Jerry nodded. “Exactly.”
“And they do this somewhere underneath our perception?”
“Yes.”
Martin rubbed his eyes. “You’re telling me that these beings, these Substruo, destroy and then re-create the world every day?”
“Sometimes quite a few times a day, often in the blink of an eye; and with each incarnation, the world contains a little less horror, a little less fear, less loneliness and despair; some of the changes—most, actually—are quite small but have surprisingly vast consequences: new fractal patterns, changes in cell behavior, an unexpected warm breeze on a chilly autumn day, millions of other like fine points—but each revision moves the world closer toward becoming the masterpiece God once envisioned, one that the Onlookers can approve of with a good review and be proud to show to Him . . . or Her . . . or Them—I’m still a bit fuzzy on the exact nature of that last one, but you get the idea.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Imagine that all of this—” Again Jerry gestured toward the circus. “—is just one note you hear from a single triangle in the back of the orchestra.
“Substruo like Bob can hear the whole symphony. They have different receptors than the rest of humankind, their minds and hearts are better equipped to process the information that the Universe is transmitting. They can not only receive the data, but they can play with it, re-shape it, mold it into something unique and powerful, something filled with new sorts of meaning. Mozart could do it. Van Gogh and Thomas Aquinas, Mark Twain, Lovecraft, Stephen Hawking, Kurasawa, Philip K. Dick, Einstein . . . and thousands of people whose names you wouldn’t recognize but whose efforts at re-shaping the quanta have profoundly affected the way you exist . . . and ensure that you never remember your daily death and rebirth.
“If you want something simpler to compare it to, think of the way old-school cartoonists used to animate: they’d take a bunch of clear plastic sheets, draw a sky on one, a field of grass on another, a bunch of trees on the next, some people on the last one, then layer them all together to have the image of a summer picnic. The Substruo work basically the same way.”
“Sounds like it should be a precise system—so where’d the fuck-up occur?”
Jerry shook his head. “It’s not a question of where, it’s a question of why. Fuck-ups happen because the Substruo are mostly human, and because of that are just as vulnerable to sickness and genetic whims and disease and brain-chemistry brouhaha as the rest of humankind: some are born retarded, or become schizophrenic, or develop other mental illnesses; some of them never realize what they are and so never harness their power; the very old whose minds are crumbling into terminal dementia pick up on it shortly before they die, but that’s accidental; in that stage of death, they can receive the data, can even sometimes see various reality branches simultaneously, but they can do nothing to adequately express what it is they’re experiencing because they didn’t comprehend their true nature in time.
“But then you get one like Bob, who can not only receive and process all the random bits of data and consciousness and quanta in order to create a Starry Night or a Letters From the Earth or an Ikiru or String Theory, but uses it as a place to simply begin his work the same way you used Dick and Jane books in kindergarten to begin learning how to read. Of all the Substruo on Earth today, there are only a dozen who possess the same level of ability as Bob; their life span is about twice that of a normal human being, give or take; and these twelve are the foundation-makers; the rest simply build upon the work they construct.
“The foundation is cracking, Martin. The closer Bob comes to death, the wider this fracture becomes.”
Martin considered all this for a moment. “Last night, before I was brought in, I saw an Onlooker after it had been killed, and I saw a part of the thing that killed it.” He rubbed his eyes against the image, then looked at Jerry. “Did I see Gash?”
“Yes. He was testing his own strength, making sure he could find the way out of his prison. But as long as Bob is still alive, that’s all he can do—slip through for a few moments.”
It occurred to Martin that the Onlooker he’d seen had probably been fighting Gash before he’d lain eyes on it—that would explain the blood it was spitting from its beak. “So Gash is still more or less trapped right now?”
“More or less . . . leaning toward the ‘less’ side of things every hour.”
“But why bother killing an Onlooker?”
“Because there’s a finite number of them. Kill them all, God has no direct way of observing the work in progress.”
