Coin-Operated Machines

by Alan Spencer

  "So you didn't write me." It came out just as he thought it, all hope for saving a relationship with his sister a failure.

  She refused to console him. "Like I said, it was them, whoever's in the air. It's supernatural or...or it's..."

  "It's death," James broke in, his fingers posed contemplatively on his chin, rethinking everything he believed about the predicament in Blue Hills. "These voices are obviously doing things to bring in people from the outside, including you, Brock."

  "It brought me here too," Angel conceited, getting up, and searching through the mini-fridge and discovering a bottle of rum. The fridge was already open. Angel told them she'd put money into the slot without knowing what it meant and the door opened on its own. She tilted the bottle into her mouth, sucking it down, and Brock was surprised when she offered him a taste. "I'm sure you need this as much as I do."

  "I'm sober now."

  To her, it was a fuck you.

  She asked James, "How about you? You get your life together too?"

  "Maybe later I'll have a drink," he said.

  Not discouraged by their declines, Angel downed the rest of the mini-bottle and claimed another one in the fridge, but not before saying, "I was led here with my boyfriend. He's a drug dealer. He said he got a call about a cheap deal going down in Blue Hills. The details were sketchy, but it brought us here. That's when the man with the axe got a hold of us. Then I woke in a room, my head was on a hook, and my boyfriend, I don't know what happened to him."

  She mentioned the detail without any shift in emotion. She was still addicted. Her boyfriend was a resource, a tool to receive drugs and nothing more. The front of sex and fake romance won most dealers over. Nothing much had changed since the last time Brock talked to her when she left the rehab clinic in Beverly Hills.

  "So this force in town, it's bringing in new people," James said to himself and then snapped his fingers once. "Yes, it makes sense. To bring in more money, right? How else would this horrible place keep trickling on?"

  "But why create this situation in the first place?" Brock refocused the conversation to getting out of this room and searching for Hannah. "I have to find Hannah. I think this axe guy, what's-his-name, Chuck Durnham, is the only way to go forward. We have to get him in a position where he'll tell us what he knows. We can talk all we want, because it's only guesses. We're wasting our time in here."

  "Good luck getting to him," James scoffed. "He's too dangerous. He'll turn you into us. Cut you into pieces and bring you back to life, and then you'll need money to survive too. Problem is, there's not much of it around here anymore. Money's next to impossible to find."

  "And it's not dangerous being here doing what we're doing now? It's not safe anywhere. What makes you think you'll live that much longer being a coward?"

  Angel sipped on the bottle, making a whistle sound with her lips. "What makes you think we want to live at all?"

  Brock ignored her. "I know you want to live, James. I know your wife is gone, but what about your friends? What about your life? Look into the future. There has to be something about life that you still want to enjoy. You don't have to be the victim."

  He appealed to Angel this time, returning to the optimism that created this trip and the hope his sister would one day care about him. "You can hate me, Angel, and I can be mad that I'm here indirectly because of you, or I can help you. We can save each other. How about it?"

  "Big brother comes to the rescue. Man, fuck off. Some therapist told you that you needed closure or a good cry with me. That's why you're here, and that's the only reason." Her drink was starting to kick in. She gave him a vicious smile that could cut through glass. "The feel good plan has blown up in your face, big bro."

  "I'm here because I'm better now. I want you to be better too. That won't change, no matter what gets in the way."

  "Shove the greeting card bullshit right up your greasy butthole. I remember how you used to be, and you know what? You could be lying about your being clean. Once a junky—"

  "'—Always a junkie.' I've heard that crap, and I don't believe it. I'm off it. I've got a job. I've got a good life."

  "Hah, being a judge on a talent show?" Angel forced herself to laugh. "You're a monkey with a tambourine. You're washed up. People like washed up famous people on TV. Washed up assholes make viewers feel better about themselves. You're still the man who squandered our father's fortune. You're still the coke-nosed brat who fell from the top of the world and landed in the gutter, so don't tell me about your being clean, or how I could be like you if I tried. Just fucking shut up about it already."

