by Jon Bassoff
For several moments, I doubted my own senses, doubted that I had indeed seen anything. After all, I hadn’t slept in so many days and my own perceptions tended to be faulty, fading in and out and in again like a radio signal on a county line road.
Slowly, I edged across the corridor, past the old men huddled around the trashcan, past a young woman with a tattoo sleeve and dreadlocked hair, past a mangy calico cat, and I came to the wall and saw that there was a metallic door, and on the door a makeshift sign in the jagged scrawl: the Annihilator Waits Here.
CHAPTER 2
Nobody seemed to notice I was there, nobody said a word, so I pulled open the door and started down the long staircase. All was darkness, and I walked deeper and deeper underground, the stairs winding back and forth and back again, the shrieks of rats and the sound of my own shoes echoing against the concrete. I shone a cheap Bic lighter, but there was an icy draft and it kept flickering out. Cautiously, I maneuvered down the crumbling stairs, gripping onto the metal handrail for support, but after a while the handrail twisted into nothingness, and I lost my grip on the lighter; I was a blind man, waiting to step off a concrete cliff.
With great trepidation, I put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, and I went farther and farther into the pit, feeling like hours were passing, but not knowing for sure, and finally, when I was filled with fear and despair, I saw the distant glow of a light down just a ways.
I quickened my pace, and soon the staircase ended and I came upon a rotted wooden door hanging on by its hinges. I kicked it open with my foot, the door splintering apart. It led into a corridor, the walls covered with more violent graffiti, the floors with sawdust, broken glass, dead rodents, and bullet casings. It was difficult to breathe, the air contaminated.
And then down a ways, the hallway opened into an expansive room, lit only by a series of flashlights shining from various positions on the floor. The walls were covered with plaster, much of it peeling away revealing the original brick. In the middle of the room were 25-30 rows of splintered wooden seats, separated by red-carpeted aisles. The ceiling was dome-shaped, decorated with elaborate mosaics, worn but still visible. And in the back of the room a balcony, nearly collapsed, held up by five metal poles jutting from the floor. At some point it must have been some type of a theatre, but now there was no stage, no movie screen, just dirt and rubble everywhere.
I stood there for a long time, confused and disoriented. I took a few steps forward. Once I got over the shock, there was a kind of beauty in this decay. I breathed slowly, deeply, body relaxing.
I walked farther into the room and stood in front of the theatre seats. Then I sat down. I stared straight ahead, ghosts of days past drifting in front of my face, smiling, not sad. I closed my eyes. Soon I was drifting off to sleep…
I didn’t dream. Maybe I didn’t sleep after all. I felt somebody tapping me on my shoulder. Then I heard a voice, strangely familiar. What are you doing here, mister? How’d you find out about all of this?
I turned around and saw a boy, no more than eight or nine years old. He was dressed as a superhero, black tights, red shirt, yellow cape. The cape had an oversized A made out of duct tape, colored red and beginning to peel off. On his face he wore a black mask, one of those cheap plastic ones, held onto his head with a rubber band.
I…I saw you in the hallway. I was curious. I followed you.
You shouldn’t have done that. I could’ve killed you. Why’d you do that?
Because…I wanted to talk to you.
So you don’t work for the Cowboy, then?
The Cowboy? Who’s the Cowboy?
You can’t tell anybody about this hideaway, he said. Or else everything would be ruined. All our plans.
No. Of course not.
Showing no fear, the boy sat down next to me on one of the theatre seats. He had pitch-black hair and a sad mouth. One of his eyes twitched from time to time.
So you must be the Annihilator, I said.
No answer for a while, then: Yes.
A lot of bad guys in this town?
He only nodded his head.
And there must be some good guys, too. Guys you’re protecting.
He thought for a moment. A few, he said. Not many though. More bad guys than good guys.
Yes, I said. That seems to be the way of the world.
We sat there for a long time, and it was awfully strange being in an old abandoned movie theatre in an old abandoned apartment building talking to the Annihilator, the first superhero I’d ever met.
What about weapons? I said. Do you have any? To fight the bad guys, I mean.
He nodded. Oh, yes. I’ve got weapons. I’ve got lots of weapons.
And at that, he walked a few rows back and reached under the seat and pulled out a cardboard box decorated with his signature A. Inside there were shields and swords and guns and daggers, all plastic, and I nodded my head and said, You’re well prepared. I can see why you’re the protector.
These weapons are fine, he said, but I’d like me a real gun and a real sword. Then I’d feel safer.
What about your parents? Where are they? Do they know you’re down here? This doesn’t seem like the kind of place where children should be playing, you know? Just look all around you. Broken glass. Dead animals. Bullet casings.
The boy shook his head. This is where we hide. There is more than just me here. There are a hundred at least. We’ve got our own little world down here. It’s great. We play games. Marbles. Cops and robbers. Cowboys and Indians. And no grown-up can ever tell us what to do. It’s our own little world, you see.
A hundred kids you say? Well, where are they? I don’t see anybody besides you.
He smiled and shook his head. Oh, there are lots of places to hide.
Yeah? Why are they hiding?
