by Platt, Sean
Humans, however …
Art had borne witness to the worst of humanity, first as a soldier in World War II, then again in Korea. Once exposed to man’s evil, whether through war or some random act of violence, it was hard to ever see the world through rose-colored glasses again — a doubly heartbreaking end to innocence because the mourned world never existed.
Art had written thousands of pages about the history of war throughout his twenty-one book career. And not just common, regurgitated history. Art studied the real reasons for war. Global conflicts were rarely started for honorable or just reasons. Most were about privileged men in pursuit of power or seeking to maintain what they had. Art had known, prior to his senility, more about war than probably anyone else in the States.
Oddly, he had fans — and detractors — on both sides of the aisle. People on the left and the right used Art’s writings to bolster their arguments for and against war. It was a strange sort of fame, one that he’d never felt particularly comfortable with. He simply saw himself doing his duty to report things as he saw them to those willing to listen and learn.
Art wondered about the reporter’s agenda. Was it someone seeking to condemn the current war, or hoping to defend it?
Either way, Art was certain to disappoint the reporter. He rarely gave basic black-and-white answers because everything was gray. Subtleties and nuances were deeply nested in every conflict. Right and wrong were only words. Without all of the facts — and no one ever had all of the facts — war was difficult to judge as just or unwarranted.
But a lonely Art had agreed to the interview anyway.
“Do I look OK?” he asked Estelle, the on-duty nurse, and one of his favorites — an attractive Cuban woman who vaguely reminded him of a long-gone girlfriend.
“You look fine, Art. How are you feeling? You up to this?” Her smile made him feel safe.
“Good. Yes, I’m up to this.”
An awkward silence hung between them until Art finally found the courage to apologize.
“Sorry about yesterday.”
Estelle looked down, just long enough to let him know that he’d hurt her feelings. She looked up and smiled. “It’s OK.”
Art didn’t remember the details. Paul, the nurse on duty earlier, said, “I heard you were naughty yesterday,” then proceeded to tell Art that he’d thrown a fit about his lunch, yelled at half the staff, and escalated his curses until he became borderline violent.
Art felt horrible. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Estelle. She was a sweetheart, never short with him, and always gentle. Estelle listened to his stories and asked questions, unlike most of the others, who would be checking their idiot phones through the entire conversation.
“No,” he said to Estelle, “it’s not OK. Nobody should have to put up with my shit when I’m having my bad days. Nobody. You’re a saint, dear, and don’t think for a moment that I don’t know and appreciate it. I’m sorry for whatever I said.”
Estelle’s eyes watered, and Art could tell he was about to make her cry. But he didn’t want pity. He just wanted to improve things between them.
Art hated that he couldn’t control the anger when it came. Hated more that he couldn’t even remember the incidents. It was hard to sincerely apologize for something you couldn’t even remember doing, and sincerity was the mother of a decent apology.
Art had never been one to believe in heaven or hell, not with all he’d seen. But that was before his mind had packed its bags. Now he realized that hell was as real as it was eternal and unforgiving.
“Oh, they’re here,” Estelle said as the receptionist escorted a woman with light-brown hair into the social room.
“Hello, Mr. Morgan, my name is Rose McCallister. I’m a reporter at The Grunion Sun. I’d love to pick your brain on a few things for an article I’m writing.”
“Sure,” Art said. Rose was quite a looker. Young with porcelain skin and a smile that could get anyone talking. He’d learned two things in his life when it came to public relations: never trust a reporter, and never trust a pretty woman who wants to discuss what you know.
Yet there was something about her eyes that held Art instantly captive. He wanted to talk to her, and know what she knew. He wanted to tell her anything she was willing to hear.
It was the oddest sensation, but Art felt like he’d known the woman forever and could trust her with anything.
Rose turned toward Estelle. “Can we talk alone?”
“Certainly,” Estelle said. She left the room, seeming equally stricken by Rose.
Art was confused.
Estelle normally would’ve asked Art if he wanted her there, especially given his mood swings and declining memory. She was a good buffer and could prevent him from making a fool of himself or saying something he’d regret. And if he did slip into words that shouldn’t be said, Estelle could tell the reporter about his condition and beg them not to quote him. Fortunately, there had been only one incident, and Estelle hadn’t begged the reporter so much as threatened to eviscerate him.
Rose looked around, as if trying to find someone within earshot, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial whisper.
“I’m here to help you, Mr. Morgan.”
I should’ve known she wasn’t a reporter.
His lips tightened, and Art’s heartbeat accelerated as he looked around for someone to call over to get this woman away.
She reached out, put an icy hand on his, which seemed to instantly calm his nerves and shaking hand.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Mr. Morgan. Quite the opposite.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve read your books, sir. You have a brilliant mind when it comes to war.”
“Had,” he said, “had a brilliant mind. Not quite what it was.”
“Yes, I read the feature in The Economist about your situation. Which is why I’m here. I think we can help one another.”