  Brock raised his voice and grabbed her shoulders, really digging his grip in deep. His face was inches from hers. "I'm engaged to Hannah. You remember her? She's working on a movie. She's working again. She's clean too. I love her, and I'm happy. I want you to be my sister, but right now, it's me, your brother, telling you I want us to be a family again. Perhaps even friends, like old times when the walls weren't falling down around us. I mean it what I'm saying to you. I miss you, Angel. I want you to be a part of my wedding. I want to be involved in your life somehow. We have problems, but let's grow up and be adults. All I'm asking for is an honest fucking chance, Angel, so quit playing the victim and let's escape this town with our lives."

  Brock couldn't read her expression, because her face had turned into a blank slate. She collected her thoughts, and he was immediately disgusted by what she had in store for him. The smile on her face, it was one that admitted it knew every word she said would hurt him, and she loved inflicting the pain.

  "I'm sure Hannah's still a junkie, and you've found someone who enjoys lying to themselves as much as you do, Brock. So enjoy your new coke whore. Fuck you, Brock. I'm not buying a word you're telling me, so go back to your new buddy and figure it the fuck out because that's all I care about right now; not you, and certainly not your life's progress."

  What he wanted to unleash upon her was preempted by James who had stripped the barricade down piece-by-piece. James pressed his hand against the door as if to push it forward. The man's face then turned confused.

  James gasped in horror, "No, no, no, no, no." He turned to Brock as an infectious panic spread on his face. "The door, it changed. We can't escape!"

  JENNA SHARPE

  The woman who came from the bridge holding the gun was named Jenna Sharpe. Willy dated her when he was sixteen for two months. It was a hold your hands in the hallway of your high school scenario and kiss and hug before class situation. Jenna was also the prettiest girl in the school. She was also the captain of the cheerleading squad and in the dreams of any red blooded adolescent school boy. Now in Blue Hills, Jenna's face was sullied by the snarl of pure animosity. Cruelty replaced beauty. She despised him, and he didn't know why. Her clothing was wet from crossing the creek. She visibly shivered when the wind picked up. Her black hair was disheveled and pasted onto her face. Her face was cherry, burned by the wind. Jenna was malnourished looking, twenty pounds too skinny.

  Closing in on Willy, Jenna demanded, "You're going back to your car, and you're driving me where I tell you to go. No questions. You try anything, I'll shoot you. All I want you to do is drive."

  Willy turned back towards the car, praying he didn't get a bullet in the back. She was shaken and disturbed. Maybe she had seen some horrible things today as well.

  She kept whispering to herself. "Why am I the one? Why me? Why do I have to do this? I never wanted any of this in my life."

  "Who's making you do what?" Willy blurted out.

  The gun's nozzle was jammed into his back. "Say nothing to me! My family's dead. My husband's dead. I had to shoot them both. I killed them because they tried to kill me. Over five dollars. Five fucking dollars. You don't think I'll kill you too?"

  "Whoa, whoa, I'm sorry. It sounds like we both need the police. You see, back at that historical house, some people—"

  "Say nothing else!" The Oldsmobile was right in front of him. "Get in the car. Drive
where I tell you to drive and shut your mouth. This is all because of you. They're dead because of you."

  "What the hell did I do? I just arrived in town hours ago. Whatever's happened, I assure you it's not my fault. I'll help you any way I can. Please put down the gun. Let's talk and sort this out. I'll drive you anywhere, Jenna, I promise. It's not a problem."

  She didn't hear him except for the word "drive." "Yes, drive. Cross the bridge. I'll tell you where to go after that. No more talking. Just drive."

  Jenna had jittery hands, including the finger that hovered over the trigger. She had a nervous tick. She was seeing things as her eyes strayed to the horizon, as if re-living terrible things. He could sense it the way her eyes tensed and un-tensed. Willy decided it was best to leave her be. He would drive to where she told him to, and maybe the destination would answer a few questions about her and what was happening in Blue Hills. What occurred at the reading of the will could've been happening everywhere else too.

