Coin-Operated Machines

by Alan Spencer

  The drumming of his pulse in his ears couldn't erase the sound of the earth spitting up more gas and the mushrooming of that black oil that stank of so much death. Brock sucked in more air because he had to, his lungs sharp with stabbing pains. His shins, knees, and back delivered the ache of pulled muscles and overworked joints. He had no choice but to keep going for Hannah's sake. Brock fought the pain.

  The road was clear of any victims until they found the lone truck parked in the middle of the road with the shape of a person laying in the road ahead of the vehicle. He noted the congealed blood circle on the road, though it took longer to notice it with the sky growing darker as night was closer to falling. Glass fragments were mixed in the red. He was confused by the drags in the blood, as if many tiny fingers had dragged themselves for yards until they faded and disappeared altogether.

  The corpse slumped in the driver's side persuaded him to quit being a crime scene investigator. Seeing the grizzly damage of the inside out man, Brock moved on in repulsion. Brock sought the other body on the ground.

  James had eyed the corpse longer in the car longer than Brock did. "Jesus."

  "What do you think it means?"

  "I'm not sure, but by his wounds, looking at his face and the outward punctures in his throat and chest, I'd say," James stared at his forearm wrapped in the makeshift bandage, "it's what happened to my arm, but to the hundredth power."

  "You're saying coins were sucked out of his body?"

  Brock watched James pivot his head through the pane-less window, then he looked up at the truck's ceiling. Curious about what he was doing, Brock stood beside the man, watching James pick out the coins wedged in the ceiling. He handed Brock a few quarters and dimes, and what James clutched was absorbed into his skin instantly.

  James blew a sigh of relief, "You know what that meant?"

  "The coins sinking into your skin?"

  "Yeah," he said, staring at his empty hand stained in red. "It means I was damn close to being turned off. I keep forgetting I'm like everybody else."

  Brock pulled some coins off of the ceiling and said, "Why don't you take this too?"

  "Hold onto it. If I fall asleep, you can use it on me." James's eyes were doleful. "There might come a time when falling asleep won't be such a bad thing, you know, if this visit at Chuck's house doesn't go so well."

  "Don't say that." Brock couldn't imagine surviving this on his own. "I'm not leaving you behind."

  "You say that now, but you're not one of us."

  "Hannah could be, and if that's true, then I might as well be in the same predicament because I'm not leaving without her."

  Brock decided to stop himself before they got into a more heated argument. He was exhausted from running, and they still had more ground to cover. He made it about five yards before he learned the body in the road ahead was Angel. He rushed to her, then lowered to his knees to get a better look at her. Brock scanned her body for damage and was grateful she was unharmed beyond her condition of forced sleep. He dug into his pocket for change in his pocket when James stopped him by seizing his wrist.

  "Think about what you're doing."

  "I'm saving my sister."

  "She tried to trap us in the hotel room. She can't be trusted."

  "She's not herself. Not only is she on drugs, she's terrified."

  "If you want to take your sister out of here, you have to let her rest. I know it sounds strange, but she'll run from you again. What if we do find a way out, and you can't find her later on? This is a big town. Lots of foothills and places to hide. We could be killed trying to play search party."

  Brock's eyes stayed on Angel's downy white face. Her pallor seemed to fade by the second. He paced back and forth, unable to decide what to do. "Then what do you want me to do, just leave her here?"

  James came to his senses. "Okay, no, we can't leave her. I wasn't saying that. I don't know what I'm saying. I only left my sister behind because she's obviously dead."

  "How far are we from the axe guy exactly?"

  "Maybe a quarter of a mile."

  "Then I'll carry her the rest of the way."

  "That's a long ways for you to lug a hundred plus pound body."

  "I'm not doing it by myself."

  James shook his head. "Hell no." He searched the trees, the road, everywhere, trying to produce a better solution. James saw the answer tipped over between a series of trees. "It looks like neither of us will have to carry her after all."

  "I can't believe I'm doing this."

  "Believe it." James marched ahead of Brock. "Hurry it up. Why am I the one rushing you this time?"

