Liminal States

by Zack Parsons

  The so-called Undercroft was a honeycomb of administrative offices and processing areas for emerging duplicates. Polly did not dare try to pass through these, as they were densely populated and, in the case of the processing, considered sensitive. The central trunk of elevators was similarly a danger spot. She opted instead for a path through a heating tunnel crowded with ductwork. They encountered only the occasional, slightly bewildered type two or three. No one challenged them.

  They emerged from the tunnel onto a grated platform high above the floor of the ventilation hub. The hub was a hot, dry chamber filled with the roar of pump turbines drawing geological heat up from the deepest tunnels. Even walking out of the heat tunnel and seeing the machinery of the pump turbines perilously far below was dizzying.

  “We go down.” Polly pointed to the visible railing of stairs. It was flimsy and never intended for through-traffic.

  “I hope it’s down at a non-terminal pace,” said Dr. Cochrane.

  The metal frame stairs were bolted to a concrete structural pylon, and each step from each member of the team made the zigzag stairs bounce like a spring. The Marines dealt with the precarious conditions, but several of the scientists panicked.

  “No,” pleaded Konstantin Sokov. “I am afraid of heights. I cannot. I will faint. Leave me.”

  Dr. Burns tried to cajole him to the staircase, but he clung to the entrance of the heat tunnel like a child afraid of Santa Claus. Polly knew there was no going back for Sokov. Not by himself. He either had to be forced to go down the stairs, or they would all need to turn back.

  “It’s all of us or none of us,” said Polly.

  It was Funkweed who broke him loose. He wrapped him up in his burly arms and, pushing off from the wall with a combat boot, he pulled poor Sokov out onto the quaking platform. Their momentum nearly took them over the railing. Funkweed dropped Sokov onto his feet at the head of the stairs.

  “March your ass down those stairs,” said Funkweed in his best drill sergeant voice. “You baby. You think I ain’t scared? I don’t even like climbing a ladder. You think I like this? Grow up, Ivan. We have to do it, including you.”

  That seemed to break Sokov out of his despair. He stood up ramrod straight. His mechanical response to Funkweed’s shouting suggested a military past.

  “Yes,” said Sokov, and he began to march down the stairs. Funkweed followed closely behind, but no further prodding was needed.

  The air at the chamber’s floor level was desert hot and punctuated by bursts of even greater heat as workers opened hatches on the pumping machinery, exposing the baking temperatures being siphoned from the depths. The men were clad in dun-colored coveralls and wore hard hats and protective gloves. Their uniforms were dark with sweat and grime. They toiled as machines, paying no mind to the interlopers.

  “We’ve been at it for over an hour. We need to rest.” Dr. Burns mopped sweat from her face with a kerchief. The scientists leaned on one another or sat upon the dusty floor.

  “We go on,” said Polly.

  It was another hour, trudging through more heating tunnel and on into a forgotten warren of storage offices for low-level administrative clerks. The rooms and corridors were appointed in the fashion of an office of the 1950s, with narrow halls, decorative incandescent light fixtures, and wooden-framed doors of frosted glass stenciled with job titles like JUNIOR BURSAR and SENIOR DISTRIBUTION MANAGER. The only piece missing from the mosaic were the windows and slatted blinds facing downtown Los Angeles, New York, or Chicago of half a century ago.

  The office was populated by a colony of type ones in cheap business attire and a handful of type threes acting as secretaries. They were clearly put out by a large group of snowflakes in sweaty work clothes traipsing through their domain. Polly’s map took them through halls cluttered with boxes and interrupted conversations among identical men in identical shirtsleeves and identical ties. As they rounded a corner, following a sign directing them to the stairs, a type three dropped a romance novel onto her desk and disappeared behind a door stenciled with the name BOB DENIM and the title INTERMEDIATE OFFICE SUPERVISOR.

  “You.” Denim, a burly type one, stepped out of his office shouting. “Type three. What are you doing with these people in my office? You can’t be in here. They can’t be in here. Get out of here.”

