Beneath The Surface

by Simon Strantzas

  The text ended, picking up again about twenty pages later, and even then with only a single entry that may not have even been the same handwriting. It seemed looser, less controlled, and had begun to bleed into the moisture around it. Hawksley could not be sure, but he thought it read: i have to find it before they move again my god if they move again . . .

  Taped to the back cover of the book was a single key similar to those on the ring he'd lost. There was no indication of what it opened, but Hawksley knew there was only one place it could go. He peeled it free from the yellowed tape.

  He did not run down the halls, though his feet itched to do so. Instead, he forced himself to walk slowly, cautiously, in case anyone noticed him in the corridors. He didn't want to arouse suspicions.

  Though the corridors refused to conform to the map he held in his head, he managed to recognize enough of his surroundings to find the poorly lit passage. It seemed smaller, the walls closing in tighter and tighter until he worried he would not be able to escape them.

  The air went quiet. He saw the factory door, its lock shining dully, brass tarnished and faded. He listened for footsteps before pulling the sticky key from his trouser pocket. It slid into the lock without difficulty, cylinders falling into place.

  He slipped through the open door into pitch black. The walls were damp, the roughness of the concrete scratching his fingertips. When he found the light switch, he flipped it on, and stood bewildered.

  A wall of glass a foot thick spanned the entire width of the empty room. It reached from floor to ceiling, and was covered in long deep scratches and chips. Behind it, murky white water like dilute milk moved in slow eddies and whorls.

  Hawksley was compelled to touch the glass, to lay his thin fingers upon its great face. He was dumbfounded as to its purpose, what possible reason the company would have for such an awesome tank. He could feel the tension in the barrier, as if it were waiting for the right moment to burst.

  Over the sound of gently lapping water he heard a single footstep before being startled by the voice.

  “Leave, now.”

  Hawksley turned, hand still touching the glass. Daniels stood unsteadily, eyes sagging, hair and skin slick with oily sweat. His whole complexion was pale, sallow. He appeared delirious.

  “What is this thing?”

  “You aren’t wanted here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Daniels shook his head, his teeth parted and his pallid tongue protruding. He lunged at Hawksley, latching tightly onto him.

  Hawksley panicked as his attacker flailing wildly. Daniels seemed rabid as he pulled and clawed at Hawksley’s arms and face. Hawksley fought for his freedom, shoving Daniels blindly with all his might, launching him headfirst into the thick glass barrier.

  A dull crack filled the room, then only cold silence followed. Daniels lay crumpled on the floor, head resting crookedly against the concrete.

  Thick liquid spilled, spreading along the ground. Sweat made his face look plastic, and the eyes — like two glazed opals, like fish eyes — stared up at nothing.

  Then, those eyes moved.

  They sank back into lidless sockets, pulling away from Daniels's face as if it were only a mask. From the crack across his head greyish flesh uncoiled, a greasy tentacle flopping onto the concrete, twitching. Hawksley stumbled back, wanting to cry aloud but the air would not leave his lungs. He raised his fists to his eyes, hoping to somehow scrub the sight of the dying appendage away.

  The cloud behind the glass then parted, and, from its milky depths, a dark shadow slipped towards him. It was large, over two feet thick, and its grey flesh was covered with row after row of tiny undulating discs, like mouths trying to feed. It curled and uncurled, pushing against the glass, agitated. Hawksley couldn’t move, his mind reeling. The appendage swelled, then tightened, and rammed against the glass again and again. The sound shook through the room, throwing his heart out of rhythm. He covered his ears but could not drown it out.

  Steadily, its volume increased, a tremendous booming, that almost eclipsed the other noise, the noise that came hurtling through the hallways. Like the crackle of hundreds of hands clapping, a flood of footsteps raced towards him. He stepped through the door and saw a mass of shadows growing larger across the ends of the corridor. He slammed the heavy door shut, leaning his body tight against it.

  An army of hundreds of fists began to pound upon the barrier, the accompanying voices muffled by the thickness of the door. Hawksley felt the walls, those blind featureless walls, sucking the air from his lungs. He was trapped.

  The room suddenly went quiet, hurting Hawksley’s ears. Everything, all pounding from either side of him, stopped, and Hawksley heard only his own harried breathing, loud and rasping, echo in the windowless room. Daniels’s lifeless body watched from the corner with uncaring, hollow darkness. A quiet scratching sound became audible, the sound of gears, of old mechanics creaking, and the thick glass wall began to shiver. Then, it did more than just shiver, as water began to stream over the top of it. The wall was sinking into the floor, the puddles at Hawksley’s feet getting deeper. He tried the handle of the door, but it would not budge. Pipes above his head spouted water and the room quickly filled to Hawksley’s knees, then to his waist, higher and higher until he was thrashing, mind screaming in terror. He swallowed stagnant metallic water by the mouthful, coughing up the foul liquid, desperate for breath. Around his ankle he felt something tighten like a noose, and with a sudden tug he was beneath the surface.

