The Stay-Awake Men & Other Unstable Entities

by Matthew M Bartlett

  Sure enough, the desk of my previous supervisor, Dan Wojick, had been emptied of his papers and personal effects. This was not a tremendous loss. Dan had harbored a childlike enthusiasm for goal-setting, for efficacy, and for “accountability” (my least favorite, for it presupposed wrongdoing of some kind), and he favored a kind of corporate-speak that chafed me. He'd insisted on weekly “check-in” meetings, which cut into time I needed to complete my tasks and which were quite useless, as he would do the bulk of the talking, staring almost cross-eyed at the little notebook he used to record God knows what, while I strained to not glance the wall clock behind him. He was otherwise genial, but the company had been right to eliminate his position—he was of little use.

  The Facilities department had packed the atrium full. They’d set up three rows of black-cushioned chairs on either side of the hall, as well as a row along the walkway above. Ten minutes before the spectacle was to begin, the seats had all been taken. As more staff arrived, they took their places behind the rows of chairs, or else stood on the staircase, occasionally shifting to clear a path for a latecomer. I had arrived early and claimed one of the seats in the front. It is advantageous to be seen as taking an interest.

  At precisely 11:00 a.m., spotlights along the underside of the walkway lit up and swooped over to illuminate two large metal panels in the ceiling. The Human Resources director, an unsmiling white-shirted stick figure named Blaughmann, lurched in from the reception area to a smattering of applause. He adjusted the mic at his collar and cleared his throat. The amplification of the sound caused some to chuckle. I spotted Artemis across the way, three rows in. His head swiveled left and right, eyes searching, mouth set in a scowl. I raised a hand to try to catch his attention, but he looked everywhere except in my direction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Blaughmann, “I know you are as eager as I am to greet our new management team. A lot of people worked very diligently to bring them to you, so I would like to thank Cordvassant Machines for their collaboration, and the facilities team for getting us set up. I would also like to thank you for your patience over these last weeks. I’m aware of the inconvenience it caused, and proud to see how you did not let it affect the high quality of your work. Without further ado, I present to you the Kuklalar.”

  The panels in the ceiling opened like elevator doors, and a thin humanoid figure slowly descended to the floor along a thin wire. My god, I remember thinking. It looks like a lynching. The figure was made entirely of painted and lacquered wood, down to the brown business suit, white Arrow shirt, and red necktie. Its hair was painted brown with thin grooves carved in to simulate texture, parted on the right. Its chin was on its chest. It landed on its feet, knees bending slightly, and the spotlight swooped down to frame the scene. The Kuklala crouched like a ballerina, knees apart, head down, one wooden hand splayed on the carpet. The wire retracted into the ceiling. Then the Kuklala sprang upright with a flourish, both arms in the air. Its features resembled those of a department store mannequin, thin nose, cheekbones high and haughty, the eyes sightless marbles with a faint blue glow. As the gathered crowd applauded, the Kuklala looked about the room as behind it, five more descended, landed, mimicked the actions of the first.

  They walked up and down the hall, regarding the crowd as the crowd regarded them. They were meant, I think, to appear as visiting dignitaries, or Special Guests. To me they looked rather like drill sergeants. Maybe it was because their wooden hands were clasped behind their backs, their chins upturned. They looked like they had already begun judging us and had found us wanting.

  The attitude around the office, at least among the men, toward the Kuklalar started off as an uneasy mix of humor and general resentment. They ridiculed the Kuklalar, and that ridicule was thickly laced with loathing. One afternoon I saw Stanfort, whose office was next door to mine, walking behind one of them, thrusting his hips and pumping his fists. Not long after, I heard, he got two warnings: one for insubordination and one for having violated the company's sexual harassment policy. The women viewed the Kuklalar without humor; among them there was much talk about circulating a petition, claiming that the Kuklalar had leering eyes, and were given to vague but disquieting gesticulations. It was also noted with much gravity that there were no female Kuklalar.