“Okay . . . ?”
“C’mon, Martin—think: if you were sponsoring an artist, and that artist stopped showing you his or her work, what would you do?”
“Stop sponsoring them. Cut off money. Pull the plu—oh, shit.”
“Methinks he’s finally getting it.”
Martin looked back at the circus. In the Center Ring, a musical note named Cottleslip played hide-and-seek with the Ghosts of Confused Twilight, accompanied by the Pattern Juggler, the Rain Witch, and the Satin Lion Dancers. Martin once more shook his head in wonder. “And all of this is just a fraction of what Bob was working with?”
“Consider it the first few words of an epic novel.”
Martin watched as Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, believed to have been tortured to death in Grenoble in 1535, was shot out of a cannon as he scattered copies of the lost fourth volume of De Occulta Philosophia, his book that contained, among other things, an alchemic cure for epilepsy and the precise topographic location of Integrity; Mirza Ali Mohammed appeared with eighteen more letters of the living that he passed on to Baha-Ullah, who could not wait to share them with his faithful Baha’i; a mechanical crane rose above it all, a film camera attached to it, Orson Welles calling the shots from up high while Sam Peckinpah moved through everyone at ground level, using a Stedi-Cam to get all the grit Welles couldn’t capture—babies with iron hooks in place of their heads; hump-backed figures with faces that were little more than smooth, featureless ovals, creatures that were thin wisps of amorphous Ideals.
“What happens when Bob dies?” asked Martin.
“Another Substruo will be born who can one day take his place.”
“That still leaves you one short.”
“Which isn’t an insurmountable problem, so long as the foundation stays in place. The remaining eleven can repair what damage exists at this moment. But it cannot be allowed to worsen. Gash must be dealt with.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?”
“Depends on you.”
At that moment, Martin Tyler took a cold, hard look at himself and his life: the books read in the solitary evening hours; the movies he’d gone to by himself; the offices and restrooms he’d worked long and hard to clean, only to get up the next day and do it all over again; the meals he’d shared with no one; the emptiness of the days, the aloneness of the nights; the fear that always accompanied him and that kept him at arm’s length from the rest of the world. What he saw was a man whose life was devoid of meaning and purpose because he had allowed it to become devoid of meaning and purpose.
But now it had both; maybe for the only time it ever would.
Am I crazy? he thought. Did I do a serious number on my brain with all the pills?
Then decided he didn’t care.
For the first time in several years—since Dad had first been diagnosed with prostate cancer, to tell the truth—he felt active, vital, necessary, strong—alive.
He wanted to hold onto this feeling, if just for a little while longer.
“Tell me,” he said to Jerry. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“You’ll have to find a way to get out of here as soon as possible.”
Martin nodded. “I’ll think of something.”
“And once you’re out the door, there’s no turning back.”
“I understand.”
“I mean it, Martin; you can’t let anyone or any
thing stop you or slow you down.”
“I get it, okay? Just tell me what to do.”
Jerry studied his face for a few moments, then nodded. “There is a place called The Midnight Museum. It has been in existence for as long as Substruo have walked the Earth. In it are housed those pieces of work that the Substruo have never been able to finish, or polish, or—in some cases—correct. It does not have doors or windows as you know them, but it does have entrances and exits. One entrance can be found in René Magritte’s The Glasshouse; another in Dali’s The Persistence of Memory; Escher’s Waterfall contains two exits; Mozart’s Requiem, three; but there are only two pieces that contain both an entrance and an exit: one is Auguste Rodin’s sculpture The Burghers of Calais; the other is an unfinished painting of Bob’s that he’d intended to call In The Midnight Museum—he would have been the first Substruo to use the name in a piece of work, and since that’s all but outright forbidden, that should give you some idea of the power he knew he possessed.
“That is where Gash is trapped.”
“How do I work this? What do I do once I get inside?”
