Coin-Operated Machines

by Alan Spencer

  Staring harder at the burning black stuff, various bones began to surface. Boiled clean skulls and human spines mostly, each boiling in the mess, and soon, sucked back down with a short burst of noxious bubbles.

  All along the yard, high pressure puffs of air cut up the grass, slicing it up into thin clods that shot up head high. The remains of Jenna's body sank into the damaged earth as the black tar pooled up from the holes and melted the human remains in seconds. What used to be his old girlfriend was now dissolved.

  The yard was filling up with the black as more of the turf was blown away by pockets of surging air. Willy wasn't sure where to run to. The entire stretch of the yard was boiling in black. He stood on the cement walkway, waiting for the black to reach out to him and pull him under and kill him.

  Voices on the air arrived out of nowhere and everywhere. The words caused his skin to prick and pang. Willy went stiff taking in what they said to him.

  "Hello welcome/good to see you again, Willy/come inside, we have a lot of catching up to do/this is all for you, Willy/please come in so we can reacquaint ourselves/just step inside where it's safe, Willy/come on in and we'll talk."

  The black sledge edged towards the concrete steps, causing steam to rise. He wasn't sure if the house was safe, but it was better than dying right here right now. Willy dodged the black stuff by opening the door and entering the house.

  PLANNING AN ESCAPE

  Brock returned to the problem at hand. "Do we know anything else about this axe guy?"

  Angel said, "He was once a fireman."

  "James already told me that." Brock was annoyed. "Was he possessed? Did he go crazy? What made him do the things he's doing now?"

  Something occurred to James suddenly. "He's not possessed or crazy, I don't think. But when he's close by, sometimes I notice he's got that oil on him. The oil that comes up from the ground. The oil's full of bones and it reeks of death. Maybe that's what changed him. The oil."

  "You're saying the dead are inside him?"

  "I'm saying I don't know anything about the oil. I'm just guessing. Whatever it is, it's obviously bad."

  "He's only guessing, Brock," Angel said, twisting her head at him and giving him that manipulative smile. She could con charity out of its life savings with that evil smile. "Why don't you back off of us? Nobody knows what's really happening except that we'll either be asleep or dead soon. I'm sure that axe guy knows we're here. He'll chop down the door and clean us out of money. End of story."

  "But why do it at all?" Brock expected Angel's snappy response. "I know, I know, Jesus, nobody knows why, but I'm asking anyway. Why make people operate on money? It's ironic."

  "Ironic," Angel scoffed. "You're ridiculous, Brock. Are you sure you're clean? You're talking like an idiot."

  "I mean it's like someone's joke or statement about society."

  James understood him. "It's been planned, it seems. I get what you're saying. But who is pulling it off? Whatever means it would take to pull this off, it's incredible."

  "We must find that axe man and shake him down."

  Angel shoved a pillow in her face and stifled a scream. "This is ridiculous! You guys are talking in circles. And if you go against that man, you're going to get yourselves killed."

  Brock was angry. "That man hasn't done anything to me. I'm not a machine yet. I can fight him."

  The information served as a slap to her face. "Oh please. You'll be his next victim. You're a fucking pansy, Brock."

  "You guys must hate each other," James said, a smile crossing his face that Brock wanted to punch off. "Dysfunction city."

  "That's what the Richards family is famous for." Angel stood up. She was tired of resting on the bed. She moved closer to James to better spell it out. "Big brother joined me in snorting our way through millions. It was our father's fortune. You've heard of Gene Richards, haven't you?"

  "Yeah, he was as funny as David Letterman on his late night show. The human petting zoo was his funniest bit. Funnier than Leno's "Headlines.""

  "Yeah, funnier than "Headlines,"" Angel said sadly.

  "So big brother lets me get addicted to coke, watches me fuck any stranger I could get my hands on, and lord knows, I could've been raped and he wouldn't know it and wouldn't give a shit either."

