by Tufo, Mark
“They at least have to have, like, a museum of relics in here or something, don’t they?” I said aloud, but not loud enough. Jack was a step or two in front and a recalcitrant Trip a few behind. Gotta admit, I wasn’t a fan of seeing the stoner less than his cheery upbeat self.
“Bye, Mack.” Trip did not look up as he delivered those words; I knew because I had been scanning for threats behind us at the time when he delivered the words. Jack had not heard. I wanted to question him on it, but he seemed in a rush to keep moving. We traveled down a long hallway that led to a door. I caught up to Jack—in case there was trouble, I wanted to be there to lend assistance.
“I got this,” I told him as I grabbed the door handle. Hindsight is one of those qualities that I think is uniquely man’s—I doubt that an antelope ever thinks, “Shit, if I’d only dodged right instead of left, this lion would not be ripping my hindquarters apart.”
The door handle was cool to the touch, much cooler than the surrounding ambient air. If I was really taking stock of the sensation, I could almost sense a minute electrical current. But it happened so fast: I grabbed the handle, turned, pushed the door open, and took a look inside. I saw nothing that I even remotely perceived as a threat. I knew something was wrong once Jack stepped through the door; he’d said something but it sounded like a recorded voice slowed down to a nearly imperceptible speed and distorted. I had the feeling he was being pulled through a tunnel at unimaginable speeds. And just like that, he was gone: no magician’s smoke, no abracadabra, nothing. One frame of my vision he was there; the next, nothing.
“What the fuck?!” I brought my gun up as I jumped back. I was convinced at first that something had snatched him and pulled him to the side. I knew—I fucking knew that wasn’t the case—I’d seen him disappear, just vanish, and my rational mind couldn’t come to grips with how frightening what had just happened was. I had jumped back involuntarily, but then I slowly approached the doorway. I poked my head in: the room was empty, save for the large desk, chairs, and numerous wall art. Fairly sparse as far as decorating goes, but it was a government building after all. When I realized that the room was empty, I stuck my hand in, not realizing at that point just how incredibly stupid that was. I’d already poked my head in, guess I was lucky that hadn’t been sucked into the void. I’m not sure how Trip would have reacted to my headless body slamming around into things.
“Trip,” I said, and like something had snapped in my brain I spun on him.
“You knew, you fucking knew! Where is he!? Where is Jack!?” Trip flinched and pulled back. “Tell me!” I gripped his shoulder hard enough to make him wince and then I shook it just as violently.
His teeth were chattering as he spoke. “I don’t know man, I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”
I let go and stepped away from him. Was it possible? Had Jack not only been ripped from this world, but also from Trip’s memory? Although it really didn’t take any tearing to rend anything from Trip’s mind, things just kind of withered on the vine and fell to the ground where a mind-cleaning Roomba came by and picked them up.
“Where’s Flack?” He said, stepping into the room. I’ve got to admit, on some level I was happy he too didn’t vanish—but on another, if he had, my stress factor may have gone down by a magnitude of ten.
“You don’t know?”
“I think I got stung by a bee.” He had pulled the corner of his shirt over to look at his rapidly bruising shoulder. A wave of guilt passed over me as I looked upon the damage I’d done to him.
“I’m sorry Trip. I lost my mind for a second.”
“Oh... don’t worry about it, I’ve lost mine for considerably longer.”
“Did he make it home? Jack, I mean.” Though I would be happy for Jack, I was wondering where my golden ticket or ruby red slippers were. I’d wear them proudly if they got me out of here; all Dorothy had to deal with was a less-than-water-resistant witch and some flying monkeys. Trip did not answer my question.
Then the next nauseating thought came to my mind: what if whatever had planted all those people into their surroundings had done the same to Jack? What if right now he were embedded in a copier machine, struggling to take a breath as an ink cartridge severed his larynx? My hand reflexively went up to my throat. And what if the anomaly that had done it to him came back around? Was anywhere safe? Were these just random events with no discernible pattern to indicate where and when they would happen next? Like a kid blowing multiple soap bubbles, there was no way to tell when they would pop. Usually “soon” was the only response. I had no desire to get intimate with a toilet or something equally as unsavory.
