Cages & Those Who Hold the Keys

by Gary A Braunbeck

  He moved from behind the table in slow increments, not fully rising to his feet until he was certain company wasn’t coming.

  Each screen was displaying a different image: Spring-greened fields; animals giving birth; scenes of war that shook and jerked from side to side because whoever was holding the camera couldn’t keep it still; an empty playground; a pair of gloves lying on a sand dune in the moonlight; silently screaming faces; children playing; old folks

  (Bob, lying in that room in the Taft . . . no, he wasn’t among them)

  dying; homeless ones begging for money from passing strangers; couples making love; people in uniforms torturing prisoners; babies being murdered by their parents; priests celebrating Mass; bright fireworks over rivers; assassinations; roses in bloom; wedding photographs; mangled bodies in bomb-blasted streets—

  —Martin had to look away, shaking his head to clear it of the images.

  Gripping the crowbar with both hands, he moved toward the center of the room, turning in slow circles as he did, not giving anything a chance to sneak up from behind.

  The video monitors blinked, then returned to their previous state of silent electronic snow.

  Overhead, something moved.

  Martin looked up and saw what appeared to be a large, pulsating, organic black sac hanging from between two of the monitors. A thin red tube ran down from its center, dividing into several more that branched out in all directions like veins or exposed nerves.

  He held his breath, then looked down at his feet.

  The floor itself—already dizzying when stilled—was pulsing in rhythm with the sac overhead, as if the entire structure was a living thing, a single entity composed of several disparate parts, each one somehow alive—but not in the same way Martin himself was alive; this level of existence (if it could be called that) more resembled that of someone in REM sleep, or a hospital patient deep in a coma.

  It took a moment for the impact of this to register, and when it did, Martin smiled.

  Gash was sleeping again; maybe just a quick little nap, forty winks before finishing the job, but . . . yeah; asleep once more.

  Stepping past a glass case containing something that looked like a giant insect carapace with angel’s wings, Martin moved toward a pile of bodies (Christ, how he hoped they were just life-sized and –like statues), all of which had been set aflame at some point in the past: they had melted in places, fusing together into a grotesque mass of entwined limbs and bloated flesh that encircled a glass case in the middle. At various points, a few of the red “veins” from the ceiling sac entered the mass through moist, puckered knots.

  But this still wasn’t the worst of it.

  Behind the mass and the glass case they encircled, the first in a series of naked human figures hung upside-down by its shackled ankles, swinging back and forth at the end of a rusted chain.

  It wore Bob’s face, broken with grief, darkened by terror.

  In the center of its chest was a moist, round, bloody hole.

  It’s not him; remember that.

  Easier said than done, because each succeeding figure not only shared Bob’s face and the gaping bloody chasm in the center of his chest, but built upon his original expression of grief and terror, his horror more defined, enabling Martin to witness the perverted evolution of his anguish: rage, euphoria, self-loathing, ecstasy, confusion, pride, and—on the final, hideously-realized figure—helpless resignation. This last image of Bob was looking directly at something massive that lay

  (slept?)

  under a gigantic tarpaulin at the farthest side of the room.

  Martin thought: Oh, fuck me . . .

  Because he knew what was under there.

  (Make damn sure he doesn’t spot you—and more important than that, make sure you don’t see him. It, actually. Trust me on this: you lay eyes on that thing, you’d sooner rip them out of their sockets than have to look at it a second time.)

  “Don’t freeze-up now, Dipshit,” he whispered to himself. “You got this far.”

  He turned toward the body-heap once again, this time looking at the display in the center.

  Even this far away, Martin could easily make out the words on the plaque:

  As Was, As Is

  This baby had no cranium, and was nestled on a bed of cotton in the large glass case filled with what he assumed was formaldehyde; whatever it was, years of soaking in the chemical had turned the baby’s skin a ghostly white. It sat in a semi-upright position, legs bent at the knees, feet horizontal, arms thrust straight out from the elbows as if resting on the arms of a chair: a wise old sage upon his throne, waiting on a lonely mountaintop for the truth-seekers to arrive.