“Help one another?” Art found his smile. “What do you have in mind?”
“First, let me ask you a question. Would you like your old life back? Your youth? Your vitality? All of your memories?”
“Hey, lady, if you’re pitching some snake oil, go peddle your wares elsewhere.” Art’s smile turned into a laugh full of cracks. “Doctors already said there’s nothing that can be done for me. Besides, I’ve lived long enough. My family, the ones I care about anyway, are all long gone. What’s the point of being young again even if you could make it happen?”
“Because nobody wants to die. No one would choose nothingness over life. And I see the glimmer in your eye, Mr. Morgan. I see that you’ve got quite a bit of fight left inside you.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, ma’am. I’m quite tired of fighting. I’ve seen enough quarreling, enough violence, enough death, to last me five lifetimes. I’m ready to meet my maker — or nothingness if that’s all there is. I’m ready to lie down and just be.”
Rose shook her head. “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. I see a tired man, yes, maybe even a discouraged man. But he’s not tired of fighting. He’s tired of losing. He’s tired of not being able to affect change. He’s tired of not counting. But what if you could have your health and get people listening again?”
Art wanted to tell this woman to leave him alone, stop trying to sell whatever it was she was hocking. He looked around again.
“Where the hell is Estelle?”
Rose leaned in again, put both her freezing hands on his. He wanted to pull his away, but couldn’t. His heartbeat sped up, and a shiver ran through him.
He asked, “W-what are you?”
“I am the Maker. I am going to change everything in this world. I’m offering you a seat at the table.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Art’s blood was boiling in anger, and he felt a twitter from detonation. His body refused to obey him. He couldn’t even stir enough anger to yell for someone to get this clown out of here. He was pretty certain
that she was somehow holding him down, even if he couldn’t figure out how.
What the hell is she doing to me?
“I’m talking about this, Mr. Morgan.” Rose released his hands, reached into her purse, and pulled out a glass vial with glowing blue liquid inside.
A hundred thoughts swam through his mind, all screaming danger. For a moment Art was certain the woman was some sort of anti-war protester who had brought a toxin to poison him, to make some kind of misguided political statement.
But just as Art was transfixed by her eyes, he found himself unable to look at anything other than the vial.
“Go ahead,” she said, handing it to him.
His hand moved forward, as if with a will of its own.
He touched the vial.
A spark jumped from the vial to his skin. But rather than deflecting his hand, it drew his fingers closer.
The vial was suddenly in his hand, surprisingly warm to the touch. An energy coursed through him, and within seconds Art felt a vitality he hadn’t felt since his thirties, perhaps even his twenties.
What is this?
He stared at the vial, watching as the blue liquid seemed to climb up the glass toward the black stopper, as if trying to flee.
Open it, his mind said. At least he thought it was his mind.
He heard a swelling of dozens, if not hundreds, of whispers above a low hum. Together, the sounds seemed like music to a forgotten song on the tip of his tongue.
Art longed to hear more.
Rose withdrew the vial.
The energy and wonder that had filled his heart was gone, popped like a bubble.
Art already longed to feel it again. She was like a drug pusher giving him his first hit for free, before she announced the price of his next.
“Please,” he said, his trembling fingers outstretched, reaching for it.
“Not here,” she said. “Come with me.”
“OK.” Art stood and followed Rose, willing to go anywhere she wanted if it meant feeling that feeling again.
* * * *
CHAPTER 2 — MARINA HARMON
Marina stared out the window into Culver City’s filthy, beating heart.
It was charity to say the house had seen better days. The home, with its boarded windows, chipped paint, and weed-strewn lawn, looked like a war zone. Of course, given the neighborhood’s general neglect and how many of its citizens faced death on a daily basis, that wasn’t far from the truth.
“This is your house?”
“Yes,” Acevedo said. “The neighborhood went to hell about ten years ago or so. It used to be beautiful.”
“And you stored the most important thing in the world in this dump?”
Acevedo nodded. “Never underestimate the power of hiding in plain sight.”
Marina looked up and down the street, saw some thugs standing at the end of the block, wearing oversized clothes that surely covered guns.
She felt guilty for stereotyping young black men, but wasn’t naive. It was the neighborhood, not their color. She told herself she’d feel the same way if it were any other race of young men hanging around looking like thugs. She also realized that anyone living here had to adapt to their surroundings so as not to stand out, and that any kid living here would naturally don a thug’s persona. That didn’t mean every kid who looked like a thug was one. But at the same time, Marina had to assume they all were, lest she let her guard down.
Marina had lived a lily-white life of comfort and opportunity. She’d done some work in poor communities and had even travelled to Eastern Europe, Africa, and Haiti to do missionary work for the church. But she’d rarely been in neighborhoods like this, let alone truly got to know anyone who lived there.
“You think we’re safe?” she asked, fearing that the priest would think her some uptight elitist.
“Nobody’s going to mess with us.” Acevedo sounded confident. He got out of the car, and Marina joined him. Together they walked toward the house, her trying not to look directly at the thugs, who were definitely scoping them out.