Where the hell was safe, though? Did lightning or displacement bubbles strike the same place twice? I had a feeling the only safe place was miles away from the city, and I couldn’t go there, not just yet. I owed Jack at least that much. If I couldn’t save him, I, at least, needed to be able to tell those who loved him what had happened—if I ever came across them, which also seemed highly unlikely. Plus, leaving wouldn’t do me any favors: I had a feeling the answers were in this city somewhere. The question now was if I would even know what I was looking at if I found it.
I spent more time looking around the office than I needed to. It had no secrets that it wanted to yield. It was merely an arbitrary place where something extraordinary had happened. It was time to move on. I needed a better weapon, or preferably a whole arsenal, before night closed in and all the fun began.
“I’m ready to go home Ponch, I think my high is wearing off.” Trip looked tired, or maybe haggard was a better word. On some level, he knew what was going on; that he chose to deal with it this way was his call. I sort of envied him for his ability to make the horror of almost any situation into his own fantasy world full of magic and drugs.
“Working on it buddy, I promise. We, or at least, I, need a better rifle, and soon.”
“These government buildings have security rooms.”
I paused, and gave honest consideration to planting a big wet kiss on him. I might have, if there weren’t the remote possibility of Jack just popping in much like he had popped out. I already had him encounter me checking out my junk—what would he think if he caught me kissing a hippie?
“Jack, we’ll find you,” I said to the room before we left.
We went back down to the lobby, where I found the building directory. Building administration and security were on sub-floor one. There was a moment of panic as I gripped the handle to the stairs leading down and discovered it was locked.
“Trip, go around the corner. I’m going to shoot the lock and I don’t want you to get hit with a ricochet.”
He stood sideways to me and placed his hands over his ears.
“Not really what I meant, man.”
“What?” he shouted. “I can’t hear you, I have my hands over my ears for some reason!” He was outright screaming now, like we were at a stoplight and had pulled up next to a construction worker running a jackhammer.
I escorted him ten feet away and gave him a nudge until he was behind the corner of a wall. I put the rifle up to my shoulder, got to the side of the door, nearly placing the muzzle up against the handle, and pulled the trigger. My ears rang out from the explosion as the handle blew apart into metallic missile shards, some digging deep grooves into the wall as they traveled down the length of the corridor. I waited a moment to see if the noise had brought any unwelcome guests before grabbing Trip.
“You done!?” He was still screaming, though his hands were no longer over his ears but rather in his pockets, I guess looking for some paraphernalia.
“Done,” I told him as I pushed the pieces of the lock that were still attached into the stairwell on the other side of the door. They landed with a hollow echo. I placed my head up to the hole, trying to hear anything that might be beyond the door; all I got for my efforts was the high-pitched ring of tinnitus. I’d done more damage to my already crucified eardrums. Much like Trip, who constantly assai
led his brain, I for some reason did the same to my hearing.
“You going in there?” he asked.
“Yeah buddy, that was the whole reason I shot the lock off.”
“Who’s buddy?”
“Let’s go.” I pushed the door inwards. I was happy it moved silently, although in retrospect it could have squeaked like a clutch of mice being crushed under a heavy boot heel and I wouldn’t have heard. The stairwell was dark, at least compared to where we had been standing. A musty smell wafted out and around me. It wasn’t overly unpleasant, like the smell of decomposition—more like the smell of disuse. That was a good thing, as it gave me hope that we would not encounter any of our enemies, though it still didn’t make the dark and gloomy passage down any less foreboding. What I wouldn’t have done for Jack’s flashlight. My imagination led me to believe that just out of the visible spectrum of my eyesight, a whistler was waiting to grab me. Before he plunged his weapon into me, he would somehow let me know how he planned to eat me.