  "Because," Brock stared down at Angel's body piled into a grocery cart, her arms and legs jutting out the top like a lifeless mannequin, "...because my sister's in a fucking shopping cart, that's why."

  Brock pushed her forward. He let the argument go. This was his sister. He'd seen her this way before, even worse. It was strange seeing a woman in her early fifties like this as an adult. She still didn't have her life together.

  You didn't have your life together.

  Before you became a panel talent judge, you were in her predicament. You could've been in a shopping cart with a pair of idiots pushing you around.

  I'll get you out of this, Angel. I'll get Hannah out of this too.

  Somehow.

  The sky was pitch black. The woods did nothing but darken the way. Their only guide was the crunch of loose asphalt under their feet. The sounds carried by the wind were constants. Single words were stretched on to be spoken for minutes, matched against hundreds of other words. They were sweet nothings, divulgences of random details, or statements spoken from scatter-brained madmen. The words swarmed together, leaving them listening and waiting for something that would happen or wouldn't happen.

  "It's not going to stop, is it?" James called out over the throng of voices. "We were right earlier when we said something's on the horizon. The words play on the air, but not for this long. They might not stop this time."

  "It's as if they know we're onto them. They're trying to scare us."

  James shouted with all his lung capacity, "Well, it's working! I'm fucking scared!"

  Brock kept peering down at Angel. He caught slivers of her pale skin in whatever moonlight filtered down to them. He kept pushing her along, praying this would convince her he cared about her enough that he deserved a second chance to be her brother. But now it wasn't about Angel, or James, or Hannah, or himself. The man with the golden axe's home lingered nearby. James pointed the house out and kept his words hushed.

  "I don't know if he's home."

  "No lights on."

  "Doesn't matter. I swear that man isn't a human being anymore. He comes out of nowhere to get you, and when he does, you wake up bloody."

  "He's not getting me," Brock said. "I'm not like the rest of you. I have an advantage."

  "We'll see," James said, doubtfully. "He's stronger than you, regardless of what has or hasn't been done to you."

  Approaching the house, Brock knew he couldn't wheel Angel along. He decided he was going to have to hide her somewhere. Brock chose to place her behind a row of hemlocks to disguise the cart. He prayed it was enough to keep her safe for now.

  Without the cart, he hunkered low, staying behind James who decided to be the leader as they approached the house. They hid behind a rusted out Bronco without wheels. They looked on at the house. It was unassuming from the outside, a ranch style abode.

  "So what do we do now?" Brock asked, eying the house thinking it would suddenly grow legs from its foundation and charge after them. "It looks like nothing's going on in there. You sure this is the right house?"

  "Positive." James pointed at the mailbox at the end of the gravel driveway. "You see that? It's marked Durnham."

  "Okay, fine, so what do we do about it? Stuff him in a knapsack and throw him in the river."

  "The hell if I know," James hissed. "It doesn't look like he's even home."

  "
Better for us." Brock started forward, nearing the front door. "Then he won't mind if we take a peek inside."

  Brock had a feeling Hannah was inside. The problem, what condition would she be in if he did find her in there?

  Brock's innards clenched thinking of the assortment of things that could befall him. He cast aside fear of personal injury. James kept whispering, begging him to stay back, to wait a second, think this through, but he'd come this far and had seen too many dead bodies to hesitate any longer.

  Brock was on the front porch, halted by the welcome mat slathered in congealed red footprints and hunks of flesh that looked like torn ribbons. "Jesus Christ, what is going on in here?"

  "Chuck has been busy," James said, bitter and scared because he'd been dragged to the front steps when he wasn't ready to brave the open. "Now would you get your head out of your ass and be careful from now on?"

  "So leave if you're scared. Go back to the talking woods, like you were when I found you."

  Suddenly the voices played around the house, circulating the perimeter like an ethereal alarm system. Brock curled his nose at the offensive odor that accompanied the voices, the fecund net. James smelled it too, audibly sniffing and turning his nose up. The yellow fog was shadow colored in the night, but visible and issuing from broken bits of earth, emanating between blades of grass, and obscuring the distance. They both had to cup their ears, the words rising to a deafening crescendo.