“The first thing you have to—” Jerry’s eyes widened and he doubled forward, grabbing his stomach and opening his mouth to scream, but all that emerged was a faint, strained, wet shriek.
The circus performers all stopped, many of them looking around in confusion and panic.
Jerry flickered, then came most of the way back.
“What’s wrong?” said Martin, kneeling in front of Jerry and trying to grab onto his arms; his hands passed through as if the other man were smoke.
Jerry pulled in another pained breath: “Gash just woke up.
“And I think he’s really pissed off . . . .”
In the Center Ring, one of the Satin Lion Dancers fell forward, intestines belching through a large hole in its chest; one of the ballerinas began to scream, but a small dark growth appeared on her lower lip, quickly growing to engulf her face, turning it into a massive, black, crusty tumor, the pressure blowing one eye completely from its socket while pushing the other around to where her ear had once been; two of the Tumblesands lay writhing on the floor, blood jutting from their oversized mouths and noses, spraying into the faces of the performers nearest them, many of whom slipped in the thick muddy puddles made when blood soaked into sawdust, falling to impale themselves on steel poles thrown free of the fire-blasted wagons; a leopard screamed as it was turned inside-out, its teeth tearing through its own face as its ribcage was pulled out through its throat; the ropedancers howled in agony as the rope beneath them turned into barbed wire, shredding chunks of flesh and muscle from their feet and legs as they fell down into the growing flames; bodies imploded; tongues grew to twenty times their size, blasting through the fronts of faces and tops of heads; Onlookers tumbled through the scrim, crashing to the floor with hideous screams as their entrails and mechanisms splattered out in a burst of bloodied gears and slick viscera; a lower section of bleachers near Martin exploded into a thousand pieces, the splinters of wood flying out to blind dozens of the fleeing performers, the force of the blast toppling three of the massive wooden beams holding the roof in place.
Within seconds, the entire circus was flayed, shredded, gutted, crushed, and burning. Flames danced across the walls, spreading to the roof, dripping fire that sizzled when it met the blood running down the walls.
Martin threw himself down, covering his head and shouting, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Room 401, the Taft Hotel,” was all the more Jerry could say before he flickered, shrank, then imploded into nothing.
Martin leapt to his feet, his flesh turning red from the intensity of the heat, and started running for the door—
—then realized he didn’t know where the door was, the Onlookers had hidden it behind the circus tent, it could be anywhere, in any direction, he had no idea what he—
—then he remembered where the Onlooker had stepped through into the Center Ring; crouching down, trying to find some breathable air as the smoke from the fires roiled overhead, he thought he caught a glimpse of the spot, and if he was right, if that was the spot, then it was in front of the wall with the window, and if that was the case, the stairs leading back up into Buzzland should be . . . be . . .
To your right.
But what if—?
Move your sorry ass!
Martin struggled to his feet and ran in a semi-crouch, hacking smoke from his lungs, feeling blisters rise on his skin, blinking his eyes, trying to keep his bearings and—
—he slammed the top of his head into the cement wall of the gym near the backboard and was unconscious before he hit the floor.
He was still unconscious fifteen minutes later when Bernard, making his last rounds before his shift ended, found him there after checking Martin’s room and discovering it empty.
6
“I warned you to watch out for those steps,” said Ethel, daubing peroxide onto the bloody knot rising on Martin’s forehead.
“I know, I’m—ouch!—I’m sorry.” He was lying on the sofa in the main area, where Bernard had dumped him after bringing him up.
“You ought to be making with the ‘ouch’ and the apology,” said Ethel. “What were you doing up at this hour, anyway?”
“I couldn’t sleep; I figured a few laps around the court would wear me out.”
“You didn’t swallow your medicine this last time, did you?”
“No.”
“I knew I should’ve checked; you’ve been so good about it up until now, I just assumed . . . oh, well, live and learn. Do it again, and I’ll personally make sure you get two more days in here.”
“I stand—well, lay—warned.”
