The Unspeakable Unknown

by Eliot Sappingfield

  “Almost as nice as being literally anywhere else, and doing literally anything else,” I said.

  She nodded excitedly. “I think so, too. You’ll also have access to world-class fitness facilities, top-notch medical care, the best food you’ve ever tasted and”—she spread her arms wide, showcasing the hotel itself—“elite-grade luxury accommodations. Welcome to the good life!”

  Next to the abandoned reception desk, a potted tree gave up and died, dropping all its leaves at once.

  “What if we don’t want to help?” Warner asked.

  “Then you don’t get paid, and you’re free to sit around and do nothing. Of course, since we’re several miles beneath the earth’s surface here, there’s not much of a cell phone signal and no Internet, so you’ll mostly be watching dust accumulate. You’ll come around sooner or later. They all come around sooner or later.”

  “Well, I think I could get used to being a dust spectator,” I said.

  Jakki smiled in a sad yet patronizing manner. “Oh, honey. You won’t have to do any of that—don’t worry. We wanted you so we could figure out how you tick. Basically, we just want to pick your brain for a while.”

  “Maybe I don’t feel like answering questions.”

  Jakki was momentarily confused. “Oh, you thought I meant ‘pick your brain’ like when people ask one another questions! I meant it literally. We intend to extract your physical brain and poke around to see what’s going on in there.”

  “Will you give it back when you’ve finished with it?” Hypatia asked.

  “Hey!” I said. “I’m not lending my brain to anyone.”

  Jakki laughed at us jovially, like we were three old roommates meeting for brunch. “Easy, ladies, there’s no need to worry about what anyone wants, because nobody has a choice. And don’t worry, it shouldn’t hurt for long. When the time comes, I’ll collect Miss Nikola here, and—maybe you all can even meet my father!”

  Hypatia jabbed a finger at Jakki with a fierceness I hadn’t seen from her before. “You’re lying. Everyone knows your father died thousands of years ago, if he was ever real in the first place. You can’t frighten us with ghost stories.”

  Jakki blinked and might have responded, but just then there was a sickly sounding ding, and a set of elevator doors opened, revealing our old friend Gus, who was holding two cans of generic Professor Pabb soda. He stepped over to us and handed one to Warner and the other to me with a magnanimous flourish.

  “Donation a quarterbox,” he said with a stately nod. The can was dusty and lukewarm and had expired about the same time I had been learning to walk.

  But then Gus saw Hypatia did not have a drink. For most people, this would have been a clear indication that they had miscalculated how many cans of soda they would need, but Gus didn’t give up so easily. He took my soda and handed it to Hypatia and then, after a little consideration, let me have Warner’s can. Gus grinned broadly at having figured this little problem out and went to stand next to Jakki’s chair.

  Jakki, who had been silent while this had been going on, blinked twice and continued. “Young lady,” she said, looking to Hypatia, “there are certain things I do not lie about, and in this situation I will not tolerate the tone you’ve taken, nor the implication that I’ve told a falsehood. You owe my father and me an apology. Apologize now, and make it good because he’s listening.”

  Gus then decided Warner needed a drink, so he took mine away from me, handed it to Warner, and gave me the can Hypatia had been holding.

  “I’m sorry,” Hypatia said. “How about I make up for it by introducing your dad to Santa Claus and Uncle Sam, since they’re just as real. They could play checkers or—thank you, Gus,” she said as Gus handed her Warner’s can of Professor Pabb.

  “That’s enough, thank you,” Jakki said, standing. She buttoned the jacket of her pantsuit and picked up her handbag from the chair next to her. She straightened her collar absentmindedly and allowed her gaze to slip up to the ceiling. Her eyes fluttered closed like she was hearing a particularly nice passage from her favorite song.

  I could hear something, a slightly irritating, almost imperceptible noise in the air, something like a whine and a buzz combined with a whisper. Suddenly, everything was panic. Gus, Hypatia, and Warner collapsed to the floor instantly, screaming, clutching at their ears, and scratching at the sides of their heads. They shrieked, writhed, spasmed, and gibbered nonsense at the top of their lungs.

  I knelt beside Hypatia and gave her a good shake. When that didn’t rouse her, I tried the same thing on Warner, shouting, “What is it? What’s happening?” But neither of them even seemed aware of my presence. Hypatia, unable to scratch her ears off, started battering herself in the head with her fists. Gus banged his head on the floor in what looked like an effort to knock himself unconscious, while Warner kicked furiously and clawed at the rug in agony, overturning a chair, breaking one of the side table’s spindly legs, and spilling fetid cucumber water onto the carpet.

  She was feeding on them, sucking the life right out of their bodies.

  I looked up and saw Jakki standing with her head turned skyward in serene patience. “CUT IT OUT! YOU’RE HURTING THEM!” I screamed. “STOP IT!”

  She didn’t respond, so I picked up the heavy glass urn that still held a little moldering water and, with all my strength, broke it over her head.

  That got her attention, even if the weighty, jagged chunks of glass didn’t injure her in any way. The remaining water in the container ran down her body without even dampening her clothes. My friends immediately stopped shrieking and settled down, breathing like they’d just finished a marathon. Jakki took note of the broken glass around her and peered curiously into my eyes in a way that made me want to hide in another zip code.

