Factory Town

by Jon Bassoff

  FACTORY TOWN

  Jon Bassoff

  First Edition

  Factory Town © 2014 by Jon Bassoff

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

  www.darkfuse.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  For Tobey

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I would like to thank Shane Staley, Greg Gifune, Dave Thomas, and the crew at DarkFuse for taking a chance in publishing a challenging novel like Factory Town. I would also like to thank the great Jack Reher, who is making a poor boy’s dreams come true by adapting my novels for the big screen. And finally, I would like to thank my family for all the reasons that they know.

  OTHER BOOKS BY AUTHOR

  Corrosion (2013)

  When we’re asleep, nobody can tell

  a sane man from an insane man.

  —Shock Corridor

  PROLOGUE

  The house wasn’t special, looked no different from every other house on the block, looked no different from every other house in the town. Two stories, beige paint, oversized garage, neatly trimmed lawn. A single light glowed dully in the upstairs bedroom; the rest of the house was dark. Across the street, a man sat inside a beat-up old Buick. His black hair was wild and disheveled, and his face was gaunt and pallid. He’d been sitting there for some time, gazing at the house through a rain-blurred windshield. Other than his tired car puffing exhaust, there were no other vehicles on the street, no signs of human life at all. A fellow could be excused for thinking that the Earth had died peacefully in its sleep…

  Eventually, the man killed the engine, left the keys dangling. He pulled a flask from the glove compartment and took a long swallow, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, grabbed a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. He pressed the cigarette to the car lighter and sucked deeply, the tobacco brightening all chimney-red. He smoked greedily, and within a few minutes the cigarette was down to the filter. He pushed open the door and threw the butt on the pavement. For a long time he sat there and watched the rain fall. And then, finally, he stepped outside and stood in the silent street with the silent houses.

  He limped slowly across the yard and up the steps to the front porch, then stood there shivering, his eyes darting back and forth in their sockets. With trembling hands, he rang the doorbell, the sound echoing through the hallways. No movement inside, so he pounded on the door with the palm of his hand.

  Lights began to turn on throughout the house. The sound of footsteps, and then the front door opened. An old woman stood behind the screen door, wearing a bathrobe, her gray hair matted from sleep. When she saw the stranger on the front porch, the color drained from her face. I…I thought you were my son, she said. Sometimes he comes when—

  The man took a step forward, so that he was blocking the door. The woman stumbled backward, her bathrobe falling open, eyes petrified.

  Where’s the girl? he said.

  What girl? I don’t know. I—

  The man pushed past the woman and entered the house. He stood there for a few moments, rocking back and forth, arms dangling at his side, and then he began pacing. Where’s the girl? he said again. Where the fuck is she?

  She shook her head. There’s no girl here, she said. You must be confused. You must have the wrong address.

  Shut up, he said. She’s here somewhere. This is my house. This is where I live. Where have you hidden her?

  For the next several minutes, the man searched the house, going into every room, pulling off covers and sheets, tearing apart desks and dressers and closets. And all the time he talked to himself, phrases inaudible, occasionally pausing to stomp his foot in frustration.

  But the girl wasn’t in the house. Nobody was, other than the old woman.

  He returned to the living room and sat down on a chair. His lower lip was trembling, his left eye twitching. He rubbed his sickly face with his hands.

  They’re looking for me, he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Every damn one of them. And if they find me, I reckon they’ll do some terrible things. They’ll torture me. They’ll bury me alive. They’ve done it to more than one man. But they ain’t gonna find me. No, ma’am. I won’t let ’em.

  The man lifted his chin and stared at the woman who was now leaning against the wall, arms crossed, legs trembling badly.

  I’d like a drink, he said. You got something?

  Only…only wine.

  Fine. Bring me the bottle.

  She returned a moment later with a bottle of red wine, missing only a glass or two, and handed it to him. He yanked out the cork and placed the bottle to his mouth. He drank for a long time, until the bottle was nearly empty. Then he stared straight ahead, his leathery face becoming more and more brooding. Outside the rain pounded on the asphalt and lightning flashed, no thunder.

  I’ve done some terrible things, he said. Things that I ain’t proud of, things that caused hurt.

  The woman nodded her head then, in a small voice, said, It’s okay. We’ve all done bad things.

  The man gazed at the ground, clenched his fists. This house. I don’t live here no more, do I? It was more of a statement than a question.

  She shook her head. No, mister. I’m afraid not. I’ve lived here for six years now.

  He nodded his head slowly, a sad smile appearing on his face. Six years, huh? Has it been that long?

  Yes. My husband and I moved here from Pennsylvania. That was before he—

  But the man wasn’t listening, and suddenly he glanced around the room, eyes panicked. He got out of the chair and dropped to his knees, then to his stomach, ear pressed against the floor. He stayed like that for a long time, an expression of terror on his face. Can you hear ’em? he said. Well, can you? They’re coming ’round the bend!