  "Come inside/go ahead and die/death is near/you can't ignore the dead/the dead are here forever/for eternity/this will be humanity's end/the dead crave the thrill of your death/your agony/your horrible demise brings the damned great pleasure/our ambitions will not be forgotten."

  Brock threw back the storm door and entered the house, surprised and grateful the door was unlocked. The noises ceased the moment the door clapped shut behind them, James being responsible for letting the door slam so loud.

  Brock eyed him angrily.

  James smiled awkwardly. "Sorry."

  The voices outside went silent.

  Every step they took inside was matched by the give of wood underneath them. No longer smelling the death fog outside, they encountered new awfulness in the form of sour milk, blood, and spoiled meat. The smell harbored many warnings and stories. The evidence of mass murder was painted on the walls in hand-shaped smears. Pooled on the floorboards, much of the red gel had seeped through the cracks and loosened the woodwork. There were signs of wood rot, sections soft underneath their feet. Furniture had been overturned, chairs flung across the room, picture frames busted and face-down on the floor. Brock noted one picture of the man with the axe was smiling. He was a down-to-earth, regular Joe with a wife and daughter who looked to be six or seven years old. The gold frame was sticky with black grease. The oil from the earth. He too had been a victim of the dead.

  Brock turned over the room and realized what little he really did understand about these circumstances. The evidence was clear this was something beyond reality. This was beyond the living. This was of the dead. He moved on, deciding what to do next on his own. Brock checked the bathroom, the bedroom, and the guest room, and each time, he discovered the walls and floor slathered in black oil that had dried out, staining and ruining everything.

  That left one other place to look.

  James had already beat him to the punch. The man was three steps down the stairway that led to the basement. Following behind him, James was retracing red footprints, layered thick from numerous bloody trips. James stopped below on the edge of the steps, his body shrinking. His hands were rigid at his sides, then they went to his face. He blew out a breath, trying to prevent himself from retching. Working up the nerve to speak, James managed to say quickly before losing his gorge, "You don't want to go down here."

  THE ARCADE

  Willy stepped out of the kitchen after hearing Uncle Tim speak to him on the phone. His deceased relative told him to go downstairs and have fun. What other choice did Willy have but to humor the ghost of his dead uncle? He couldn't leave. Leaving meant death. So why not go downstairs? Crossing the living room, Willy looked out the bay window at the night. He couldn't see anything or anybody. He felt so isolated and alone. Willy now stood in limbo between the kitchen and living room trying to decide his next move.

  Should he go downstairs?

  The quarters, dimes, and nickels were spread out on the living room floor. A dozen kids' piggy banks had been looted and smashed here.

  "I'd have a heck of a good time with your toys if you were still around, Uncle," he said to himself. "And if this wasn't such a fucked situation."

  The coins shifted on the ground. It was as if magnets were beneath the floor dragging them across the room. They clanged together, the mess of change scooting towards the hallway. Willy hesitated to follow the coins, but he was intrigued as much as he was scared. This house was trying to tell him something, and he better damn well listen, he thought, or else he'd end up like Jenna or any of his relatives at the reading of the will.

  Imagining himself come undone limb from limb compelled him onward. Nearing the basement door, the change was stacked up in a huge pile in front of the basement door.

  "Gee, what are you trying to tell me, Uncle?"

  A coin shot up from the pile and fired into the steel slot below the door knob. Once the money went through, the door came open. The coins shot forward in a mess of jangling and clanging noises. Between the wooden footsteps, the coins rattled down to the basement onto the concrete floor, as if sucked in. What noises Willy heard filter up from the basement had him taking careful and deliberate steps down each stair. Willy clutched the handrail, his ears trained to that familiar chiming, dinging, and ruckus of the mechanical arcade calling out to him. Reds, whites, and blues flashed about the basement, the space that seemed to stretch on a lot longer than what was physically possible in conjunction with the size of the house. It was that moment he didn't care about reality, nor did he fear for his life anymore. This was his childhood. His favorite and most cherished memories were right here before him. Without realizing it, his pockets were lined with coins until they bulged to near breaking. Willy stepped into the mechanical arcade with eyes filled with intense joy. It was that moment he'd forgotten about who had died, or how he came to be here.