  “That didn’t hurt you?” she asked. “You didn’t feel it?”

  Hypatia had already stood and was helping Gus to his feet. Warner was looking a bit defeated, so I took hold of his arm and hauled him back into his chair.

  “Was it supposed to?” I asked.

  She eyed me up and down, as if seeing me for the first time. “You are one unique girl.” She twitched and seemed to change gears. “Listen, there is nothing I’d like more than to get started with you right this moment, but I have to be in D.C. in a couple hours, and now I have to have my nails done.”

  She lifted her hands with their backs to me, offering a view of a hairline scratch a shard of glass had left across her left pinkie nail.

  “Okay,” I said, glad she was leaving. “So, what do we—”

  “Just stay put.” She pointed at Gus. “Keep an eye on them. Okay?”

  Gus grunted and coughed. “Yes,” he said.

  “And the three of you can clean this mess up before I get back, or I will find some new, exciting way of making you suffer,” she said.

  She spun and marched out the door. As she passed, a second potted tree by the door withered and died.

  “She forgot to tell me where the bathroom is,” Hypatia moaned.

  16

  THE PIZZATILLO PLOT

  Once we’d located a bathroom for Hypatia, and Warner was able to get over being traumatized yet again, we were left with nothing to do. We might have left, but Gus had taken up residence near the front door and followed us from room to room to ensure there were no escape attempts. Anytime someone took a step toward the door, Gus would flash his assortment of “pineapples” and make it clear just how eager he was to share them with anyone who wanted a taste. The smell of the cucumber water was quickly going from gross to offensive, so we decided to clean up—once it was agreed we were not cleaning because Jakki told us to.

  Warner found a maintenance closet that held a carpet shampooer and cleaning supplies, which made things much easier. After the rug had been cleaned, Hypatia suggested we keep going. I would have told anyone else to get bent, but something in Hypa
tia’s eyes told me she wasn’t managing the situation well. Maybe it was that one of her eyes was yellow and the other was black; maybe it was the wide, panicked glances she threw at every corner of the room at any sound. In any case, it was clear that, like Warner, she was barely keeping herself together.

  So we split up. I scraped dust off surfaces, wiped them down, and polished the wood to as healthy a sheen as possible. Warner scrubbed down the walls, leaving wide swaths of cleanliness that looked like reverse stains at first. Hypatia flitted around the lobby like a moth with ADHD, and before long the place was clean enough to pass for a hotel that was not essentially a prison, the kind people would pay to stay in.

  The Tentacular Arms was actually looking pretty . . . nice. The carpet was patterned in deep burgundy, and the chairs were cloud-soft chocolate-colored thrones. Painted vines like those carved in stone outside snaked up the walls and integrated into ornate tin ceiling tiles accented in gold leaf. The wood railings, surfaces, and paneled walls were a rich mahogany. The combined effect made it seem dark in the lobby, even though the lights were quite bright. I made a point of watering the surviving plants to spite Jakki. They were mostly dead already, but it felt good to do something without permission.

  We started seeing the zombies just after five o’clock. They weren’t actual zombies, but if you want to make a zombie movie, I know where you can get actors cheap. It only took a second to put it together. The people we saw were the normal residents of the hotel. They were men and women of all ages and backgrounds, most of them scientists or researchers of some sort, judging by their well-worn lab coats and equipment.

  It was hard to peg what made them seem like zombies. It was like they had lost whatever it was that made them human without killing the body that had kept them alive, if that makes sense. The zombies did not look in our direction, nor did they acknowledge one another, save for the occasional grunt when someone stepped on someone else’s foot or when they unintentionally jostled one another. It was like they were all following a vague script. One by one, they entered, walked to the center of the room, stopped, turned, and walked down a side hall without so much as a glance at the lobby someone had put a great deal of work into cleaning for them.

  Warner, Hypatia, and I stood behind the reception desk.

  I studied the mostly blank faces as they passed. “Keep an eye out for my dad,” I said.

  “What good would that do?” Warner asked.

  “He must be down here somewhere, and he’ll know more about this place than we do. And if they didn’t . . . kill him after his last attempt, he probably has more plans in the works.”

  “You really think this is the place he was talking about?” Warner asked.

  I thought about it. “How many of these do you think they need? It’s not like they’re running out of space here.”

  Warner nodded and patted me on the shoulder, which was a little weird. Hypatia squared a large glass sculpture on the counter and smiled contentedly at it.

  “Should we talk to one of them?” Warner asked, gesturing at one of the zombies. Their influx seemed to be slowing.

  “Do you think they can talk?” I asked.

  “Can’t hurt. Let’s try that one,” he suggested, indicating a smallish man who seemed to be moving with a little more spirit than the rest.

  This one wore a white lab coat over jeans and a black T-shirt. Warner stepped in his path and greeted him with the warmest smile he could muster. “Hey, there! Where’s the welcome desk for new arrivals?”