  For two weeks, the Kuklala who had been appointed to supervise me, whose name tag read “Tombaugh”, stood behind me and watched me work. I’ve a strong aversion to having anyone look over my shoulder, but the thing stood so damned still, I began to think of it more as furniture. Only once did it try to follow me to the restroom, and I informed it of my intention, and it spun around and resumed its place behind my chair. Its end-of-week reports were reserved but neutral, its “analyses” obvious and shallow.

  Artemis was having a tougher time of things. “Roundhill is a little martinet,” he said, one Monday morning out at the smoking area. “It countermands me. It nitpicks my work. Its reports are totally unfair. Clearly someone has informed the home office exactly what they think of me. I can't take it, man. One day I'm going to bring Roundhill right to the paper-cutter.”

  He didn't do exactly that, but what he did cost him his livelihood.

  I heard the calamity before I saw it. There were shrieks and someone--I think it was Shelly in Accounts Receivable—yelling “Water! Get water!” I pushed myself up out of my chair and stepped into the hallway, only to have to immediately duck back in. One of the Kuklalar, engulfed in roaring flames, was zipping down the hall toward the atrium. The thing emitted a terrible ceaseless squeal, a sound like amplified feedback. The knee of its left leg had locked, the tip of its shoe dragging along the carpet behind it; while the right leg mimicked the action of running. I later discovered that my eyelashes had been singed as I pulled back from the conflagration. After it passed, I stepped back out again, only to narrowly avoid a collision with Ollie, the I.T. supervisor, who was barreling after the thing. I followed.

  When I reached the atrium, the singed remains of the Kuklala were ascending into the ceiling. The panels closed and a grey cloud spilled down into the hallway. I covered my mouth and nose with my tie. After a beat or two the panels reopened and the Kuklala, just a smoking, blackened thing, spilled to the floor. As the maintenance men were detaching it from the wire, I looked up to see two security men strong-arming Artemis down the stairs. “Gregor,” Artemis was shouting. “We were friends! How can you rough-handle me like this? Where do you get the right? Are you that much of a company man?” He looked at me. “Stop this,” he said. “Don't let them do this to me.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said. I meant it. It was truly an unfortunate set of circumstances.

  It was a week later to the day when everything went to hell. The summer storm that had been predicted had swelled to a hurricane, and meteorologists fell over themselves to predict the worst. You could hear in their voices the sincere hope for a swarm of tornadoes. Management had requested a skeleton crew to remain in the office to keep systems running and to activate a series of protocols put in place in the event of a power failure. I volunteered. The offered overtime pay would afford me some much-desired financial buffer. I brought with me a folding cot, a change of clothes, a paperback book, and two days’ worth of canned meals. It was me, Dale from maintenance, Glen from I.T., and Martina from Receiving. For the first hour or so, all was still, and we began to speculate that the storm had been simply a matter of hype and hyperbole and predicting the worst in the face of a variety of weather models. The overtime pay was worth it, all agreed. We split up and went to our respective work spaces.

  I was two chapters deep into the book I’d brought when the wind kicked up hard, whistling around the corners. I heard the roar of torrential rain, and then a slam of thunder…and the lights went out.

  I tried to call Glenn's extension, and then Martina's, but the phone lines must have been affected by the storm. The emergency lights hadn't come on, which means the backup generators hadn’t activated—and that system had been ad
vertised as being able to withstand even the most savage of winds. Without it, we couldn’t protect our systems, couldn’t preserve nor protect our data nor the specimens in our labs. I activated the flashlight on my cellphone and headed down the hall to meet the others at the atrium—it seemed to me the natural spot to convene and to try to determine where the failure was. I shone my flashlight on the floor in front of me as I went.

  About halfway there, I heard over the whistling of the wind a faint noise like blinds being drawn. The sound increased in volume and I raised the flashlight and peered into the gloom. A pale oval emerged from the darkness, morphed into a face. Then out of the blackness sailed one of the Kuklalar. Its head had sprung from its neck and bounced gently atop a thick metal coil through which ran wires red, blue and black. It stared at me crookedly with one eye; the other lolled low, as though monitoring the condition of the carpet. Its arm raised slightly as it passed, as if to touch me, and I pressed myself against the wall, barely avoiding contact. It turned right into the darkness of one of the conference rooms, and I heard a slurred and low voice mumble something I could not quite make out, and then utter a shrieking cackle.