  Coins slipped from his fingers into the mechanical slots. Machines surrounded him. Aisles and aisles of them. The head and chest of the mannequin named Madame Trousseau read his fortune within the standing wooden box, her Louisiana bayou drawl heavy as her truncated lines were read with mechanical fervor. "Your future is bright. Your love life with be plentiful. Your pocketbook will overflow with riches. Everything is yours for the taking, Willy."

  Within another wooden box that was chest high, a glass menagerie showed plastic figurines belonging to a circus play out a show. Lions were tamed by daring clowns. Jugglers juggled pins with fake flames attached to the pins, what were orange light bulbs flickering on and off at the tip to mimic fire. A contortionist was bending her feet completely forward, and they were touching her face. Clowns frolicked about the stage as the audience ate their popcorn and smiled with their painted on smiles. Each figurine was hand-crafted, every detail meticulously done by hand. On some of them, the paint had lost its luster over time, though, giving it a vintage look. Sounds of music and laughter were on a looping soundtrack.

  Willy was whisked away by the other machines that begged for the change in his pockets. A steel handlebar was on a wooden perch for the customer to squeeze. Above it, flashing red lights displayed the words: "FEATS OF STRENGTH." The levels ranged from "Wimp," "Pansy," "Amateur," "Strong," "Powerhouse," and "Colossus" with matching cartoon pectorals displaying the range of strengths. A "Hoot Mon" machined displayed a figurine in raggedy clothes on top of green turf playing golf. Two brass knobs stuck out of the box console, what the player could use to control how the raggedy man swung the club and whether you got a hole in one. "Love Tester" had red, pink, purple, and blue lights flashin
g along the gauge that went from "COLD FISH" to "LOVE MACHINE." A speed bag used in boxing was propped head level, designed where one could sock it a good one to make the light flash to the highest level of manliness. A pinball-like box showed a set of bowling pins down the wood stretch, but instead of a bowling ball, one used a ski ball to knock down the pins in the game called "STRIKE LANE." Two wooden rifles pointing into a box showed a paper duck flying across the wall, the words painted in black over the wooden box reading "Duck Hunt." "GOLD DIGGER" was a box filled with sand and cheap watches and jewelry. "Mills Imperial Shocker" had an electrical current connected to two metal handgrips. "Shock 'Till You Drop!" "Buzz!" "Zrrrrt!" were written on the wooden backdrop, showing people's heads buzzing with lightening forks. Willy laughed to himself as he bent down to look through the telescope looking box. For a quarter, he could peep on a woman changing in a dressing room. The photos were black and white. The longer he flipped through the images, the dark haired woman removed article after article of clothing without actually showing anything beyond PG-13. Before long, it showed a man in a suit being slapped by the woman by the time he reached the end of his quarter.

  More machines! More machines! More machines!

  Vintage slot machines displaying Limes, Watermelons, and Cherries were being cranked on their own. The slots spun over and over as change kept spilling out of the trays to overflowing. "Pace's Races" was designed like a pinball machine. He could look down through the glass and watch a row of jockeys on horses race. The trick was to bet on the winner. There were many gambling wheels among the machines, what were large wheels showing numbers like a roulette table. One quarter bought a spin. Wooden pin ball machines that were over fifty years old stood between many mechanical machines. Gumball machines offered gum for the price of a penny, the gum encased in glass and steel, looking like it came from a rich garish man's parlor. Willy had counted ten old fashioned cigarette machines. Willy stopped at the Hershey's Candy Bar Dispenser showing a fat man in a black business suit with chocolate smeared on his fat cheeks. Next, Willy ogled the red vending machine sized Coca-Cola machine that showed a Marilyn Monroe like woman posing in a beach dress and nursing a bottle of cola. What looked like a humidor dispensed cigars, the outside of the wood box showing rough looking Cuban men making the cigars at table, the label over the whole thing saying, "Cuba's Finest Stogies."