  "Angel, it's complicated," Brock insisted. "You're right. I'm a terrible brother. But I'm trying to change. I have changed."

  James asked them to help him try and break through the door again. The attempts were futile. They smashed the mini-fridge into the door, and the grain wasn't dented or broken. Using that disappointment, they dismantled the bed, twisting the legs off and using them as clubs, and as they beat against the door, doing more harm to their bludgeons than the door, Angel searched for change underneath the square of carpet that was revealed. Cursing after coming up empty, she rubbed the dust bunnies off her arms and sat down in the corner chair, shaking her head at them disapprovingly.

  Brock snarled, "Instead of giving up, why don't you help?"

  "Because you're not getting out of here without money."

  James was out-of-breath and plopped onto the floor in a defeated pile. "Fine, you're right. I can't do anymore." He joked to himself, "I'm too old for this shit."

  Brock sat down next to him. "It's not good for the back, these life and death situations."

  The room was still for a moment, all of them turning over their own thoughts, struggling with the situation their own way, until Angel spoke up. "There is one good thing about our predicament."

  Brock couldn't wait to hear it. "And what would that be?"

  "I haven't had the craving. It's as if I've never had cocaine before. The memory of it is there, but the physical part of it is gone. It's very strange, but I like it."

  "I got through my morning without coffee," James joked. "I can drink an entire pot in a day, easy. I'm retired. That's what I do. I drink coffee. I've taken up whittling. Owls, turkeys, chickadees, any Virginia fauna I could dream up with my knife, I'd create. My wife would keep feeding me coffee out on my back deck facing the woods, and she'd say, "It's coming along, isn't it" no matter how good or shitty my projects turned out. I'd sell the good ones at the annual state fair. How silly is that? Don't I sound retired? I'd make three to four hundred dollars in a good year. That's a good year."

  "That's not silly," Angel said, though she was still spaced out on her own thoughts to care too deeply about James and his whittling. "Not silly at all."

  "Maybe not, but I could be doing other things. My wife wanted to travel more. I thought we didn't have the money. It's stupid now, considering all of this. She's gone forever. We could've traveled to every spot in Europe, seen Egypt, and I worried about money. It's such a waste of life."

  Brock rested his hands against his knees and faced the floor. That's when he closed his eyes for a moment. Relaxing enough to steady his thoughts, the easy going moment was ended when James suddenly shrieked in agony.

  WELCOME, WILLY

  When Willy closed the front door, it locked itself. A steel panel formed between the door knob and the wall that kept him from opening it back up. Willy wanted to find a way to open it again, but the room itself stopped him. It was exactly like his late uncle's when he was a little kid. The living room was quaint with the couch covered by a floral print spread. A brown and white rug took up most of the floor space. An old RCA record player stood among a vast collection of vintage records. The fire place was dead in the brick wall. Uncle Tim let him light the match and put it to rolled up newspapers that started the fire during the winter.

  A stabbing feeling of nostalgia hit him. Willy enjoyed standing in this house, but it was something that shouldn't be. The past couldn't happen again, and here he was, living it as a young adult, standing in a house that didn't exist, a house that wasn't where it was supposed to be. He lived in this house the last two years of his uncle's life. His parents divorced when Willy was only six years old. Their scathing and violent fights between a truck driver
with an alcohol problem and a lonely housewife with an even bigger alcohol dependency created irreconcilable differences. Willy had seen both his parents hit each other. He had seen his mother's nose broken on two different occasions. The last fight, his father had thrown Willy's mother down the stairs and broke her neck. She survived, but she never walked the same. Ever since then, his mother wanted nothing to do with her ex-husband or the child they brought into the world. The custody battle wasn't a battle. They gave Willy up to Uncle Tim and his Aunt Shirley. The two scooped him up with open arms and loved him. The two years in this house were the best of Willy's childhood.