  Polly signaled for the procession to halt behind her. Secretaries put down their distractions, and doors opened all along the hall as type ones poked their heads out to see why the boss was yelling.

  “We are on official business,” said Polly. She lifted her clearance badge in its laminated holder. Bob Denim squinted at the card and shook his head. He picked up the telephone receiver from his secretary’s desk and began to dial.

  “I need to call Mr. Hopper,” he said. “He’ll straighten you out. You really can’t be in here with those people.”

  Polly flattened her finger in the telephone’s cradle.

  “The Gardeners sent me,” said Polly. This produced an immediate reaction from Bob Denim. His anger disappeared, and he straightened up.

  “These people are being taken to processing,” said Polly. “Deep processing. The kind nobody comes back from.”

  “My supervisor still needs to talk with you.”

  “Who should be told about this? Your supervisor or my supervisor?” She stepped back from him. “Go ahead and make that call if you need to.”

  His thought process was pantomimed on his face and in his body language. He looked at the phone, scowled, looked at Polly, and, bereft, appeared about to whine. Instead, he hung up the phone.

  “Well, okay, then.” He raised his voice. “This checks out. Official business. Carry on.”

  Shamed by his confusion, Mr. Denim retreated into his office. Polly and her charges proceeded to the stairs and descended, at last, to one of the approaches to the maintenance vault. The footpath was only wide enough for two to walk abreast and, though built from concrete slabs, seemed poorly put together. The slabs were uneven, and long cracks split the walls and curved up into the ceiling. Occasional dusty showers of concrete flakes clattered down onto their heads and shoulders.

  It was not the approach used to move large material in and out of the maintenance vault, nor was it the jeep track used by the maintenance crews, although this could not be avoided entirely.

  The narrow footpath crossed the jeep track—two lanes of hardtop in a curving tunnel—and it was so quiet, she heard the distant gurgle of the Pool and the buzz of the lighting twenty feet over their heads. It took more than a minute to usher the scientists across the track. There should have been at least one vehicle coming or going in that time.

  “There should be traffic,” said Polly.

  The scientists were too footsore and overwhelmed to care, but Dryson took an interest.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They run smaller anomalies out through the jeep track. They should be driving them out in boxes and returning almost constantly.”

  “What do you mean by this ‘anomalies’?” asked Sokov. His brow was furrowed, and he was polishing sweat from his glasses. His eyes seemed tiny and dark without the benefit of the lenses.

  “I mean junk, debris; weird things.”

  “Like the parasite you brought for Mrs. Nandy?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “I mean, freak things, sometimes, but messed up dogs, cats, rabbits. Rats. Giant fish or something.”

  “A giant fish?” Sokov returned his glasses to his face.

  “It’s all junk. Mistakes. I haven’t seen anything like that parasite.” She was annoyed by Sokov’s questions and the way his watery eyes seemed to be pleading. “We need to keep moving.

  “So why aren’t they driving them in and out like you said?” asked Dryson, following her as she pushed her way to the head of the column again. “What reason could they have for stopping?”

  She did not know the answer to that. The thought that anything could halt the steady traffic in and out of one of the most vit
al parts of the Pit was a cause for grave concern.

  “I don’t have an answer for you,” she said.

  Near the vault entrance the footpath widened into a chamber, low-ceilinged, no more than twenty feet wide, but long enough to accommodate all of the scientists. There were chairs, low tables, ashtrays, and even vending machines stocked with candies and sodas. After crossing through the oppressive depths of the Undercroft, the scientists, though relieved to be able to sit for a moment, were nevertheless put off by the amenities, as if they were a trick.

  Polly checked the small version of the guide map she had brought along. A line drawn in grease pencil marked their course to this point. The entrance to the maintenance vault was down two levels and through heavy security doors. There was no more bypassing of security points possible. The UN team would have to clear a security checkpoint. She rehearsed a more detailed version of the story she had given to Bob Denim. As long as a Gardener was not manning the checkpoint, she was confident she could bully her way through.

  Dryson sidled up, peering over her shoulder at the map.