  But there were no sounds other than a muted train horn somewhere in the distance. He jumped back to his feet and hurriedly strode to the window. He pulled the curtains back, gazed out the darkened glass. Turn out the lights, he said. Quick!

  The woman did as she was told. They’re coming, he said. And they’ve got torches and gunnysacks and rifles. What you learn is this: nobody really escapes in the end.

  He glanced at the woman and then out the window. He closed the curtain and started pacing again, rubbing his hands together and muttering under his breath. Then, after some time, he stopped. Without warning, he reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a pistol. The woman gasped. He released the magazine, studied it for a long moment, and then jammed it back in place.

  Let me ask you something, he said. You know who I am? You know what I done?

  She shook her head. No. I—

  You know what I done? And now he was shouting.

  I don’t…I don’t know anything.

  At this he nodded his head for a very long time. Then he placed the gun to his temple. This world and then the next, he said. He squeezed the trigger and there was a deafening explosion. He slumped to the floor, a hole in his temple, blood splattered across the carpet and the
curtain and the wall.

  Suddenly, everything was quiet. Everything but the sound of the clock. Hand still covering her mouth, the woman moved her head slowly and stared at the clock. She removed her hand from her mouth. It’s 11:57, she whispered to nobody. Almost midnight. Then she turned back to the man, his face stilled in a grotesque expression. She stared at him for a long time. And then she saw him blink once and then once more…

  CHAPTER 1

  Darkness covered the city as I rested my head against a window, filthy rain trickling down my forehead. My reflection was that of a ghost, gaunt and pallid, my eyes the same as my father’s. Speaking in a whisper: Oh Lord, forgive me. I have my share of regrets…

  Factory Town. It was as if they had started demolishing the entire city, building by building, house by house, and then had decided it wasn’t worth the effort, let it die on its own terms. There was crumbling concrete and collapsed fences, broken glass and discarded furniture. Brick buildings worn down from time and neglect, the windows boarded up and covered with graffiti. A bank clock, both hands missing. Dumpsters upturned. Fire escapes fallen to the ground. Rubble everywhere. A church, vandalized and rotted. And from somewhere, the strange echoes of a laugh track. I had heard once that laugh tracks were mostly made forty, fifty years ago, so it was the laughter of the dead.

  A loud crashing sound startled me. I looked up and saw a mess of a woman appear from the doorway of a building. She wore a torn men’s dress shirt, a frayed jean skirt, and a pair of pink cowboy boots. Her bleached blonde hair was cut short and ragged, and a wounded cigarette dangled from her purple lips. She walked with a slight limp. She might have been twenty or fifty; her face and body had seen better days. When she saw me, she sneered, said, I know you. You’re the fellow they been talking about.

  I shook my head. You must be mistaken, I said. I just arrived in town.

  No. I ain’t mistaken. You’re the one. You got a name?

  Russell Carver. And you must have confused me with somebody else.

  Well, shit. Maybe. It don’t matter none. Besides, you’re a cute one. You looking for a date?

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t say a word. She grinned a mean grin, cleared her throat, and spat on the ground. Then she started walking. Lonely and disoriented, I followed.

  Through the broken streets we walked. We came upon filthy blankets, an old shattered bathtub, and a rusty shovel. A single army boot and a string of Christmas lights. She leaned up against me, placing her head on my shoulder, her arm intertwined with mine. And a man leaning against a building, getting soaked in the rain, gray hair slicked into a sloppy pompadour, shouted out, Don’t go with that woman, she’ll steal your heart, yes she will! and the whore shook her head and said, Hush, and we kept walking, and the rain was falling, and the buildings were collapsing, and my brain was bleeding.

  Soon we were inside a skeleton of a building, and I followed her through a series of strange corridors and into a darkened room, colder than outside. She pulled me tight and laughed, and it was a terrible laugh. She smelled of cheap perfume and cheaper booze. I felt disgusted and disdainful, anxious and apprehensive. The room itself was stark and filthy with a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling, the mattress stained with blood and bourbon, the wall stuffed with asbestos. And on the nightstand, a clock badly decayed, the numbers peeling, the hands forever stuck three minutes before twelve…

  Glancing out the window, I saw several strange-looking men in bulging parkas skulking around the perimeter, constantly, methodically. I pulled the curtain shut and leaned against the wall. My temple was pounding.