  Stepping as lightly as he could (the fucking floor would not stop pulsing), Martin began to climb the body-heap, forcing himself to ignore the elastic, spongy softness of each face or torso he stepped on.

  It didn’t help that he could fully use only one hand to assist his climb, the other busy gripping the crowbar.

  Even though it took him only a minute to reach the top, to Martin it felt like an hour; by the time he was able to fully stand before the display, he was drenched in sweat, his heart trip-hammering in his chest as if trying to squirt through his rib cage.

  He stared down at the malformed baby. “Let me ask you something, little man As-Was,” he whispered between gulps of air. “Could this be just a tad more ominous? I mean, seriously. Throw in some cobwebs and a cameo by Boris Karloff, and we’d have the serious makings.”

  Keep joking, he told himself. As long as you can make with the smartasseries, you won’t have to think about what’s under that tarpaulin or admit how goddamn you-should-pardon-the-expression scared you are.

  Leaning closer to the case, Martin said, “I take it from the notable lack of enthusiasm that you’re more of a Vincent Price man, am I right? I am right, aren’t I?”

  As-Was made no reply. Extra cotton had been packed behind its neck and around its shoulders to prevent its head from lolling forward or around; only close scrutiny revealed the clear, thin wire that ran down from the lid of the case, snaking through the dense layers of cotton to attach itself—via a small silver hook—to a catch protruding from the base of his skull.

  Despite his rising anxiety (it wasn’t quite outright terror yet, but it was probably within walking distance of the neighborhood), Martin couldn’t resist reaching out with his free hand and giving the case a small but solid shake, if for no other reason than to re-affirm that he was really here. The formaldehyde rippled once, twice, more, each rising disturbance pattern expanding into the one above and below it, creating hybrid ripples that looked like rolling lines of static on an old television screen, and as each series of ripples broke against the surface, As-Was began moving in response to the mild turbulence: first a finger—up, then down, tapping in rhythmic thoughtfulness, a smooth liquid reflex; then a hand—side to side, waving as if it were trying to attract someone’s attention; then an arm—shuddering; then both arms; and, finally, the head—up-down, up-down, the wise old sage nodding in sympathy as the truth-seekers spoke of their dilemma.

  Here in the Midnight Museum, moments became the real becoming dreams becoming now and in a blink were gone: then.

  The liquid in the case stilled.

  As-Was’s bobbing head lolled forward, chin resting against its chest.

  The nightclouds retreated, allowing the moonlight to spill through the skylight and grow brighter against the baby’s pallid features.

  Slanted shadows dissolved.

  No more sound, save for the soft, ragged rasp of Martin’s breathing.

  No further movement.

  Death moving on to busy itself with the weaker living who did not understand the aesthetic of its efforts.

  Martin stepped back, readying himself to raise the crowbar and do what he’d come here to do, but froze when all the video monitors surrounding him simultaneously flickered back to life.

  Each screen displayed the same image: Bob, as
he was right now, as he was at this very second, lying on his shabby bed in his even shabbier room, struggling for every breath. The image was silent and chilly and ashen and dead, save for the diffuse light that shone down from the icy edge of a dispassionate Heaven.

  “Oh, Christ,” said Martin, the words emerging somewhere between a nauseous choke and strangled sob.

  He watched on-screen as Bob involuntarily opened his mouth, gasping for air; even though there was no sound, Martin thought he could hear Bob’s scream, silent and gnarled and endless: Do it, for chrissakes!

  In the Midnight Museum, the baby’s mouth opened, releasing a bubble of air that had not been in its lungs a moment before.

  Bob’s right hand twitched.

  As did the baby’s.

  Bob’s eyelids quivered, then stilled as he released another breath, sinking further into himself and the living death of his affliction.