  “Not much farther,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “They’re past the point of complaining, but they’ve just about had it.”

  “Let them rest for a bit. I need to scout ahead.” She thought about leaving Dryson in charge—he obviously expected to be left in charge—but she called out to Rukundo instead. He came loping over to where she was standing. “I need you to take care of everyone. Let them have a drink and rest their feet. You are in charge.”

  “Me, Miss Polly?”

  “I trust you.”

  Dryson rolled his eyes and rejoined his men. Polly set off down the stairwell, her feet echoing in the lonely concrete enclosure. There was an odd smell in the air, almost as if something had burned. The stairwell opened into a plaza that reminded her of a parking garage. A security wall separated the stairwell and a pair of large elevators from the doors leading into the maintenance vault. There was only one way in or out, and it was through the metal detectors of the checkpoint, similar in design to the translucent box at the loading bay.

  The kiosk was empty. She approached cautiously, ducking beneath the back-and-forth ropes of the queue. The metal detectors chimed and flashed red as she passed through them. Papers were scattered out of the open door of the checkpoint. The smell of smoke was even stronger here. Polly slipped quietly to the nearest pair of doors opening into the maintenance vault. She tested the handle. Unlocked. She could hear the Pool churning through the door, feel it beneath her feet.

  She opened the door.

  The huge vault was quiet but for the rumble of the Pool. The vault’s domed floor rose to a hill in the center and partially obstructed her view of the opposite side of the chamber. Jeeps were parked haphazardly. Cranes were deployed as if work had stopped suddenly. A tangle of metal that appeared to be another crane had been pushed aside by a tracked earthmover, its metal shovel still buried in the junked crane.

  White halogen lights were directed at an open maintenance panel a dozen feet across. A crane was positioned above the open panel. An immaculate, golden sphere belted with weights dangled beneath the crane as if it were about to be lowered into the Pool. It swayed gently from side to side.

  There was no one in the vault.

  Polly approached the open panel. The tempestuous noise of the Pool grew louder with each step. She splashed through spilled motor oil, careful not to lose her footing, until she was standing at the mouth, loud as a waterfall, looking down into the poorly illuminated Pool. Dimly, she perceived its muddy surface, twisting and reforming, reeking of old bones and earthy, inner flesh. It was warm and sickening.

  She turned to walk away, stopped, realized the slick she had taken to be spilled oil was a long trail of blood. It collected at the open panel and dripped into the roiling liquid.

  She took out her pistol from its holster and ran back to the stairwell, searching as she went for any signs of danger. Her breath was ragged as she took the stairs two at a time and banged through the door and into the holding area where she had left the UN inspectors and Dryson’s men.

  Too late.

  “Drop your pistol.” The order came from a white-haired type two with a face crisscrossed by scars. He was aiming a folding machine pistol at the head of Dr. Burns.

  Polly hesitated. The UN team and Dryson’s men were on their knees, hands folded behind their heads. Sergeant Funkweed was laid out on his back, lip and nose bloodied, with a Gardener kneeling against his chest and holding the barrel of a pistol to his forehead. There were too many Gardeners to count.

  “Now.” The Gardener menacing Dr. Burns shook his gun insistently. Dr. Burns stared at Polly, betraying no reaction to the threat. Slowly, submissively, Polly lowered her gun to the floor.

  The Gardeners were freakishly white-haired, clad in riding boots and cloaks of unusual design, silver stag’s-head badges worn around their necks or pinned to their collars. Some bore brutal scars or strange tattoos. They all carried weapons.

  “Pollen Foster.” Another Gardener approached her from the side. He was wizened and moved slowly, did not carry a weapon, but she felt afraid of the power he represented. He was Milo.

  She scrambled for an excuse.

  “I was ordered by Mr. Bishop to—”

  “Do not waste our time with your fable. I know exactly why you are here, Miss Foster. Better than you, I’m afraid. As for Mr. Bishop, he has given us explicit orders to murder everyone in this room.”