  Meanwhile, the whore didn’t waste any time. She pulled off her shirt, revealing large, disfigured breasts, and then she rubbed them, but there was nothing sensual about it. She asked me what I wanted, went through a list of carnal acts with alarming indifference, but I remained clothed, told her that I’d pay her fairly, that I only wanted someone to talk to, perhaps someone to hold, so that I could get some sleep. At that she smirked, but she consented, money is money after all, and while she smoked cigarettes down to the filter and slugged peppermint schnapps from a green army thermos, I got to the business at hand, told her about Alana, about the mysterious circumstances of her disappearance, long and detailed as they were—six years searching through cities and deserts and mountains. I didn’t leave out a single detail, but the whore had vacant eyes, both bloodshot, and it was obvious that she was bored by my story, slumping down against the wall, her head lolling back and forth, not showing any real comprehension, as if I were talking in a foreign language, when in reality I spoke in measured tones, despite my insomnia, a month or more without sleep…

  So to try to interest her, I pulled out a photograph and showed it to her, a computer-generated image showing the way Alana might look today: a young girl with a mess of dirty blonde hair, a pink mouth, and blue eyes deadly serious. At this, the whore’s head finally stopped lolling, and her eyes connected with mine, those bloodshot eyes, ravaged by drink and whoredom, and she mockingly asked if I was a detective or something, and I said no, that I was just an ordinary fellow who looked out for the most vulnerable among us, and certainly this girl Alana was vulnerable.

  I have sources, I said, reliable sources, and they tell me that she’s here in Factory Town, but she’s in great danger, doesn’t have long to live. The whore studied the photograph for some time and then shook her head. Nope. Never seen her before. Never seen her in my whole life. But I noticed that her mouth twitched, a liar’s tic.

  She crushed out another cigarette and stared into my eyes, unblinking. She was lowdown and spiteful, that much was clear, and she knew more than she was letting on to…

  In the room next to ours, a couple was shouting in Chinese or Japanese, violence ready to ensue. Suddenly I felt tired, so goddamned tired. This investigation, this insomnia, was getting to be too much…

  So how long you been here then? she said. In Factory Town, I mean.

  It’s hard to say. Not long. A day maybe. A week perhaps.

  She laughed harshly. I figured so much. Otherwise you woulda known.

  Would have known what?

  Woulda known that you ain’t different from the rest of us. Woulda known that you ain’t gonna find nothing here. Woulda known you ain’t gonna find that girl.

  I gritted my teeth, clenched my fists. How do you know that? Have you seen her? What do you know?

  What I know don’t matter. It don’t matter at all.

  What the hell do you mean by that?

  She grinned, baring a set of rotten brown teeth. What I mean is that I heard your story a million times before. It’s always the same. Always the same goddamn thing.

  And now I could feel that old familiar rage, but I kept it together. She’s here, I said. In this town. My sources—

  Fuck your sources!

  The shouting in the next room was getting louder and louder, and bottles were shattering, one after another.

  Goddamn, little boy, she said, booze and saliva spraying from her filthy mouth. Don’t you know where you are? Don’t you know what’ll become of you? This here is a town of sin, a town of sadness, a town of hatred. Every damn person guilty of something. Every damn person afraid to talk. Do you hear me, Mr. Carver? A million goddamn secrets buried beneath the dirt and rubble. You gonna go digging? Well then. You gonna find some beating hearts in those corpses…

  Outside the rain pounded on the asphalt, and lightning flashed, no thunder. And now I’d heard just about enough. I rose to my feet, ready to storm out, but suddenly the room was spinning like crazy, and the single light bulb shattered to the floor. Panicked, I grabbed on to the metal chair, holding on for dear life. The whore stood in front of me, laughing. With great purpose, she yanked off her skirt, swayed her hips, then began sticking her fingers inside her cunt, one at a time, slowly and systematically. I felt repulsed, but I watched as her entire hand was swallowed up, and then she began with the other hand…

  She
puckered her diseased lips, said, Watcha gonna do, Mr. Carver? Who you gonna love?

  The spinning room finally coming to a stop, I pushed my way past the whore and shouldered open the door. The photograph was still in my hand, now badly crumpled. As I staggered down the hallway, I could hear the whore’s laughter echoing across the linoleum…

  * * *

  The hallway was dark and terrible, what with all the dead birds on the ground, dozens of them, and worse still, a few of them alive, but barely, wings flapping almost imperceptibly, willing themselves to fly, without any success. Graffiti covered the walls, a series of violent messages. And on the ceiling, an elaborate mural of a young woman, expression serious, bits and pieces of her face peeling and falling like confetti to the floor.

  I walked with my head down, mumbling to myself, trying to put the pieces together, so many pieces, all jagged, and the hallway stretched forever, a long corridor, winding in a mazelike fashion. I wandered along for what seemed like days, becoming increasingly disoriented, hateful images crashing around my skull like blind birds in a cage. I could hear the muted sounds of conversation but didn’t see any people. At times the conversation would fade away completely, but then it would return, get louder and louder, and I could pick out fragments, but none of it had any meaning for me, none of it made any sense: hide the rest in those mason jars…all those corpses in the cavern…do you think he’ll find out?... what about him?... do you think he’ll find out?

  And then the conversation faded away for good, and I continued walking, and I came across a group of old men, huddled around a trashcan filled with fire, rubbing their hands together, shadows flickering across the cement wall. My footsteps echoed loudly, but the men didn’t look up, so focused on their own hushed conversation. I tried asking for help, for directions out of the building, but there was no response, mutes to my voice. And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw what appeared to be a small caped figure dart across the corridor, just a momentary flash, and melt into the concrete wall.