by Hodge, Brian
DARK CITY:
A Novella Collection
Brian Hodge
Gerard Houarner
Necro Publications
— 2015 —
— | — | —
DARK CITY
A Novella Collection
“Introduction” © 2015 by Gerard Houarner
“In the Negative Spaces” © 2015 by Brian Hodge
“Burning Bright in the Invisible Night” © 2015 by Gerard Houarner
“Afterword: Burning Bright in the Invisible Night” © 2015 by Gerard Houarner
“The Fear Puppet” © 2015 by Gerard Houarner
“Afterword: The Fear Puppet” © 2015 by Gerard Houarner
This edition 2015 © Necro Publications
LCCN: 2015908379
ISBN: 978-1-939065-81-0
Book & cover design & typesetting:
David G. Barnett
www.fatcatgraphicdesign.com
Assistant editors:
Amanda Baird
Tara Cleves
Necro Publications
5139 Maxon Terrace, Sanford, FL 32771
necropublications.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, or his agent, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a critical article or review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper, or electronically transmitted on radio or television.
All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.
— | — | —
Thanks, as always, to Dave Barnett for his creative passion and skills.
— | — | —
Introduction
by Gerard Houarner
In the Negative Spaces
by Brian Hodge
Burning Bright in the Invisible Night
by Gerard Houarner
Afterword: Burning Bright in the Invisible Night
by Gerard Houarner
The Fear Puppet
by Gerard Houarner
Afterword: The Fear Puppet
by Gerard Houarner
About the Authors
— | — | —
Introduction
We all face our own personal end of days. It is a certainty that inspires faith, dread, regret, resignation, desperation, acceptance, hope, fulfillment, redemption, joy. What helps some get through this process of facing one’s end of days is the promise that, though we will be gone, the rest of the world will continue. Somehow, a part of ourselves will live on through the legacy of our work, our family, our motion through this time and space.
Apocalyptic events—the end of the world, a true end of days, of life and future, of space and time and reality—ups the ante a bit. It’s not about dying. It’s about obliteration, the negation of the structures of family and society and culture we believe will carry some small part of what we were into the future.
Boom, we’re gone. And by “we,” I mean something beyond our personal “legacy,” beyond our participation in this thing that “humanity” is. Worse, that end of days renders mankind’s singular drive to become the apex predator species of this place and time in existence not only meaningless, but ridiculous. If “ridiculous” has any relevance in a post-apocalyptic reality.
Somehow, I find comfort in writing about the end of the world.
««—»»
I’m not the only one, I suspect.
In the Brian Hodge novella you’re about to read, In the Negative Spaces, I found echoes of 9/11, and the Sandy flood, recent real-life visions of what could yet be NYC’s fate.
But there are also big-city themes running through the tale. The city haunts us with its beauty and glamour, its expectations of riches and good company, of connecting to a vast and vibrant engine that will take us far away from what we were.
The reality is quite different, from the loneliness and isolation of urban life to human greed shaping a reality of empty spaces in the heart of what should be a living community. And there are realities any city apartment dweller knows—the thin walls, the hidden spaces, and what can sometimes haunt those spaces and pass through flimsy barriers.
Apocalypse can emerge from the most unlikely places. It can come falling, like so many other things, through cracks we never knew were there, as a consequence of our own desperation and alienation.
The end of things, brought on by an ache to connect, by reaching into the past, by reaching out to the unknown because there is nothing else to touch.
And perhaps, through that connection, no matter how brief or how costly, some comfort can be found.
««—»»
Small comfort, I know. But for me, at least, the longing felt and the discoveries made in the heart of Brian Hodge’s tale offer a kind of fulfillment. With a huge and scary consequence, of course. But it’s only, as they say, a story.
Maybe the comfort I find is a reaction to the personal end of days I know is coming—I’m gonna die, that sucks, but it could be worse! Perhaps, when I consider the bigger darkness, I can let go of any meaning to past and future—all that ever matters is the moment, and some day there will be no more moments, so don’t worry about it, ultimately it was all about those fleeting moments of existence and getting as much out of them as I could when it was all still around.
Maybe I like to break things when faced with endings, large or small.
Whatever my issue is (and I’m sure there’s more than one), a decent number of the stories I’ve written occur just before the Big Bad happens, or afterwards.
Here’s a couple more.
One is, in my mind, an “anti-zombie” story. There’s more about what that means to me in the afterword. But it is an “apocalyptic” story. And a love story, too, I think. And maybe it’s about hope and faith. Or fool’s gold.
The other is a “post-apocalyptic” story, and as it goes in that kind of story, it makes me not want to survive the big end of days. Because, really, things are going to suck. And I’m just not sure I want the last batch of moments I try to grab hold of and live and appreciate to be full of terror, pain, hunger, and things that make me wish I was dead. Truly, I am ambivalent. As with the other story, there’s more about the piece in the afterword.