He paused for a long time. Because they’re scared of you.
Scared of me? That doesn’t make any sense. I just arrived here. I’m a stranger. They don’t know me.
Oh, they’re scared of you. Why wouldn’t they be scared of you? Why wouldn’t they? You do terrible things. You’re just like my father. You even look like him. You have the same eyes. My father is a terrible person. Everybody says so. Do you know what my father did?
I’m a stranger, I said. You don’t know me. Those kids don’t know me.
He chained me to a radiator. Because I was bothering him. Just because I was bothering him. Left me with a bowl of water, like a dog. All the kids say that was a terrible thing. And what he did to my mom was even worse. But at least he gave me these marbles. That was good of him. Some fathers wouldn’t even do that.
At that moment, he noticed the photograph crumpled in my hand. Watcha got there, mister? Who’s that a photograph of?
I released my grip and handed it to the boy. He looked at the picture intently.
Her name is Alana, I said. She went missing years ago. This is how she might look today. There haven’t been many leads. The police sort of gave up. It’s a shame. There’s so much crime nowadays. It’s my job to find her. I’ve been looking for more than six years. My sources tell me that she’s here, in Factory Town.
She looks familiar, the boy said. I think I’ve played with her before.
I squatted down until I was face to face with the boy. Tell me more. You say you’ve played with her?
Yes. That is, I can’t be sure, but I think…
Where? When? This is very important, you see. Any information would be helpful. Any information at all. I’ve had some leads, but this…
It was cops and robbers. That’s right. She was the new girl. But she wanted to be a princess. The game wouldn’t have worked. The new kids always have to be the robbers. Those are the rules. We kept telling her. She should have listened to us. We’ve been here forever. We’ve paid our dues.
I pressed him further, but he couldn’t/wouldn’t give me any more information.
Just do me a favor, I said. If you see her again, let her know I
’m looking for her. My name is Russell Carver. She’ll know me by name.
He nodded his head, but now his eyes were blank, his jaw slack.
Well, I guess I’ll be going now. I’ve got a few leads that I need to follow up on…
But the kid was in his own world now, staring straight ahead. Slowly, he rose from his seat and walked toward the back of the theatre, gripping a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. He took a few more steps forward then started swinging his sword back and forth, apparently engaged in an imaginary battle with one of the bad guys he’d referenced…
And this bad guy’s name was Dr. Devil, and he was a member of the Red Alliance’s inner circle. He was a brutal hulk of a man with thick tattooed arms, leathery skin, a badly scarred face, and red horns protruding from his skull. He was a killer through and through (who could forget the brutal assassination of Leopard Man, or the way he’d ripped the beating heart from the ribcage of The Blue Bullet), and he wanted nothing more than to add the Annihilator to his list of victims.
He went after our hero with unbridled passion and hatred, throwing spears and daggers and fireballs. But the Annihilator was too quick, dodging the projectiles with great precision, doing flips and cartwheels to stay out of harm’s way. In the background, full orchestration music. And then, with the strength and power of a million men, the Annihilator charged toward Dr. Devil and slammed into his chin with his fist, sending him hurtling to the cement floor. Without hesitation, the Annihilator, the protector of Factory Town, drew his sword (a gift from Sir Lancelot himself), placed the tip of his blade to his opponent’s throat and said, barely louder than a whisper: Time to die, Devil Boy!
But Dr. Devil only laughed. Die? he said. You don’t have the guts! Hell, you couldn’t even protect your mother, your own mother! Yes, yes, I was in your house with you as she was punched and kicked, tortured and maimed, a bloody miscarriage. And you just stood by and watched, piss rolling down your leg! And I was in your house with you when she stopped eating, starved herself, ended up nothing more than a skeleton. You’re a goddamn coward, you hear me? You didn’t have the guts to take on your father, and you don’t have the guts to take on Dr. Devil!
Dr. Devil was wrong.
With a sudden brutality, the Annihilator jammed the sword into the monster’s throat, left it there for a long moment, and then yanked it out. He watched dispassionately as life came leaking out. Dr. Devil, still flesh and blood, tried grasping a hold of his throat, tried closing the wound, but it was no use. Time passed, and he twitched violently, his bloody tongue bloated in his mouth, and then finally he was still, his soul sucked violently into the fiery furnaces.
The Annihilator raised his scarlet sword and stuck it back into the holster. He wiped his brow and looked up to the heavens. Lord, he had it coming, he whispered.
Shocked by the spectacle, I walked quietly past the boy toward the staircase. He never saw me leave, or if he did, he never said a word.
CHAPTER 3
I ascended the stairs quickly, breathing heavily from the exertion. Strange sounds echoed in the stairway: a woman singing opera, the laugh track of a sitcom, the clacking of a typewriter. Finally, I came to a door and pushed it open, but as I walked through the corridor, it soon became obvious that I was on the wrong floor. Feeling that familiar sense of dread, I wandered aimlessly through the darkened corridor, searching for an exit out of the building, becoming increasingly frustrated by the numerous dead ends and mock doors. On more than one occasion I did find a door that actually opened, but each time it turned out to be a supplies closet or a furnace room.