  Willy still didn't understand what exactly had happened at the reading of the will.

  There was no way to explain someone's body parts popping off.

  Driving beyond the bridge, they traveled along back roads and among heavy woods. He didn't see much else. Town was up north a few miles, but Jenna wanted him to hang a left at an unmarked side road. Of all the things he guessed would've happened today in his old home town of Blue Hills, Willy never imagined being held at gunpoint by his ex-girlfriend he hadn't seen in years. Talking to her was like begging for a bullet. If she thought he was responsible for what was happening, then she must've been terrified of him.

  Knowing this, Willy kept his question simple. "Are you going to kill me?"

  The twitch of a smile, her neurons were firing all wrong. Her face was a living jigsaw puzzle of emotions. "No, I'm not going to kill you."

  She said it as if she regretted it.

  The wheels kept turning, and Willy wasn't sure where they were driving to, but he soon recognized the back road. Houses would crop up out of the thick every so often. Finally, the two story yellow painted house appeared and Jenna asked him to turn in the driveway. He couldn't help but give a start doing this.

  It was his uncle's house.

  The one that burned down fifteen years ago.

  LOCKED IN

  Brock had to confirm the truth for himself. The bolt to the hotel room's door was unlocked, but there was a steel square stuck between the door and the wall panel that impeded any movement. In the middle was the slit opening for a coin.

  "James, did you see it happen? Did you see the steel appear?"

  "No." James grabbed Brock's arm, shaking him. "You have more change, right? Tell me you've got more pocket change!"

  "Whoa, wait. So what you're saying is you put a coin in it, and it opens."

  "Everything requires money to function, yes. I already went over this."

  "We're like vending machines, but we're not full of candy," Angel chimed in. Brock recognized her for a moment, the person who could make the weirdest jokes at the drop of a dime, but then she was gone. Angel was once again his long lost sister who was drunk and craving cocaine.

  "The only way to go about this is apprehending that axe guy," Brock proposed again. "Whatever it takes, we'll make him answer our questions. I'll find Hannah, and then we can ask him what he's doing with that money."

  "I remember him assembling me," Angel said, thinking out loud. "I saw body parts all over the place. I think I woke when I wasn't supposed to. He was freaked out by my 'wide eyes' looking at him. He took me apart, then he put something in me, and then rebuilt me. I don't think he always succeeds in rebuilding people. That place was a killing floor. A butcher's block. Blood everywhere."

  "Where were you when that happened?" James came to her side and lowered to one knee. "What else do you remember? You must tell us everything about that experience. Any details that come to mind, please."

  Brock was surprised she responded to James. "It was in a room, a dark room. I can't recall anything else. After it's done, I wake up in the street, sensing this need to find money, and I end up here, falling asleep on the bed, and then you woke me. As far as the sleep goes, I also remember nothing. Nothing at all. It's pretty much like I was dead in every way."

  James returned to the door, re-attempting to open it and once again failing. "Damn it, we're trapped. We're getting nowhere."

  Brock went about checking the bathroom. The door was closed, also locked in place by a steel plate into the doorframe with a slit in the middle. The access begged to be fed, he thought. He bent down to check the air vent, also secured by two steel plates. "No other way out. It's all secure."

  "Fuck this bullshit!" James shouted, lifting up a chair and hurling it into the wall. The connection merely cracked the plaster. Beneath the cracks was solid steel.

  James pointed at the wall. "H-how did that happen? None of us heard it change. It would've been loud, wood being replaced by steel, right? I've been asking this myself the whole time, so why do I keep on asking now? There's no Goddamn answer."

  "You still can't give up." Brock leaned against the wall, trying to think of the next step. "So we're trapped. So we think outside the box."

  James wasn't prone to accept positivity at this point. "We can readjust our thinking all we want. We're trapped. End of story."

  Angel expressed the sentiment better. "We're fucked."