So I hope you find something worthwhile in my contribution to this project. I have no doubt you already love and adore Brian Hodge’s work. And I hope you appreciate Dave Barnett’s passion, skill and effort in putting this and so many other projects together. Most of all, I hope this book reaches you, and you get a chance to read it, and if something sparks in you in experiencing this work, to perhaps spread a little love for Dave and Brian and even me before, you know, something happens, something big and bad that will make all the moments it took to create this manifestation of imagination, and all the moments it will take to experience it, irrelevant.
But y’all have a good day, now, y’hear?
— Gerard Houarner
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In the Negative Spaces
«« — »»
Brian Hodge
The doorman was the first person all day to look at her like she was a person.
Three hours on the plane, security and baggage lines before and after, nineteen miles in a taxi from JFK airport—all anyone saw was cargo, 128 pounds to transport from one place to another, and keep docile in the meantime. You’d think she would be used to being meat by now, but she wasn’t.
She waited until the doorman pulled the glass and steel door shut behind them and locked ou
t the cold. “Hi. I’m Wendy Danes…?”
“Of course. Mister Weil’s sister.” He didn’t have to think about it, didn’t have to consult notes. He just had it. He would never know how much it meant.
“Wendy Weil, make that,” she said. “Sorry. Habit.”
“I never heard it any other way.” He winked. “And it’s so much more melodious than the way I didn’t hear it before.”
When he saw she wasn’t turning loose of either suitcase’s handle, he backed away as if he’d meant to do that all along, and left them to her. He returned to his station inside the lobby, a tall desk that curved around him like a giant comma.
“I have my driver’s license in here.” She began fumbling in her purse. “That’ll prove I’m—”
He held up his hand. He had a cellist’s fingers, a pianist’s fingers. “Never you mind that. Your brother showed me a picture.”
“He did? Really? I wouldn’t think he even has a recent one.”
“It wasn’t.” The doorman’s voice was high, tenor verging on alto. She found it soothing, quiet and modulated and reassuring, as though whatever he had to say was the most naturally sensible thing in the world. “The two of you looked to be fifteen, sixteen, around there. But I recognize you. You’re you.”
On the outside, maybe. Barely. On the inside, I was better then.
Still, he was good, this doorman. Glanced at some photo from half her life ago, ran it through an age-progression filter in his head, and he had her. He was good.
She found him to be one of those men of indeterminate age, youngish at first glance, fit and trim, nearly crinkle-free around the eyes and fatless along his jaw—he moisturized, definitely—but something suggested he was older than he appeared. Even well into the afternoon, he looked closely shaven. She wondered if he kept an electric razor in the little cubbyhole of an office behind his station, for a quick buzz after the stubble started to break. No trivial details, not for him, just lots of small important ones.
“You should get there while the day shift doorman is on duty. His name’s Barrett,” her brother had told her over the phone two days ago while they were arranging her escape. “Barrett…well, I forget his last name, but nobody uses it, nobody calls him anything other than Barrett, anyway. Or maybe Barrett is his last name. He’s kind of fussy, probably got beat up a lot as a kid—” Blake had immediately winced. Funny how you could hear a thing like that over the phone across 800 miles, as if he hadn’t meant to say something so wrong but by god he had, and couldn’t move past it fast enough. “You’ll probably like him. I’m sure you’ll like him.”
“Here’s the key Mister Weil left for you. Nine-B.” Barrett produced it from somewhere in the desk and handed it over. “Left of the elevator. And are you sure you wouldn’t like help with that luggage?”
“They’ve got wheels. I’ll be fine.” She began to head for the elevators, the suitcases lurching after her like crippled pets.
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten?” he asked, but already seemed to divine that she hadn’t, not for hours. “I can call and order something for you. Mister Weil eats out a lot, and has carry-in and deliveries most of the rest of the time. If I were you—and just between the two of us—I don’t know if I’d hold out much hope for the refrigerator or cupboards.”
“Then…sure. If you don’t mind. Just a sandwich will be fine.”
He made a singular little coughing sound, as if he’d never heard anything so preposterous. “Sandwiches are for desks and standing over sinks. I couldn’t live with the thought. Do you like curry?”
She nodded. “I love curry.”
“Mister Weil is fond of a small Thai restaurant four blocks from here. Their coconut curry, especially. I can call, they will deliver.”
She tried to remember the amount of currency in her purse, and, more to the point, the tally of her bank balance. “How much would that…?”
Barrett shook his head. “Mister Weil has a monthly account with them, and he tips well for the convenience. I think a man should treat his sister to her first meal in New York, don’t you? If he’s not here to hold up his end of that in person, no fault of his own of course, I think he would want me to see to it that he’s not remiss in that obligation.”
