as an array of surgical saws.

  On the opposite side of the room is a young man. He’s wearing a white surgeon’s coat and white gloves. His face is dusted with charcoal and his skin is brown. He is standing between a metal bench and a gaping furnace. The heat of the furnace hits me from fifteen feet away. On the metal bench is a pile of long objects. Skin-coloured. They are limbs. Human arms and legs. Detached. Piled in a heap and awaiting incineration.

  The young man is staring at me.

  “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

  His mouth agape, he just nods.

  “What are you burning?” I ask.

  “These are… are… the leftovers,” he stammers. From his speech I deduce that he is simple. His elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor. If this man is dim, I expect he’s easily convinced and persuaded.

  “The leftovers?”

  “We have… no use for them,” he mutters.

  “Arms and legs? You seem to be using yours.”

  The man stares back, his body tense. On edge.

  “Do you believe in this work that you’re doing?”

  “Yes,” nods the man.

  “You believe that my father and his race are returning?”

  “Yes,” nods the man.

  “Then you believe that I have the power to return the dead to the living.”

  The man nods, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Well you need to prove your faith to me,” I say.

  “Yes,” says the man, emphatically. “I can, I can.”

  “Climb into the furnace. Let the flames devour you and I will bring you back to life, stronger than you were before. You will have almighty power.”

  The man’s eyes shift back and forth between the insidious oven and I. He doesn’t move, riveted to the floor like these metal tables.

  “That’s what I thought,” I say. I step outside the room, close the door and then bolt it shut, locking him in. “Let’s continue, Mr Roeg. I’m only here to see the main attraction.”

  Mr Roeg and I walk to the end of the corridor, where we find another downward staircase. It is very long. I’m reminded of the stairs that Natalie and I descended to the Narc den on our night of debauched courtship. These steps, both their individual depth and the width, are identical to those beneath the club Membrané. The same era of subterranean architecture. The same design.

  The stairs deliver us to a small foyer of aged grey brick and a set of steel double doors. Next to them is another security keypad.

  “They are inside,” says Mr Roeg, exhausted from our second extended descent.

  “Let’s take a look,” I say.

  Mr Roeg st
eps to the keypad, again types 3801 and the doors make an echoed thump as they unlock.

  This large room, like an old rail shed, is long and high. It’s a Narc den. The smell is similar. Sweat, urine and every dank odour in between. There are many people here, all in their deep Narc sleep, dreaming impossible dreams. There are many beds too. But there is one considerable point of difference between my present location and my memories of the previous Narc den. The people beneath Membrané still had their arms and legs. Their heads had not been shaved. They were not naked. My eyes, despite my heavy desire to turn and walk from the room, graze across these skillfully mutilated people in their cheap beds. A clear tube snakes into each mouth, providing sustenance. The lips have been sown shut to keep them in place.

  I have not made it more than two metres into the room. What I am seeing is far removed from any reality I have ever experienced. I dare step no further, as if closer inspection will solidify it. Will confirm that all this is real. I stand like a statue, my eyes scanning the room, lingering on the stitched stumps of these poor victims and watching the calm, gentle rise and fall of their chests. The inhumane presence of life support. I thought that Stephanie’s tattoo was extreme defilement, but it was a playful slap compared to what has become of these people. The Narc drug flows through their system and their ignorant, comatose state is Brannagh’s only mercy.

  Mr Roeg casually walks up the centre aisle of the room, examining the people on the beds.

  “You have butchered these people,” I say, perhaps not to Mr Roeg in particular. “You’ve butchered them.”

  “I was told that sacrifices had to be made. That these people were going to a better place. To walk through the gates of Earth and live in its glow for all eternity,” says Mr Roeg.

  “Did these people,” I ask, pointing at one of the beds, “volunteer to do this?”

  “They’re Narc overdoses,” shrugs Mr Roeg, his voicing rising with positive inflection. As if this is no big deal. “People know there’s a risk they might not wake up when they take it. These people signed away their bodies when they went to the dens.”

  “And Marty Brannagh is in control of these dens?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he no doubt controlled the Narc dosage these people were given.”

  “Yes…” replies Mr Roeg, “I suppose he would have.”

  “Fuck!” I yell, overcome with anger. My outburst ricochets around the ancient walls.

  As I stand there, looking at these rows of lost souls, their limbs plucked from them, I can’t help but dwell on a single thought. If Brannagh believes in all of this and is certain that I am a Jesus-like individual, then why has he kept everything from me? Why would he hide something as monstrous as this from view? Then my mind turns to what Brannagh buys and sells. What he has built his fortune on. His empire is a provider of culture. He creates it. He convinces people of its importance. He is a God-like tastemaker. The immense financial success of his Marioneta de Carne exhibition will not have gone unnoticed. The prophesised return of some winged people from the distant past could hide another motive.

  At the end of the room is another set of double doors.

  “What’s through there?” I ask Mr Roeg.

  “It’s the workshop,” he replies.

  “Sounds ominous,” I reply.

  “It’s where the artworks are made.”

  I walk towards the double doors, holding my breath as the stench of these bed-ridden junkies rises around me. I reach the centre of the room. A deep metallic sound announces that someone is opening the workshop doors. A man in a white, bloodstained surgical coat, with white gloves and a facemask, emerges. He notices me and his eyes widen in surprise.

  The man freezes, then bows and says, “My lord.”

  I walk to him. “I’m here to see your progress.”