Marina walked quicker, pulling up close to Acevedo, feeling vulnerable, as if everyone in the neighborhood could sense them there, and that she had something of unimaginable power in her jacket pocket, making her a ripe target.
Acevedo unlocked the front door then stepped inside and flipped on a light just inside the doorway.
“Wait a sec,” he said, vanishing into the house.
Marina wanted to call out and remind the priest that he shouldn’t leave her on the porch too long, but didn’t want to sound wimpy.
As she waited, Marina noticed several chipped marks in the door jamb, surely signs of people breaking in. She wondered if they’d made the trip for naught. What if someone had broken in and found the vial and Acevedo’s list?
“OK,” Acevedo appeared in the doorway. “No squatters.”
Marina crossed the threshold into the house and was immediately thrown back by the smell of feces and … something putrid she couldn’t identify.
She saw the walls smeared with feces, blood, and God knew what other kinds of fluids, along with hundreds of words scrawled in pen, pencil, crayon, and even by knife. Words were mostly too small to read without moving closer, but Marina made out a few:
DEATH
NOTHING
VOID
HELP
“What the hell?” she said looking at the place, littered with evidence from countless squatters — food and drink containers, dirty clothing, porno mags, and plenty of paraphernalia from drugs. Large chunks were missing from the walls, as if there had been a party with a sledgehammer. The house looked like the set of a snuff film.
The air was suddenly heavy. Marina felt a mix of strong emotions swirling through her, from euphoria to anguish.
She wanted to leave.
Being in here was too much.
She thought of the master’s training, paused, then drew a deep breath and counted to five before exhaling.
“People break in here all the time, no matter what I do. They’re drawn to the vial, I suspect. They come in search of something they can sense but not see. Then, driven mad, they tear the house apart, searching but unable to find a thing. Eventually, they lose their minds and leave, or … ”
“Or what?”
“Let’s just say the police have pulled many bodies out of here.”
“I can feel it,” she said, “so much pain. That’s the vial?”
“I don’t know if it’s the vial or residuals — psychic stains, if you will — of those who have suffered here. But yes, it’s strong.”
“So the vials act in response to what people are feeling, to what they are? Isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“So is it possible that your vial may have already been tainted by the people in here? Already turned to Darkness?”
“No,” Acevedo said, then after a long pause added, “at least I hope not.”
“Great,” Marina said with a sense of impending doom. She wasn’t sure if the sensation was a response to the situation, a delayed reaction to everything that had already happened, or if she were being infected by the home’s haunted emotions.
She tried to think positive thoughts, not let the house change her mood. Marina could see why Acevedo demanded that she complete the training. She couldn’t imagine how she would’ve responded if she’d not been somewhat prepared to combat the overwhelming sense of doom.
Acevedo led Marina to the kitchen. The cabinets were destroyed, ripped from the walls. The sink was torn out. The refrigerator was open, filled with rotting food and what looked like more shit. Walls were broken in many places, paper peeled and hanging low. The floor was scattered with more remnants of squatters, and the linoleum was ripped away to reveal a dry, dirty concrete floor.
Acevedo looked up and smiled.
“It’s still here.”
She blinked. “It is? Where?”
He pointed to the floor and said, “I’ll be r
ight back.”
Marina stood in the kitchen as Acevedo went to the car.
Standing there, she felt a humming from the vials in her jacket, as if in response to the one beneath her.
Dig.
Dig.
The thoughts raced through her head so fast she wasn’t sure if she’d thought them or if … the vials had.
The room grew cold while she waited for Acevedo.
Again, Marina felt the stirring of emotions, and they began to seep into her. She found herself wondering what the hell she was doing with the priest.
Who was Marina to think she could save the world?
She couldn’t even save herself, let alone see the danger that was lurking inside Steven. What hope did she have? What hope did they have?
It all felt so futile.
She had to flee the house, clear the dark thoughts from her head.
Where the hell is Acevedo?
Something moved behind her, a dark blur in the living room.
She turned, but it — whatever it was — was already gone.
Her heart like a jackhammer, Marina wanted to run outside, and get the hell out of the house.
The front door opened, and Acevedo stepped back inside holding a concrete saw in his gloved hands, wearing goggles and a mask.
“You might want to stand back. You don’t want to breathe any of this dust once I start cutting.”
“OK,” Marina said, going out to the living room, where the stench of shit and despair was strongest.
As the priest began to cut a hole in the floor and the saw’s whirring echoed throughout the house, Marina moved closer to the front door, wanting to just go outside, even if she did wind up with a bunch of thugs throwing their murderous stares on her body.
“Marina,” a voice said from behind.
She turned.
Acevedo was still kneeling on the kitchen floor, guiding the saw’s blade through the concrete.
“Marina,” the voice repeated, a man’s voice, slightly familiar, though she didn’t recognize it over the noise.
She looked around, and saw the bedroom door in the back of the house swing shut.