She nearly laughed at the contrast in Barrett’s demeanor. His voice was solemn but his eyes were merry. Underneath the pressed exterior was a bit of an imp.
“Curry it is,” she said. “And a mango salad, if they have it.”
“Done.”
“And thank you.” She got a few more steps away with her luggage, then turned back around to make sure it sounded less obligatory. “Really. Thank you.”
He shooed her along her way. “Just being indispensible.”
The loneliness came crashing down again after the elevator door closed and the sudden lurch upward buckled her knees. They needed to clone him. Two Barretts, one for the lobby and one for the elevator. He had to sleep, though. So make it four. Four Barretts.
Selfish, she knew. What a cruel thing to do to someone.
Sometimes, just the one existence seemed more than enough.
««—»»
Dr. Baumgarten suggests it would be beneficial for me to start keeping a dream journal. Of course he would. He’s a Jungian, old school. Dreams are their go-to. Maybe I should look around for someone who has a newer base…transpersonal psychology, dialectical behavior therapy. Something new and trendy with a lot of acronyms would have to be better, right? Right!
I resisted the idea. Big surprise, there. I’m not much of a morning person even on the best of days, and now you expect me to crawl out of bed and sit down and scrawl my half-remembered nightly brain queefs into a notebook? That sounds awfully like work.
It’s just a tool, he tells me. It can help us start looking for patterns that come up in what my subconscious is trying to tell me, that might go unnoticed if I do the usual thing and conveniently have my dreams all forgotten by lunchtime.
At least I bought a nice spiffy notebook. No spiral bound ghetto for my dreams.
I’m stalling.
Maybe he even has a point. My dreams are definitely different here at Blake’s than at home. They’re definitely weirder, stranger, and leave me feeling generally icky and unsettled, the way you might react if you felt someone stick their tongue in your ear, then you turned to the side and no one was there.
You’d think they would be better here, all things considered. Except they’re not, so maybe that’s significant. I don’t know why the subconscious always has to be such a tease about everything. Why can’t it just come right out and say what it means: Here’s the real unvarnished situation, cupcake, now deal with it.
Still stalling.
At least I’ve learned one thing already. It’s not such a good idea after all to begin the journaling session with a good old-fashioned bitchfest. I’ve already forgotten half of what I was going to put down here.
So let’s see what you make of last night’s feature, Dr. B, or what’s left of it by now.
I dreamed of towers. Two of them for sure, but maybe there were more in the background. The obvious connection is 9/11, so maybe it’s just a New York thing, and all I’m doing is picking up on the deep psychic scar that’s left.
But it doesn’t feel like that’s what it is. It doesn’t feel like it has anything to do with the World Trade Center. Even though I work in the new 1 WTC. The architecture is nothing like them. There’s no steel or glass. It’s more like stone, if anything, but not blocks. It’s more like webbing that goes back and forth. It’s what stone would look like if it formed in a mesh.
The sky is even brighter and clearer than the morning the Twin Towers were brought down. It’s like a sky that’s never heard of clouds. But the biggest difference between this dream and 9/11 is that I’m watching the towers go up instead of come down. Progress instead of destruction…that’s hopeful, isn’t it?
In the dream I’m alone, and I’m watching these things get built, bu
t I can’t actually see anyone who’s doing the work. They’re just getting taller on their own.
I don’t know why. I don’t understand any of this. Not even with dream logic, the way nonsense makes sense at the time. Maybe I did in the dream, and maybe when I first woke up. But it’s gone now.
««—»»
She’d only seen the place in pictures, cell phone snapshots her brother had sent over the years.
Now that she was here, ten steps in from the door, Blake’s apartment felt too big around her. Three thousand square feet, was it? Four thousand? It was a lot of space for a man who didn’t consider himself the marrying kind. She felt open, exposed. If you were prone to checking in closets and behind doors and draperies every time you got home, you had a long ritual before you felt safe.
Wendy found his note on the gray-green marble counter separating the kitchen from the great room, an efficient printout weighted down beneath a phone and charger and a Visa gift card.
Make yourself at home, the note read. Take all the time you need. I should be gone for the next 3 weeks, minimum, and if you need more time after that, that’s fine too. We’ll get you sorted. Just make the place your own. Go nuts! I’ve had it 4 years and I’m still waiting for it to feel like home. Maybe I’m not there enough. Or maybe it just needs you.
I’ve gotten you a new phone, so Logan has no way of bothering you, and put in my contact information. Also, a prepaid card maxed out with $2k on it. That should cover basic expenses in the short term, until the 3 Chocolatiers buyout goes through and you’re flush again, but if you need to, I can reload it. PIN #9562, for cash withdrawals. Just try to resist the temptation to go over to Atlantic City and blow through it in an evening. ☺