  “In about five minutes,” said Bottles, “they’re gonna open up the cots. There’s a big rush, everybody wants a bed, but there ain’t enough. The trick is, what I do is, you go back to the kitchen right then, and they give you a bag of food. I know this other place, man, it ain’t far. It’s a lot better than a cot. It’s got electricity and a toilet and everything.”

  Casper liked the idea of using an actual toilet and maybe cleaning up. It was an appealing offer, but he did not trust Bottles, not yet. The man was after something.

  “And you’re going to take me there and jump me for that debit card,” said Casper, wiping his face with a napkin. “Try to steal my dog. Is that it?”

  “Naw, not at all. You got it wrong. You’re oversuspicious of people who are extending a hand of friendship.”

  Casper held on to his suspicion. Bottles yammered on, talking about Pittsburgh and somebody named Carlos, asking questions, trying to feel out what Casper might have worth trading or selling. He offered Casper a pair of tennis shoes for his rubber sandals. They smelled as if they were taken from a dead man. He tried to trade Casper a liter bottle of water for the debit card, pointing out how the container was still sealed and describing the filtration process used to ensure it was spore free.

  “I guess that don’t matter to you.” Bottles put the water back into his bag.

  The tables began to empty, people carrying their trays back into the kitchen and depositing them in a steady clatter of plastic and clink of silverware into wash bins. When each person dumped his tray, he moved, with family and friends, to double doors opposite the entrance. The doors were closed and apparently locked.

  “Waiting for the cots,” said Bottles. “Finish your turkey, man, or give it to me. We’ll go get seconds, and I’ll show you a much better place to hang out.”

  Casper spooned the gravy off the turkey and passed the piece beneath the table. He felt the lash of Lenin’s tongue as the dog delicately pulled the hunk of meat from his fingers. Once the dog had finished the piece, Casper followed Bottles back to the kitchen. Across the room, the double doors swung open, and the people crowding them pressed into the adjoining room. Father Woodhew could be heard shouting for cooperation, a stone in the flow of a mighty river of desperate families hoping to find a bed for the night.

  “Here we go,” said Bottles. He put on a big smile and, true to his word, sweet-talked the tired kitchen staff into ladling plenty more food into a couple of foam clamshell containers. �
��Oh, you tell that Denise if she is here tomorrow, I might ask her to marry me if she makes another sweet-potato pie. God bless you all. God bless you.”

  “That sweet-potato pie is nasty as a dead cat,” said Bottles, once they were out of earshot. “Now you come on, we’ll go out the side way.”

  They passed through a metal side door into a narrow alley between the courtyard wall and the rearmost buttress of the church. The sky was a deep blue, sunset blue, seeming darker because of a harsh light above the church door. That door thudded closed behind them, its lock clicking with finality.

  “You found yourself another pet.” It was the big, ugly skinhead who had accosted him during an earlier visit to the church. He and his gang were blocking off the alley. All of them, even the girls, were brandishing weapons; chains, knives, and the leader, the ugly son of a bitch, wielded the curved black blade of a machete. “I’m gonna cut your head off, dupe. I’ll just take a couple fingers from the nigger.”

  Casper brought up his fists, but his estimates from days before were all wrong. The fight was over quickly. Casper was caught wrong-footed, his swing skipping off the side of the machete, deflecting the skinhead’s weapon but failing to disarm the man. The fat skinhead called Van slammed Casper sideways, elbows in his kidneys, against the bricks, driving him to his knees.

  Bottles retreated against the door, turning his back and sheltering his face from the laughing girls and their knives. Casper registered kicks, steel-toed, bruising his legs, arms, and sides. The machete would come soon. He knew what it was going to feel like from a brief visit to the Philippines that had ended poorly.

  Casper was facedown on the pavement, the world trickling, bouncing in and out of darkness with each distant blow against his ribs or back. The girls were laughing still, slashing at Bottles with their knives, peeling ribbons and tufts of padding from his coat, sprawling him on the ground atop his smashed boxes of food. Everything went dark, but Casper was still aware. He could dimly feel them still beating him and hear their voices.