  The baby’s eyelids also quivered, but then snapped open, revealing the burnished, obsidian-black marbles that had been used to replace its eyes. It smiled up at Martin, revealing starched, toothless gums.

  “Now or never,” it whispered in a voice clogged with thick liquid age.

  Before Martin could react, As-Was reached behind its head with one fishbelly-flesh arm and yanked the hook from the catch in the back of its skull—

  —and with unexpected force kicked its feet against the glass, spiderwebbing a crack from which liquid squittered outward as it pressed its arms against the sides of the case to gain more balance before kicking again and then screaming—

  —but Martin was ready now, stepping sideways and gripping the crowbar in both hands, swinging it farther back and higher, determined to come down with all the power he had, do it all in one or two massive blows, he could do it, he knew he could, he had to—

  —As-Was slammed his feet against the glass once more, heels-first this time, the crack widening as small chunks of glass spit outward, the front of the case pissing an arc of formaldehyde that hit Martin in the belly, soaking his shirt and pants, pooling at his feet, and with one quick last look at Bob’s dying face on the monitors, he swung the crowbar with all he had, connecting with the crack and shattering the front of the case, the liquid vomiting out, soaking him, running in rivulets down the heap of bodies upon which he was standing—

  —As-Was tumbled forward, spitting up, then caterwauling at the top of his lungs just like any baby would when it woke up at three in the morning and Mommy and Daddy weren’t there in the dark and it was hungry—

  —and Martin squatted down like a baseball catcher and scooped As-Was into the crook of his free arm, his other hand still gripping the crowbar, and this little son-of-a-bitch was slick, slippery, and would not hold still, would not stop kicking, would not give it a rest with the spitting-up but that wasn’t going to stop him, no way, because he’d done it he’d actually for the first time in his life done something that he thought mattered and no squalling little black-eyed flat-top monstrosity was going to screw this up for him—

  —and just as he spun around and began to slide down the heap ass-first like a kid with a sled on a snowy hill he saw something from the corner of his eye that kicked his anxiety right in the parts and turned it into outright terror—

  —the tarpaulin in the far corner lay flat on the floor.

  Not just flat—neatly folded.

  You son-of-a-bitch! thought Martin.

  He’d been tricked.

  Gash had never been asleep, he’d only wanted Martin to think he was asleep, had probably been chuckling to himself while folding the tarpaulin as Martin smashed the case and fought against the rush of formaldehyde and As-Was kicking his chest and screaming and spitting up . . .

  Martin hit the floor and slid forward a few yards, propelled not only by the angle of the descent from the body-heap but because the liquid from the case had continued running forward, creating a slick little river across the floor, and by the time he was able to stop scuttling and sliding around and finally get to his feet, two enormous, heavy thumps caused everything above, below, and around him to shudder just as an equally enormous shadow rose up to block out most of the light.

  (Don’t look, don’t look, for the love of God whatever you do, don’t look)

  Martin hunched forward and ran toward the entrance, As-Was still kicking and clawing and screaming against his chest, and then the floor shook again as Gash took two more

  (Simon says take two)

  giant steps, only now he was stomping because the bookshelves began to wobble and tilt, raining down dozens of heavy volumes, one of them coming so close to crushing Martin’s skull the corner of its cover tore a small section from the top of his ear, but he kept running, and there it was, there was the entrance, and then he was through and moving forward to where he could see a circle of light spilling down from—

  —“Oh, shit!” said Martin—

  —from the hole above, from the hole above that it had taken him fifteen seconds to fall through, from the hole above that there was no goddamn way he could reach, even if he didn’t suck at basketball no way could he jump that high, smooth move, Einstein, you got this far and God knows we’re all more than a little shocked by that, warn us next time, will you, but you know what, here’s a question, a real brain-teaser, a little mental exercise for all you over-the-hill glorified janitors out there: why do you always start waxing the floor in the toilet stall?

  Everything was shaking apart as Gash continued stomping forward.

  (don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tdon’tlook)

  Give up?