Trip going first seemed the best idea, as he wouldn’t care. Fear brings out the inner asshole in all of us. But apparently Trip didn’t like this place any better than I did; he was a step behind me as I descended, one hand on my shoulder. I think he wanted to make sure I didn’t vanish like Jack had. It was comforting for me to have this connection as well; I was fearful he would just stop following, and I could not spare the time to constantly look back and see if he was there as I scanned ahead for any sign of the danger I fully expected to be there. We were now on the mid-floor landing, and if Trip hadn’t been touching me, or more importantly didn’t smell like he’d swam in a vat of Phrito cheese, I would not have been able to tell he was still there.
“Sure wish I had a jar of fireflies,” he said.
“Yeah, me too buddy, or maybe a flashlight.”
“Or that.”
“You ready?”
“Lead on.”
Every sound we made reverberated throughout the stairwell, making it difficult to tell if we were the only ones in there. Trip seemed to be purposefully making more noise in an effort to quell his fear. I understood the logic: sort of like whistling while you’re home alone and you have to go down the darkened hallway to your bedroom and you’re convinced Spangles the clown or some shit is in the bathroom off to your immediate right. You glance in as you go by, and the flash of your reflection in the mirror momentarily looks like a red-wigged demon with a large nose. Your heart skips a collection of beats before you come to realize it was yourself. You laugh it off, even if the stress just skimmed a few weeks off the end of your life. And you know, you absolutely know, that motherfucker is hiding behind the damned shower curtain, so you continue to whistle long after you hop into bed. Not sure in what reality whistling is a monster repellant—must just be the familiarity of the sound.
My own fear had not abated; if anything, it was cresting higher as I took the final step onto the bottom landing. I fumbled until I found the door handle. I had a squirt of panic, fearing that this door would be locked as well. Making a shot in absolute darkness is not something I wanted to try, plus my true fear was that the muzzle flash would illuminate all the hideous creatures that were even now surrounding us, biding their time, waiting to pounce.
It turned, and my heart leapt a bit. Now I just had to hope we were alone. I felt fairly certain there weren’t any night runners or zombies down here, because the upstairs door had been locked; my guess was they didn’t carry keys around with them. That was a weak argument, as they could have been deposited here and were just waiting to extract themselves. That didn’t even bring into account the whistlers, who could manipulate the environment and most certainly did know what keys were. So basically, I was back to square one after my circular thinking: anything could be down here, and quite possibly even some yet-undiscovered beast. Just fucking perfect.
Trip’s hand fell off my shoulder as I pushed the door open.
“Trip?” I asked in a much too high-pitched voice.
“Yeah?” he asked as he flipped on his lighter. He was about an inch and a half from my face, the heat from the flame pushing me back. I now had blind spots the width of a hand in my field of vision.
I let the door shut. “Do you think you could have maybe let me know about that lighter?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “That’s on you, man. I’ve been smoking J’s all day. How do you think I was lighting them? Magic?”
“Fuck me Trip, you’re right, that one is on me.” It was an old school lighter with a flip top, gave out a pretty decent flame. I waited a minute until I found equilibrium with my vision before I opened the door. The smell was musty again, like water had possibly been left running somewhere and mold had begun to take hold. There was something else, too—very faint, but it was there. Lurking in remote corners was death himself. Trip’s flame gave us about a five-foot radius of light, completely fucking awesome compared to the zero we had previously, but about a hundred feet less than I wanted. Call me greedy.
The flame flickered and went out just as I heard the loud crinkling of a cellophane bag and then the heavy crunch of something being eaten.
“What the fuck, Trip?!”
“I’m hungry. Want one?”
I did not speak. I knew this game: He would shove something into my mouth before I could protest. Ended up getting something remotely cheesy shoved halfway up my nose as he missed his mark.