She shook her head. “I still can’t figure out how you got by with no one seeing you.”
“I wasn’t trying to be sneaky.”
“Well . . . it’s a good thing Bernie checked your room, or you might’ve laid in there all night.”
“What time is it, anyway?”
Ethel looked at her watch. “Almost midnight. Amber’s gone, and I was supposed to go home half an hour ago but Betty—she’s the head nurse on night shift, you haven’t met her yet—she’s running a little late, and so is Amber’s relief, seeing as she rides in with Betty.” Ethel sat back and looked at her handiwork. “That doesn’t look any better to me. How much does it hurt?”
“Kind of a lot.”
She seemed to consider something, dismiss it, then reconsider. “I can’t give you anything stronger than regular Tylenol here, and something tells me that ain’t gonna cut it. Besides, your eyes looked a little glassier than they should, even with the medication. That you didn’t take. I’m gonna send you over to the ER and have them check you for a possible concussion.” She handed him an ice-pack and told him to hold it in place while she made a call.
Martin watched her through the glass, using his free hand to slip down into his right pocket, then realized he didn’t have his car keys.
His room. All of his personal items had been put in his room after he’d been processed. The keys—along with his money, his smokes, his lighter, his wallet—must be in the desk drawer.
He rose unsteadily to his feet and started back toward his room.
He was almost there when Ethel opened the nurses’ station door and said, “Now, I know you’re not gonna try to lay down, not with a possible concussion.”
“I just wanted to get a . . . a book I’ve got in here. Something to read while I’m waiting.”
“Hurry it up.”
Martin went inside, heading straight for the desk, opening the drawer, and removing everything—car keys first. He started reaching for the watercolor of DeVito’s Books when it hit him: he’d have no way of explaining why he wanted to take this to the ER with him, and the last thing he needed to do was give anyone a reason to be suspicious.
The realization that he was going to have to leave it here—and probably never get it back—brought a hard and un
expected rush of tears to his eyes.
Goddammit—he loved this picture.
Right—but this isn’t about you.
Then: Well, maybe a little bit . . .
He turned the picture sideways and slipped it under his shirt (he’d once stolen a record album—on a dare—from a department store the same way when he’d been in grade school), then put his coat on over it.
Back out in the main area, Ethel saw him and said: “Where’s your book?”
“I thought I’d left it back there, but I guess I didn’t.”
“No matter—you’re not gonna have time for reading, anyway.” She put her hand on his shoulder and looked him right in the eye. “Martin, I need you to promise me something.”
“If I can.”
“I’m the only staffer here right now—Bernie left right after he brought you up, he’s a real pain in the ass about going home exactly at quitting time—anyway, I can’t leave the premises until Betty and Marie get here. The entrance to the ER is just across the parking lot. They’re expecting you right away. They’re real busy tonight and can’t spare anyone to come over here and get you. I trust you, Martin—we had a nice talk today and I think you’re a man of your word. I want you to promise me that if I let you walk out of here by yourself, you’ll go straight over there. Any other time, me or Bernie would take you, but this isn’t any other time.
“I’m not trying to be mean, telling you this next part, but you might want to remember a couple of things: you haven’t been officially released by Dr. Hayes, you’re still considered a danger to yourself and maybe others, and as far as the law is concerned, that makes you no different than someone who escapes from jail. You take off on me, I’ll have the police after you in a heartbeat. We’ve got your address, the license number of your car, we know where you work . . . you take off, the police will find you, and when they do, they’ll bring you back here in handcuffs, and you’ll be staying the whole ten days. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“No?”
“No. The worst of it is, you’ll have abused my trust, and hurt my feelings, and probably gotten me chewed out by a couple of different people. In short: I will be irked at you, Martin. And I’m kinda like The Incredible Hulk that way; don’t irk me; you wouldn’t like me when I’m irked.”
Cages & Those Who Hold the Keys Page 8