  TIM HAWKER'S HOUSE

  Uncle Hawker's house wasn't located in the woods when Willy was a kid. It was actually located along a residential area of older houses the city wanted to demolish almost two decades ago to build a new highway system that connected to the Interstate. Considering how strange it was the new location of the house, it was also strange the house was here because it had burned down. Those charred remains were cleared out and the property was used for the interstate project, but that didn't seem to matter today. Everything happening in Blue Hills kept defying reality, and something else was going to happen soon to further cement the fact.

  There was a long driveway a quarter of a mile long that also didn't exist when his uncle's house was first around. Jenna kept her gun steady in her hand, urging him to keep going. Willy feared the house with every turn of the wheels.

  What made the house return?

  Willy asked Jenna that question. She didn't hear him at first, then moments later, she snapped out of her inner thoughts. Jenna gave him a long stare. His question had confounded her, so she said, "You know why the house is here. You know why all of this is happening. Quit playing dumb. It doesn't make me hate you any less. Playing dumb won't save you. It won't save anyone."

  The scathing words didn't hit home like she intended to. There was fear in her eyes. Her act was a front, so he did something bold. Once they were in front of the house, Willy slammed down on the gas. The car lurched forward with a jerk, and then he struck the brakes. Jenna was pushed forward, and Willy braced himself as she hit the dash. He grabbed the gun out of her hands, stole the keys, and rushed out of the car.

  Willy's hands shook in the pistol's grip. He didn't want the weapon, but he also didn't want a crazy bitch's bullet in his back either. Jenna stumbled out with her hands to her face. Her nose was bloodied. He was about to apologize to her, but the blow served to numb her anger.

  They stood together in silence, the car the only thing between them.

  "What do we do now?' Willy demanded. "If I would've gone along with your plan, what would you tell me to do next?"

  Jenna didn't seem to care. "My job's done. You're here." Her hands trembled at saying this next bit. "I'm through with my part."

  "You're...through? Through with what?"

  Jenna wore a sarcastic smile. Then the expression crumbled into one of intense loathing. "Life isn't much when you think about it, Willy. You're given a few chances to really appreciate it, and when you do appreciate it the most, that's the moment it's about to be taken away from you." She dabbed a tear out of the corner of her eye. "Not
everybody can say they truly appreciated life when the end comes. I should count it as a blessing that I had that chance to experience that moment of clarity."

  Her explanation was cut short. He heard the uncoiling of a spring, like rusty metal scraping against rusty metal. What had happened to Tally suddenly happened to Jenna. An unseen force popped off her head from the neck with a splitting of skin and a gush of arterial sprays. Her arms spat out of the sockets, launching them across the lawn. They landed like two planks of stiff wood. When her legs went out from under her, Willy ran for the car.

  "Fuck this!"

  Willy gathered up the keys, dropped them, and had to get on his hands and knees to scoop them up from the ground. His body had gone stiff with fear. He reserved his mental capacities for one goal. Drive the hell out of there.

  He managed to pick up the keys and guide them into the door's lock. It scraped metal and wouldn't go into the hole.

  "What the—!"

  The key hole was blocked by a square of steel.

  Willy shattered the window with the butt of the pistol after four blows. He cleared the glass from the edges and reached in to open the door. It came open, and he cleared the glass from the upholstery the best he could before sitting down.

  The car's ignition was blocked by a piece of steel.

  Without knowing why, the car tipped backwards. Both back tires popped, startling him. The smell of scorched meat, the iron in blood, and tang of something ripe, wrong, and dead caused him to gag and cover his nose and mouth. The car lowered itself. Willy saw it happen in the rearview mirror first. The back tires were sinking into a puddle of boiling hot tar. Soon, the car tipped upwards like a sinking cruise liner into the ocean.

  Sprinting from the car, Willy was surrounded by the boiling tar. The only place he could run was towards the front steps of his uncle's house. Once there, he inspected the tar better. There were color swirls and tints to the substance, lots of reds, greens, blacks, and flesh tones. Willy kept smelling something offal. It turned his stomach. He wanted to puke, yet his fear kept the urge at bay. His senses refused to let down their guard. Danger surrounded him.