  The feeling of nostalgia passed. Willy had to call the police. He hurried through the kitchen and located the phone on the wall. A steel plate blocked the number keys. He noticed the thin slot in the middle. It was like an opening.

  "What the hell is this?"

  Willy then peered out the living room window. The pools of tar were gone, but the holes in the yard remained. Steam exuded from them as if the black tar was on standby. If he tried to escape, he would be melted by the sick stuff.

  There was no trace of Jenna's body.

  What she said to him before her body went to pieces made it seem like he had something to do with what had been happening. Willy wasn't clear what part he played in this bizarre situation, if any, but these events were taking a strange turn. The black stuff had guided him into the house. This was all meant for him somehow.

  He wasn't sure what to do with himself now that he was in the house, so he gave himself the tour. Willy walked to the top level, to his aunt and uncle's room. It was the same as it had been when he was a kid, so he moved on. In his old room, Willy had the same space themed wall paper. It looked like he was looking back at earth from another planet. He used to dig the idea of being an astronaut, even though he later became a financial advisor for Bank U.S.A. instead of an astronaut. He had been unemployed for the last six months. His wife, Summer, was at home on paternity leave from being a second grade school teacher. He decided to take the trip for the reading of the will (very unexpected fifteen years later, but the mail they received was official; even the office he called confirmed the will was real) to be alone to clear his mind and get out of the house. Summer was driving him crazy with talk about taking a lower paying job to pay the bills. Willy couldn't picture himself working for less money. Summer said it was a man thing, and Willy agreed. His pride couldn't take the hit.

  A long drive alone after gaining some kind of money from the will would've hit the spot, but what was happening in Blue Hills, he was beginning to worry if he'd ever make it out of this town alive.

  Willy returned to the first floor and pondered his next move. The basement was the last place he hadn't been in the house. Uncle Tim kept it locked up when he was a kid. Under no circumstances are you to go down alone, Willy, his uncle advised. The things down there are precious to me. My things are fun to play with, but they are delicate. I've worked hard on them for many years. They're the most precious things I own.

  In the basement, those were the best times he had in the house. He was curious about the room, and he wasn't sure why he didn't go straight down into the cellar to begin with.

  When he tried the door to the cellar, the lock crunched.

  The door was locked.

  HANNAH

  One of Hannah's eyes were glued shut and the other could barely open. Afraid to move, and weakened to the point that she couldn't move, Hannah remained still. She felt something cold and wet absorb into the clothing on her back. Every muscle in her body tightened, and to avoid those cramping muscles, she turned to one side. New things came into view. Folds of a tarp spread out on the floor and the mysterious lump underneath the blue canvas. Working up the strength to check the other side of her body, she moaned in more pain, then gave up moving for a moment.

  Hannah smacked her lips. Her mouth was bone-dry. She kept trying to open the other eye, but it was fused shut. Closing her good eye to calm her head, she started listening. She recognized the roll of tires. The vehicle was driving down a winding back road. She detected the rustle of tree limbs and the gusts of wind. She had been in the woods with Brock before she woke, but Brock wasn't here, or she thought he wasn't here. She shouted for him and only a mouse's whisper exited her throat. The sounds were clotted by phlegm, and the taste of blood in the back of her throat caused her to gag.

  Hannah questioned if she was paralyzed, because she suddenly couldn't move anymore. She finally did turn her neck, and this time, she screamed, unleashing her emotions at the face next to hers slicked over in blood. A gnarly wound split open the victim's sinus cavity. The lips were split in half as was the chin. She could see inside the bones of the victim's sinus cavity. The wound was the shape of an upside down door wedge, or the blade of an axe. Yes, it was the blade of an axe, she decided. She replayed the attack in the woods from earlier, how Brock was shoved into the raging river by the hulking attacker and swept downriver, probably drowned, and here she was in the back of the axe man's truck being driven to God knows where. Helpless with this information, she was unable to do anything but scream, and that's when she folded to the anxiety and passed out in shock.