And so time passed that way, until eventually, to my great relief, I saw the unmistakable glimmer of light, the dust rising like some spectral vision. I pushed open the heavy steel door and stepped outside.
I breathed deeply. Looking around, it was clear that I was back in the town’s center, but now everything looked different somehow, and I felt, once again, like a stranger.
The exterior of the building that I exited from now resembled a derelict hospital. Three-stories, gray brick, with chimneystacks rising from each corner of the gable roof. Wings jutted from the main block and were covered with dying ivy. Many of the windows were broken, and all were barred. And beyond the building, rising like a beacon, the factory, all twisted metal and catwalks and winding cylinders and smokestacks.
I stood there for a long time, just staring at the factory, mesmerized. By all appearances it was deserted, abandoned, but as I stood there, the sickle of a moon and a few dead stars my only light, I could see the faint tendrils of smoke rising from the stacks. I felt a coldness rise up inside of me, a coldness that I knew would never leave me, and I stared at the factory, and I knew something was happening in there, something terrible, and I knew that every secret in the world was hidden in the factory’s walls, and I had to find out, had to find out…
It was late at night or early in the morning, and I was hungry and tired. I wandered down the splintered streets and sidewalks, all covered with shattered bottles and foreign newspapers and dead birds and worn-out shoes. My eyes stayed focused on the factory, but no matter how long I walked it remained out of reach, off in the distance.
My thoughts turned inward and I thought about my task, finding the girl, and I worried that they had thrown her into the industrial lake or, worse yet, buried her in the cement. And so I wandered through the town, lost in my own anxieties, going round and round in circles, and when I looked up I realized that I’d lost sight of the factory, lost sight of the town’s center completely. Trying to regain my bearings, I saw that I was now in an old and rundown residential neighborhood. A cold wind was blowing, and a few tired cottonwoods swayed lazily. There was a row of dark one-story brick ranches, the lawns nothing but dirt and weeds. Somewhere some cats were fighting to the death. A tin can clanked down the pavement, paused at my feet, and then continued on its way.
I was lost. I thought about walking toward one of the houses and knocking on the door, but I feared that whoever opened the door would be armed with a rifle or a handgun, and me with nothing.
And then I heard the faint sounds of music. At first I thought it was just my imagination, but as I moved forward, the music became louder, more distinct. It sounded like ’50s do-wop, and I could also hear the echoes of laughter.
I quickened my pace. Following the music, I walked across a lawn littered with beer cans and machinery. Out of the darkness, a pit-bull barked and growled, made like he was going to chomp through my leg, but he was chained to a post and didn’t do anything but choke himself as he lunged forward. I leaped over the fence and continued through a frozen dirt field and along a little gully until up ahead I saw a big farmhouse, its windows all lit up, the music filling the night sky.
Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, I took another step forward, but I tripped, nearly falling face first into the frozen field. I pushed myself up to my knees and turned around. I saw that I had tripped over the legs of a man. He was propped up against a tree, his head slumped forward. I was sure he was dead.
He wore overalls and no jacket despite the frigid weather, 20 degrees at most. His face was pallid and waxy looking. I kneeled next to him, said, You all right, mister? No response. I moved closer still and tapped his knee. Mister? Still nothing. I studied his chest, his shoulders, his mouth for any signs of breath, but saw none.
I sat on my haunches, took a few deep breaths, thought things over. Everything about this town was strange; nothing made any sense. What would happen if I approached the house and told them that there was a dead man in the field? Would they peg me as the killer? These types of towns don’t like outsiders, that much is sure. Would they call the cops, an ambulance? Did they even have a police force in this town?
I rose to my feet, unsteadily. And that’s when the dead man’s head jerked upward, his eyelids fluttered open, and his lips curled into a grin.
Christ, Russell, he said. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.
I was rattled b
adly, and I scurried backwards. Long moments passed and the man just kept on grinning. And then, finally, recognition. It was Charlie Gardner, a childhood friend who I hadn’t seen in years. I breathed deeply, relieved.
Charlie? I said. What are you doing here?
He grinned again, and then shook his head. Ah, I was just goofing with you, buddy. I came out here for a breath of fresh air and saw you wandering along, and I figured I’d give you a scare. Got you good, huh?
Well, sure. But I mean, what are you doing here in Factory Town?
Charlie narrowed his eyes and shook his head. What are you talking about, Russell? I never left Factory Town. Well, except for a couple years in the army. That was a hell of a thing, buddy, a hell of a thing. I killed a man. Can you believe it? Shot him right in the chest. Never thought I’d kill anyone…
I gestured toward the lit-up house, the music and laughter louder than ever. What’s going on in there? I asked. Some sort of a party?
Party? No, not exactly. Cards night. We play every Tuesday. Half the town shows up. Even the Vultures.
The Vultures?
It’s low stakes, Russell. Twenty bucks and you’re in. Say, why don’t you join us? It’s a good time, real good time. We don’t have many good times in this town. I can introduce you to some important people.
I don’t know, I said. I should probably get back to town, find a place to lay my head. I haven’t slept in a long time. I need to get some rest so I can continue my investigation.