  The man, who had streaks of gray along his temples and a meticulously combed part, tried to shuffle past him. Warner juked left and right, ensuring the man couldn’t wander past. A second later, a faint glimmer of awareness came over the man. It was almost like he woke up. Almost.

  He looked at Warner, as if seeing him for the first time. His voice was squeaky and tentative, like he was worried someone might overhear. “They haven’t broken you yet.”

  “No,” Warner said, his smile fading a bit. “Do you know anyone named Melvin Kross? He’s probably a strange and irritating fellow, judging by his offspring.”

  The man glanced around. “No . . . No, sorry. To be honest, I’m not sure I remember my own name at the moment. I can be reasonably sure I’m not Melvin. Perhaps David—do I look like a David to you?”

  There were a few seconds’ silence during which it became clear that the man really needed an answer to his question. Thankfully, Hypatia had considered the matter.

  “You look like a Sylvester to me,” she said.

  “I like that,” the small man said. “Let’s agree on the name Sylvester J. Marchbanks for the time being. Sorry for being distracted. The cognitive amplifier at the lab leaves us a bit . . . what’s the word . . . Dappy? Drummed? Disambiguated?”

  “Close enough,” Warner said. “Can you tell us how to get out of here? We’d like to go home.”

  “Sure. Use the emergency exit,” the man said with a chuckle. “Did you come on your own, or did they bring you?”

  “They brought us,” Warner said. “Where’s the emergency exit?”

  Sylvester Marchbanks nodded succinctly. “Go straight through those doors behind you, down the stairs, and out the back door by the kitchens. Once you’re out, walk about a mile directly away from the hotel toward the tall blue building on the far wall. About halfway there, you’ll find a rather deep pit they throw the garbage and other refuse into. It’s huge and about half a mile deep, so you can’t miss it. Once you get there, just jump right in and get it over with.”

  He grabbed Warner’s hands urgently, suddenly emphatic. “Do it before they can get inside your head, boy! Don’t stay! Don’t listen to the songs in the labs—the songs! They get in your head, and they won’t leave. They never, never stop. I can’t sleep anymore. Have I ever told you that? I only lie in the dark and wait for tomorrow to come so I can die a little more. But the exit . . . that’s what I would do if I could still disobey. I’d march straight over there, hop right in, and be done with the whole affair! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been ordered to enjoy tonight’s dinner very much.”

  With that, he shoved Warner aside with surprising assertiveness and trudged down the hall toward an oaken doorway marked RESTAURANT with flaking silver spray paint.

  “Think they have food down there?” Warner asked.

  “Smells like it,” Hypatia said. “Should we check it out?”

  I was hungry myself, but I wasn’t ready to go yet. “I still think my dad might come along. You two go ahead.”

  Warner took a step toward the cafeteria. Hypatia grabbed the back of his shirt, stopping him. “We wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone. We stick together no matter what.”

  Warner nodded and acted like he had only meant to stretch his legs. “Yeah, we got your back.”

  I might have argued the point with them, since there was probably no use in our sticking together, but just then the front door swung open and one last, especially bedraggled worker stumbled in. He was pulling a full-sized suitcase on wheels, staring at a tablet computer, holding a large paper coffee cup, and trying to angle his body so the bulky leather bag he had slung over his shoulder didn’t fall off. It didn’t work. As he pushed through the door, the shoulder bag caught on the frame, slid off, and brought the whole precariously balanced equilibrium crashing down. The man was left on the floor, soaked in coffee and entangled in straps and handles under his wheeled bag.

  “Mother’s brother, that’s hot!” he exclaimed to no one in particular.

  Hypatia looked crestfallen. “We just cleaned there.”

  My crest, on the other hand, was in no danger of falling. “Hi, Dad!” I said.

  Dad was looking as disheveled as ever, which was nice. He hadn’t brushed his hair in at least a week, and a thick, patchy beard grew on his chin and most of both cheeks. The portions of his lab coat not soaked
in coffee were stained here and there in other ways and burned badly on one of the pockets. If he had looked well groomed, I would have been seriously concerned. These were clear signs Dad had been busy. I hurried over to him.

  “Could you grab that for me?” he asked, eyes still locked on his tablet. The screen was displaying some kind of calculations; it looked a bit like the virtualized particle accelerator he had been working on at home so he wouldn’t have to run the full-sized one as often. If you think running the air conditioning with the doors open makes for an expensive electric bill, you should see how much it costs to run a particle accelerator for three seconds at seven teraelectronvolts.

  “Sure,” I said, lifting the bag, which was much heavier than I expected.

  “Set it over in the meal area, by the table with the . . . that . . . you know, the thing! The table with the thing! Good lord, can’t you people stop pestering me for one moment? Have they brought dinner yet?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think so, Dad. Do you know the menu?”

  He shook his head in irritation. “What? Yes, unfortunately. Please. My bag. The booth with the thing.”

  I shouldered the bag and took the wheeled case for good measure. I knew this mode. Since the door had opened, his gaze had not strayed a single moment from the screen and the simulation he was running. I was willing to bet the reason he was so late was because he had not raised his eyes from the screen for an hour or more. It was best to give him a moment to finish what he was working on, if you didn’t want to make him completely intolerable for the next several hours.