  I hurried in the opposite direction, toward the atrium, the glow from the flashlight bouncing before me. When I arrived, I saw that a Kuklala had pushed Dale up against the wall. Its mouth was at Dale's ear, and it was shoving at him with its hands. Dale bellowed NO, NO, NO, like he was trying to communicate with some rabid animal, and elbowing the thing to no avail. I grabbed it by its shoulder pads and flung it to the ground. Dale collapsed onto his stomach, then rolled onto his back. His face was very pale and his eyes were unfocused. Then they did focus—he was looking beyond me, and his face betrayed a hopeless terror.

  I turned. The Kuklala's stomach had swelled, burst from its shirt. Red fault lines spread along its surface until finally it split wide, spilling an abundance of what appeared to be wooden marbles out onto the carpet. I picked one up and instantly threw it back to the floor with a shout. It was slick to the touch, wet with a foul smelling oil of some kind. It smelled like maggoty garbage, like gangrene and spoiled meat. I gagged helplessly. Dale shrieked. The marbles had begun to unfurl, little legs and arms pulling away from the bodies, little faces, dead faces. I clambered to my feet as they swarmed over him. They tore at his flesh and spit it away. To this day I have never heard a sound such as the one Dale was making, from man nor animal, nor do I wish to ever again.

  Another Kuklala sprung from the shadows. Expansive black wings unfolded at its back. Its eyes went black and its mouth expanded and opened, great tusk-like fangs sprouting from the wooden gums. Its hands turned to talons and then its feet did as well, the shoes growing fault lines, splitting, falling to the ground. It rose toward the ceiling like some great ascending demon, then swooped down onto Martina. It grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her up toward the skylights. Its legs began to kick at her the way a kitten kicks a toy, shredding her lower back. Tattered clothing and skin fell among the rain of blood into the atrium.

  I fled into the storm. The wind and rain lashed me, whipped at my clothing. I got into my car and caught my breath. I closed my eyes. I wondered whether I should go back in, whether I should call the Employee Service Hotline. At that thought I had to laugh. Some kid making twelve dollars an hour. What would I tell him? I opened my eyes, and saw a Kuklala approaching my car. It was about ten yards away. It had shed its clothing. Wooden nipples dotted its chest, and awful prosthetic genitalia bounced grotesquely as it approached. Its mouth was a gaping maw, blacker than the storm clouds above. Its eyes glowed a fierce blue. I put the car in reverse, keeping my eyes locked on its eyes. I hit the gas hard and backed out of the lot, backed down the access road until its eyes were small specks smeared by the rain on the windshield. Then I put the car in drive, spun it around, and drove straight to Artemis’s house.

  Laurel Woods had begun as a sylvan spiritual or religious community in the mid-1700s; the exact nature of the faith lost to time. It started as not much more than a cluster of cabins around a central meeting area, where ancient trees had been sheared away, their stumps fashioned into crude seats facing a massive oak cut into an altar. The community lasted well into the 1980s, cabins morphing into houses, the meeting area growing a ceilinged and plant-strewn pergola, until one November day the residents vanished. It was not the sort of case where food was left cooking, televisions blaring at empty rooms, books laid unfinished in unmade beds; no, the houses were emptied to the bare walls, rooms swept, fixtures and sinks immaculately cleaned. After some push-and-pull between the banks and the city, developers swarmed in. Thus commenced renovations and updates and inspections and assessments, and after a time the houses were put up for sale. They were considerably cheaper (and considerably smaller) than the houses closer to the city center, but they were solid and well-built, and after a series of well-attended community open-houses, they did not sit on the market for long.