  Hawksley struggled violently, able to see little in the milky water. Long, thick appendages appeared from within the murk, constricting his flailing arms and legs, immobilizing him. Their touch was strange, soft and calming, and they pulled him closer to the shadow at their core and wrapped him in a velvet embrace. From out of that dark center something like a long smooth tube reached towards him. He was held tight as it slipped easily into the base of his skull, and he had already stopped struggling by the time it deposited its heavy burden within.

  IN THE AIR

  THE SOUND OF the car’s engine made Maggie realize not only that she wasn’t ready to see the place where Charles died, but that it was suddenly too late to change her mind. She stood from her seat at the door, wiped away her tears with her unbandaged hand, and straightened her clothes.

  In the driveway, Lynda’s Chevrolet idled. It was an old car, held together with bits of twine and rust, and its acidic exhaust did not disperse in the autumn breeze. Lynda leaned against the car, her beaded necklace twisted around her fingers.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Just about,” Maggie said. She locked the door, then turned and looked at her sister-in-law.

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You can. I feel like I’ve been left behind, too, but we can’t hide from this forever.” She glanced at Maggie’s bandage. “We have to try and move on. Going to Markham’s the only way.”

  Maggie looked to the sky. The rising sun had obliterated most of the night’s stars, but there were still some in the distance, tiny lights drowned by the enormity of the sun.

  She sniffled, and picked up her bags.

  “Okay. I’m ready.”

  The women were quiet as they travelled northward, both lost in their own private sorrow. Outside Maggie’s window, the autumn world passed by, colored leaves and dirt flying through the air like a flock of birds. The debris swirled ahead on the empty road, and it crackled against the car as they drove through clouds of dust.

  Lynda spoke without moving her eyes from the road. “Did Charles ever offer to take you up?”

  “Up where?”

  “Flying with him.”

  Maggie thought a moment, scratching her wound through the ghost of dried blood on her bandage.

  “Not for a long time.”

  “He told me once he liked being above it all. He liked looking down at all the people. It made him realize how insignificant we all were.”

  Maggie’
s lip curled despite herself.

  “That does sound like Charles.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  Her smile grew wider, then abruptly was gone. Maggie looked out the window again, but she couldn’t see anything through her blurry eyes.

  There was little noise beyond the sound of the engine and the gusting wind. Soon, Maggie found herself drowsy, her early morning catching up with her. She closed her eyes, and behind them played scenes of fireballs hurtling towards the earth, ash streaming in their wake. She dreamed that she was one of them, and as she watched the ground speed towards her, she felt her flesh burn away, felt herself falling apart.

  She jolted awake. Lynda turned, her face damp and eyes slightly puffy. Her necklace was twisted around her fingers.

  “Are you all right?”

  Maggie slumped down, then shook her head. Outside, the wind pushed through the trees that lined the side of the road, scattering leaves across the orange flame-filled sky.

  When they reached the gas station on the outskirts of Markham, it was with a sense of relief.

  A single pump stood beneath a tall faded-blue billboard. At first, Maggie questioned whether it really was a gas station; the sign, even with most of its strangely colored paint peeled away, depicted an aquatic animal like a fish or a whale rather than the typical automotive icons, but as the car pulled alongside the pump, she saw the small diner behind it at the edge of the woods, the marine creature motif repeated on its aged brick.

  Above them a flag fluttered and clapped.

  A thin man emerged from the small Plexiglas office a few feet away, brushing clouds of dust off his coveralls. He scrubbed his forehead with his sleeve and leaned up against the car and looked at them with a long downturned face that was cut with age-disguising grooves. He then ran his fingers through his crown of unkempt hair. He smiled for a moment, and his almond eyes creased shut.

  “How much?” he said.

  “Fill it,” Lynda said and let her necklace drop to her chest. He smiled again but did not move. The gusts of wind that slipped through the open window blew wisps of hair into Maggie’s face, and she brushed them back behind her ear, though they wouldn’t stay.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?”

  Maggie was about to speak but thought she might scream when she looked at the attendant. His skin had turned to black ash, revealing eyes bulging wide and lifeless. His crumbling lips opened and closed slowly, though emitted no sound Maggie could understand. She struggled backwards instinctively, the smell of something burning filling the car.

  Then, in an instant, everything was fine.

  “Won’t be a minute,” he said, and walked around the side of the Chevrolet.

  Lynda picked up her necklace again and peered at Maggie.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Maggie closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Nothing, I’m not thinking straight.” She took a deep breath, then looked out the window at the small diner. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

  “Sure. Hang on,” Lynda said.

  It was only when they reached the restaurant that Maggie realized how run down and stained its exterior was. The entrance was a flimsy screen door, more appropriate for a house than a commercial building, and it required only a small pull from Lynda before the wind took it and threw the door open with a loud noise. The restaurant was empty of customers, but those few staff inside turned to scrutinize Maggie and Lynda with narrow eyes.

  The place was little more than a handful of tables. There was a white board upon the wall with the words TODAY'S SPECIAL printed in colored marker, yet beneath the heading nothing was listed. The women took a seat near a window rippled with filth while across the room a man in a stained shirt was twisting a broom in his white-knuckled hands. He looked over at the woman behind the counter, then wordlessly resumed sweeping.