  Answer: because you don’t want to wax yourself into a corner. The difference between a good plan and a not-so-good plan is that a good plan usually includes a way out.

  Martin looked up and saw all the faces from the painting encircling the way out, peering down.

  “I don’t suppose any of you have something like a rope?”

  Their faces told him everything he needed to know.

  Martin looked down at the floor and released his breath. If I had a razor, I’d probably open a vein right about—

  —then it hit him.

  A vein.

  The ceiling sac.

  Not giving himself time for second thoughts, he turned, hunched down, and ran back into the museum, his eyes focused on the veins running down from the sac and not, repeat not on the foot the size of a couch that had just slammed down on the floor a few yards away from him, and when Martin reached the nearest vein he swung up and out with the crowbar, severing it near floor and loosing a spray of bright blood that geysered in all directions as the vein snapped and whipped around like a live electrical wire, and he had maybe five seconds to grab hold of it and hope he could pull it loose from the sac and that meant either dropping As-Was or the crowbar, and it really wasn’t much of a choice, so it was good-bye crowbar, and he dropped it, grabbed the whip-curling end of the severed vein and somehow managed to twist it around his wrist, grabbing onto it and pulling with everything he had.

  From deep inside the core of the sac, something gurgled, then screamed.

  Martin moved backward, toward the entrance, pulling, pulling, trying to keep his balance on the blood-slicked floor as the screaming from inside the sac grew louder, ragged, and more intense, damn near deafening him, but then the other end of the vein came loose with a wet, stubborn rip and fell limply to the floor.

  Damn thing was strong. Chalk one up for the janitor.

  He turned to run out—

  —but Gash was having none of that.

  And that’s when Martin made his only mistake.

  He didn’t look away when the thing stepped into the path of his escape.

  Gash walked on tree-thick legs that crawled with living sinew on the surface. Where his groin should have been was a bloated, black, seeping cluster of tumors. His skin—if it could be called that—had the jagged, ferromagnesian texture of andesine, though not quite as dark. His arms were held in place like prostheses by moldy
leather straps that formed an X across his chest. A curved section of copper tubing snaked from the tumors of his groin to a glass container strapped to his hip. With each heavy, tormented step he took, the tube discharged into the container a thick, reddish-brown liquid full of wriggling ebony chunks.

  Gash sucked these excretions into his mouth through a long copper straw.

  He looked at Martin and smiled, his pulverized lips squirming over rotted needle-teeth caked with loose bits of flesh and still-fresh strands of wet muscle. He spoke in a voice clogged with phlegm, putrescence, and piss.

  “I think you have something that belongs to me.”

  Close your eyes and just run, just run, he can’t move that fast, he’s too fucking enormous, too heavy, too clumsy.

  But Martin couldn’t do it.

  Gash leaned down, the shadows cast by his soldier’s helmet spreading away from his bloodshot, bulging eyes, neither of which was where it was supposed to be.

  “No?” he said. “Then maybe a trade?”

  Martin at last found his voice. “You don’t have a goddamn thing I want.”

  Gash’s smiled grew even more hideous. “I think I do.”

  He reached down with both arms and thrust his talon-like hands deep into the center of clustered tumors, digging around inside, making a sound like a child working to create a stack of mud pies. Finding what he’d been looking for, he pulled out his hands in a slop of pus and excrement, raising the treasures up into light, then licking the pink-and-white cancerous afterbirth from each figure before spreading wide his arms so Martin could clearly see.

  In his right hand, Gash held Martin’s father.

  In his left, Martin’s mother.

  “I’ll give them back,” said Gash, his diseased voice sounding as bright and honest as something so corrupt could sound.

  Then he shook them a little; enough to make each of them shriek in agony.

  “It hurts so much, Martin,” said his father. “Oh, God, why didn’t I just do what you and Mom wanted and let them take the bastard out of me?”

  Martin began shaking, from head to heel he was shaking, losing his hold on both the vein and As-Was.