  Artemis lived in Laurel Woods in a post-modern looking little house shaped like an angled tower; its north-facing wall mostly glass. The considerable foliage kept the sun out; otherwise for several long hours a day the glare would be unconducive to habitation. The living space consisted of three stories connected by a spiral staircase. Except for the ground floor kitchen and bathroom, each story consisted of only one room. The second floor housed the living room; the topmost the bedroom, smallish due to the angled ceiling and the abbreviation by a walled-off crawlspace for storage, accessible by a half-door. Artemis had invited me over for dinner on two or three occasions after I’d started work at A.I.I. Decoration was not among his strong suits. The walls remained bare; the furniture a hodgepodge of Salvation Army couches and armchairs and tables, some ancient and hardy; others fashioned from chipped particle board. Books stood in askew towers along the walls of the living room. An old boxy television dozed atop a slightly bowed, faded red milk crate whose interstices were topped with a layer of dust; I’d wondered whether the thing even worked. The whole of the house was lit with crookedly screwed together halogen floor lamps. Cobwebs fluttered in the corners at the ceiling.

  As I approached Laurel Woods, I could see light blazing from all the windows in Artemis’s house; it threw shadow-strewn light into the treetops. I pulled up behind his silver Mercury Sable, and I saw that his front door stood open, spilling light onto the walk. I got out of my car, headed up the walk, and entered. No one was in the kitchen, but sounds emanated from up the stairs; I heard a woman titter with laughter, heard someone hush her. “Artemis?” I called. “I’m coming up.” My voice sounded foolish to me, cracked and almost hysterical.

  I had ascended about halfway up the staircase when a shadow fell over me. Artemis was looking down at me. His hair was wild, his grin wilder, his eyes wilder still. “I wondered if you’d come,” he said. His voice sounded odd, the way one sounds after several injections of Novocain, or, further, with a dentists’ tools invading the cave of his mouth. The lower part of his face had swollen slightly, his jowls and cheeks flushed red.

  I just stared, my hand gripping the railing. “Come up,” he said, backing up and out of my range of vision. “Come up and see.”

  When I attained the landing, I saw the two young women from work sitting cross-legged on the sagging couch. They were naked, covering their torsos with perspiration-browned pillows. Their faces were as red as rust. I felt myself redden too. Behind the couch stood Artemis, clad only in a faded blue bathrobe. His hands sat on the bare shoulder of each woman. Splayed out before the women on the low coffee table were parts of a disassembled Kuklala. Its bulbous genitalia were stuffed into a beer mug, lolling in a yellow-orange liquid. Its head sat on its side, the face painted over with a terrible screaming visage, all smeared lipstick and blackened eyes. Severed bird wings and wooden marbles were scattered across the table, and incense cones sent ceilingward fecal brown ribbons, like smokestacks in a surreal city. The incense reeked with a sharp smell I could not identify. Books lay open between the wom
en on the couch, old books, frayed fingers of string reaching from their tattered spines. The smell of the ancient paper merged with the odor of the incense, and I felt a pulse of nausea in my belly.

  The room swelled, the walls bulging outward, the lights intensifying. The ceiling lifted and the floor sagged like a tarp over hot gelatin. I struggled to maintain my footing. Artemis laughed. So did the girls. Then they flung away their pillows; in slow motion they sailed through the air.

  “There was a price,” the girls said in unison, their voices husky and low. “There is always a price.” Artemis’s lips moved in time with their words.

  Artemis opened his mouth and draped his fattened tongue down over his chin. Planted in the tongue was an eyeball, a black horizontal pupil ringed in green-brown. The red, bruised edges of his tongue closed over it like eyelids and opened again, a vertical white inner eyelid briefly visible as it opened like a sliding door.

  “He’s seen inside us,” said the girls, mouthed Artemis. “Deep…deep...”

  Artemis let his bathrobe fall to the floor. He approached me, somehow able to maintain his balance on the undulating floor, his hands grasping, three eyes burning.

  I was fired from A.I.I. by telephone for dereliction of duty. Staff had to be flown in to recover lost data; the last I heard, seventy percent or so had been recovered. The lab losses were unrecoverable. The cost, they said, depleted whatever severance to which I might otherwise have been entitled. I have enough savings to get me by for a month, maybe a few weeks beyond that if I am uncharacteristically frugal. I have a retirement fund from which I might borrow, with considerable penalties.

  I do not mind. Even with my newly acquired disabilities, I am still eminently hirable. I have experience with terrible things, with unspeakably cruel ecstasies. The vagaries and challenges of the workaday world will offer the banality I need. The tracks that hang over me; the wires from which I depend: I trust that they will guide me.