  “Yes, of course,” he nods and exerts strength to open the wide metallic entrance.

  I step past the gowned man and into the so-called workshop. Mr Roeg trots along behind me. Only minutes ago I believed the room of amputees was the most macabre and disturbing thing I had ever seen. But it seems that Brannagh has a trump card. He is a man of many secrets and someone less sane than myself might marvel at not only the scope of his nature, but also how well he conceals it from the public and its peripheral vision.

  “Well, Mr Roeg,” I say to my stunted companion, “It seems I’ve found the labbia.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I ease out of the bed and lower my feet to the carpet. It’s a surprisingly chilly morning for this time of year. My pants are next to the bed, long and crumpled. Inside my pants I find my briefs, cocooned within. My belt is still threaded through the waist. A metre away, toward the end of the bed, is my shirt and suit jacket. It’s expensive clothing to have strewn across the floor, but I gave no thought to its worth when I entered this room last night, drunk and luminescent.

  I quietly dress and look at the woman still asleep. She doesn’t stir at all. She’s peaceful. Content. I leave the room in its serene glow, close the bedroom door and walk down the hallway.

  In the kitchen I look through cupboards, hoping to find painkillers. My headache is tolerable, but why tolerate it? After swinging open half a dozen doors I find a few pills. I cup tap water with my hand and wash them down. There’s a handbag sitting on its side on the small kitchen table. Inside is a wallet. The driver’s license says Delilah Jones. I couldn’t remember her damn name. Small flashes of information emerge from the fog in my head. She works for the venue we played at last night. There was a babysitter here when Delilah brought me home. I signed an autograph for her. Then she left. Then there was Delilah’s bedroom.

  My own wallet and a set of keys are next to Delilah’s handbag, which I put back into my pocket. Though my phone isn’t there.

  Then I hear a noise. A faint clicking sound. A whirring. I turn around and see something sitting on the carpet in the adjacent living room, framed by an archway. It’s a tiny, wide-eyed little creature. In one hand is a toy truck, which it wheels back and forth along the rug. It never takes its eyes off me.

  The small boy could be no more than three years old. I watch him maneuver the truck back and forth with his right hand in a semi circle. Then I hear a noise that doesn’t fit this image. A deep, masculine voice projects from the child.

  “Endeavour, do you copy?” says the voice. “Endeavour, this is flight commander Atticus O’Connor onboard the Santa Maria. Do you copy?”

  The boy looks down at the phone in his other hand, seemingly puzzled by the crackled words that appear from it.

  “Hey there,” I say to the boy. “That’s a nice truck.”

  The boy looks at me blankly. The object in his hand is not Norman. It’s my other phone. A UHF receiver. It’s one of the devices I landed with. The receiver and my phone were on my bedside dresser last night and I’ve picked up the wrong one when I left my apartment. It was turned off in my pocket and I never used it.

  I sit on the rug next to the boy, trying to keep calm. My heart is thumping in its cage, rattling the bars.

  “Do you mind if I have my phone back? I think someone is trying to speak to me.”

  I slowly reach for the receiver and the boy grasps it tightly in his hand. He doesn’t want to release it.

  “I promise you can have it back,” I say.

  The boy holds it to his chest in a chubby fist. His round face furrows.

  “How about we arm wrestle for it?” I offer.

  The boy grips the device, not responding. I could force it from him. It would be like taking a UHF receiver from a baby. But he might start to cry and I’m not sure how that would look if his mother wakes. It also makes my escape a little more awkward.

  I reach over to a nearby sofa and pick up the remote control for the adjacent television. It turns on and I quickly switch channels until I find a cartoon. The boy is watching the screen now. I turn the sound right down, the jolly music fading to zero. The boy glares at me, unimpress
ed by the lack of volume.

  I hold out the remote control. “Swap?” I ask.

  The boy reaches for the remote but still holds the receiver.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. I point at the receiver. “Let’s swap. It’s a straight deal. Let’s do this.”

  One of the cartoon’s characters starts chasing his co-star, leading to some incredibly zany moments. The boy becomes more agitated by the silence. I put the remote control in his lap and pry the phone from his tiny hand. The boy looks at me intently for a few seconds, his face tensing. He is bracing to cry. But when another outrageous exchange appears on the TV, he presses his chubby hand to the volume button.

  “Nice work,” I say and return to the kitchen.

  Commander O’Connor’s voice appears again, crackling slightly. “Endeavour, this is Commander Atticus O’Connor on board the Santa Maria. Do you copy?”

  I put the receiver to my mouth. “Commander O’Connor. It’s nice to hear from you.”

  “Captain!” says O’Connor, his voice full of relief and elation. There are cheers in the background. “God damn it is good to hear your voice.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” I reply into the small receiver, my hand shaking.

  “How is your crew?” he asks.

  I pause and take a deep breath. “They’re not with us. It’s just me.”

  There’s a moment of silence before O’Connor replies. “We’re very sad to hear that.”

  “There was an accident up there, commander. I’m very lucky to be alive.”

  “I won’t disagree,” he replies. “Well, captain, I can inform you that we are on our way to you.”

  His words take a moment to sink in. My emotions are mixed. I’m not sure how to feel. I try to sound excited. “Wow, well, that is extremely… great to hear. What’s your ETA?”

  “If our data is on the money, then we’ll be there in about eight months. You hang in there, captain.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” I smile.