  “We’re almost there,” Lynda said, then stopped and opened her large beaded bag. She rummaged through it, then added: “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Maggie watched through the hazy glass as Lynda struggled in the wind to keep the car door open. She waited in silence, listening to the howling outside, until a voice startled her.

  “Menus?”

  The waitress seemed uncomfortable, fidgeting with the notebook in her hands. It was like she wanted to say something else, but had lost her nerve. Maggie nodded and thanked her, then watched the woman’s eyes narrow before she turned and walked away. She returned a moment later with two large pieces of laminated paper and simply handed them to Maggie with a creased expression that made Maggie wonder if the waitress and gas attendant were siblings. Or, quite possibly, parent and child.

  Lynda walked in waving a pile of folded paper as the waitress left.

  “I forgot the map in the car,” she said. She sat down and pushed the menus aside, then spread the map open on the table. She studied it.

  “It looks like we’re right here now,” she said, laying her heavy finger upon an intersection of lines. “Do you still have the directions I gave you to the hotel?”

  Maggie nodded and fumbled her purse open with her one good hand. She reached in and retrieved a single sheet of paper. Upon it was written strange characters in an indecipherable scrawl, and Maggie felt tears welling up she could not push back down.

  “I’m not good at this,” she said. “This is what Charles did: he planned everything. He worked everything out. He should be here to do it.”

  Maggie felt the narrow eyes of the waitress upon her but she could not stop her voice from breaking.

  “I hate him sometimes, hate him for being gone. How can I forgive that? Tell me, Lynda, I need to know. How?”

  The tears came, and Maggie ran from the restaurant. She stood outside, the wind cold against her wet face, and pulled her jacket tighter as she tried to control her sobbing. Across the lot, the attendant sat in his tiny booth and looked directly at her, though his face wavered in the warped plastic windows. Maggie scrambled to hide her torment.

  A moment later, Lynda appeared outside. She looked perturbed, but said nothing to Maggie beyond: “Let’s go.”

  Maggie sniffled, then followed.

  They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Maggie ventured to speak.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

  “It’s okay. I just wish you hadn’t left me alone in there. That old guy was giving me the creeps.”

  Maggie looked down at her bandaged hand. She could see the once white gauze had become dirty and frayed, and she picked at it with her other hand.

  “I had to. I had to get away. It felt like I was being hit by a hammer so hard I was falling to pieces.”

  Lynda touched her beaded necklace and looked over her shoulder. Then she slowed the car down and pulled it off the road. When they were stopped, she sat there, head bowed as if she were in thought. Maggie didn’t speak. Outside, the wind rocked the car gently and threw dirt against the windows. Lynda then lifted her head and looked at Maggie.

  “You’re going to destroy yourself if you don’t find a way past Charles.”

  Maggie cradled her injured arm. Around her mouth, muscles quivered, a manifestation of her grief surfacing, and she wrestled to speak a single word, almost under her breath.

  “How?”

  Lynda ran her fingers across the dashboard, then rubbed them together.

  “Do you know where dust comes from? Some of it's skin cells and hair, but most of it comes from outer space. When a star burns through all its fuel, it collapses so quickly that the gases surrounding it are pulling into the burning hot core. Then, there’s a giant explosion, and everything the star once was gets shot across space. This happens over and over again, star after star collapsing. Do you understand where I’m going with this?”

  She didn’t.

  “The remains of a million dead stars are spread across this planet, a fine layer of dust mixed in with everything. Even the wind,” she said, as a gust rained more dirt upon
the car. “It’s inside all of us, in with our blood and our bones. In a very real way, we are all made of stars.” Lynda pushed her coarse hair back behind her ear, then turned to face the road and started the car again. “I know it sounds funny, but every one of us is the same. Charles will always be a part of me because we were both made from stars. I can’t explain why, but the idea comforts me.”

  Maggie saw the phantoms of burning ash falling from high above, showering the ground.

  She could not find that same solace.

  The hotel, when they reached it twenty minutes later, wasn’t more than a three-story building surrounded by smaller shops and houses, yet it was far older than anything touched by its shadow. Shutters were crooked, glass was dirty, and whatever had been planted in the landscape had become merely a skeleton of its flowering self.

  Still, a light was on inside, and it provided the single sign of life in the town of Markham. Otherwise, the only things that moved were the dark clouds that were being pushed across the sky in waves, and the dark specks of debris that were swirling in the storm.

  The first thing Maggie saw upon entering the small hotel was the woman who stood behind the counter dusting. She scowled, her attention split by her work and the approaching women, and her cleaning only intensified as the two made their way to her desk.

  “May I help you?” she said, and Maggie realized the woman had only been elevated to eye-level by a small stepladder. She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds — her glasses alone were probably a third of that, and they made her eyes large and wide like a pair of searchlights. She turned them directly on Maggie, then on Maggie’s bandaged arm.

  “We haven’t any room for you.”

  The words did not register at first.