  Hannah's head was the only thing swinging back and forth, and the motion woke her. Opening her good eye, Hannah face's was pressed up against the fabric of a t-shirt. The article was placed over her head like a hood. She could smell him, her captor, the man with the golden axe, in whiffs of armpit and the musk of hard work. She kept silent, not letting the man know she was awake. She still couldn't move.

  She felt the sensation of being moved, traveling from outdoors to the inside of a shelter where the air was stifling and thick. The man had kicked open a door and worked his way inside with grunts of effort. The way got darker, the cover of night turning into solid pitch black. She was spun right side up, then upside down, and then dropped on her side onto a cold concrete floor. The half of her face pressed onto the ground was covered in syrupy blood, and she could feel its thick and cold composition.

  Mimicking a scream without the vocal payoff, Hannah stayed motionless and strewn like an article of wet clothing. The man kicked open a door again and another body was placed up against her back. He kept repeating the work, bringing in a new body, then unloading it, until he was finished and went about another task. This wasn't a man, she believed, but a lunatic.

  Her head wriggled out of the t-shirt. She viewed the room, throwing her good eye up to the walls, the floors, the corners of the room, anywhere the moonlight managed to sneak through the windows in the room. Every surface glistened wet with red.

  She counted seven times the man had kicked open the door and re-entered with a new body. Whatever he was going to do here, it wasn't going to end well. Hannah tried working her fingers. No nerve connection, it seemed, or synapse communication. She was a lump of immovable flesh.

  Tears spooled out of her eyes; she drew comfort from the act. Thoughts entered her mind, mostly of Brock. She had seen his body swept up in the white current, floating along like a stray buoy. Was he alive?

  He was unconscious hitting the water. How could he have swam to safety?

  Failing to lie to herself in order to patch her broken hope, she understood Brock wouldn't be here to save her. She had to survive this on her own.

  Once again faced with the prospect of death, Hannah waited, listened, and prayed in her head that all would somehow be well in the end, even when the lights in the room flickered on and everything in the room could clearly be seen.

  Life re-entered Hannah's body. A paralysis continued to keep her shiftless. She was really frozen in place by something else she wouldn't understand for another few moments. She had been lifted down from up high as if she'd been hanging from the ceiling by the grungy killer who shed his hot stench in her direction as he worked. She had been stripped naked, because she could see her own clothing strewn on the floor. The man placed her onto a wooden table and turned her over. A hot bullet finger tr
aveled up her spine, and then she smelled a magic marker and the wet tip tracing both her shoulder blades.

  The fear in her only accumulated. Forced still by her atrophied muscles, she was unable to crawl from the wooden surface or the tabletop. Then she smelled something horrible, far worse than the man's body odor. It was the malodorous stench of death. The stench obscured the room in a strange yellowish haze. Then came the words. Hundreds of speakers were rambling, talking with elegance, crafting profanity, singing, shrieking, laughing amiably or cursing wholeheartedly. Hannah was instantly consumed by death in both auditory and olfactory forms. As the words kept churning from everywhere and nowhere, she overheard the harsh spinning of an electric drill.

  Awake once again, Hannah found herself clothed, though her old clothes were dirty, the used feeling of absorbed sweat and dried blood discomforting to feel against the skin. She was on the floor of the man's workshop. She looked up to find the man toiling on a tabletop, bent over, clutching a drill in one hand and placing his other hand in the center of a body's back with the other. The mechanical whine droned on as he delved the steel bit through bone, boring deep, and then pulling back, somehow satisfied with the work he'd done. Then he toked hard on the cigarette dangling from his mouth. This was her world now, Hannah thought, filled with blood, ache, and cigarette smoke.

  Spitting out his cigarette, it landed next to her body, chunks of hot ash striking her leg. Hannah remained calm, holding in the need to scream. If she breathed too loud or jerked in spasm, she would alert the man. What would he do to her then? What hadn't he done to her up to this point?