“Fuck.” I moved away and got the snack unstuck. “That’s gross, Trip. Flip your lighter back on.”
“How many hands do you think I have?”
“Priorities, Trip; the flame is more important than your munchie cravings.”
“Says you.”
At least he did as I asked: the lighter flared back to life. For the briefest of moments, I thought I was having a phantom Spangles encounter. The whole faux horror thing and all; the lighter was much brighter upon ignition than when it had been on steadily, and I thought I’d seen something right at the edge of the light’s influence. Now that the flame had subsided, I was certain it had been a trick of the shadows. Right then, the smell of death assailed my nostrils at full tilt. “Zombie!” blazed across my brain like a neon sign in Times Square.
I fired where I thought he’d been. I didn’t hear the whine of a bullet striking a hard surface and veering off in another direction, but to be honest I didn’t hear much beyond the actual gunshot. Like a persistent vacuum cleaner salesman, the zombie kept coming forward—by the time I could see him, I had the muzzle of my barrel placed against his head. There was no doubting I made the shot this time: His head snapped back at a severe angle as the bullet tore through his forehead and blew out most of his brains through the fist-sized hole in the back of his head. By the time he hit the ground, I realized I had two bullets left in the magazine and ten left to reload with if I was given the opportunity. I was trying to calm my system, which was threatening to capitulate to the rampant fear moving through me. I did not want to die in what already seemed so much like a tomb.
We would never be found here. We would effectively be wiped from the annals of all those who had ever known us. And they would not have the luxury of ever knowing where we were and if we were truly dead. They would never get the closure that people so desperately sought. Although, how bad is holding on to that minute hope that your loved ones are still alive? Makes moving on difficult, but as I would already be gone, it really wasn’t my problem. If you don’t look out for number one, who will? Yup, it’s those kinds of asshole thoughts that get man into trouble.
Trip had grabbed my shoulder and pulled me into an office. I caught sight of two more zombies before he shut the door and we once again found ourselves immersed in the pitch. I panicked, thinking he’d run out of lighter fluid. It was short-lived, as the flame came back on. Kind of wished it had stayed off. The strangeness of the train yard and the military roadblock had been... well, strange. Bodies planted into the ground like spring bulbs. This was a whole other level. The first body
we saw looked like he had been propelled by some unbelievably strong force that had put him head and shoulders into the concrete. I would have thought this was the case if the wall had been smashed around the impact point, but it looked like the building material had been poured around his body. Only part of his upper torso and legs protruded, and they were perpendicular to the floor like his bones had fused and he was not capable of bending.
“Don’t see that every day,” Trip said rather lucidly. There was a perceptible shake to the hand carrying the lighter.
“Fug.” I had wanted to swear, but bile got caught in my throat as I realized I was going to have to touch the body. The man was wearing a utility belt. As luck—or unluck—would have it, he had a small flashlight attached to the leather band.
“What are you doing, man?” Trip asked as I reached out.
I didn’t say anything for fear of the words vomiting out along with everything else in my stomach. The granola bar had been bad enough the first time; I didn’t want to see it twice. I undid the clasp and pulled it out. It felt warm, like it had been on for a very long time and the batteries may have just petered out. I jumped when some loose change fell out of his pocket and jingled around on the floor, some rolling over to the far edges of the room.
“Please,” I prayed as I depressed the power button. I’d been so sure nothing was going to happen, it took me a second to be thrilled as the room illuminated.
The force that had melded the guard with the wall had taken his work partner and rooted him to the ceiling, much like Spiderman. His legs from the knees down were embedded in the ceiling. This was the first time we’d been able to see a face on these anomaly victims, and however he’d died, it had been extremely painful. Bits of teeth littered the floor where he had crushed them under the power of his own jaw. Broken blood vessels as thick as crayon lines crisscrossed his eyes. Half of his tongue, which must have been caught unawares, was lying on the ground like a discarded curl of roast beef. I moved past him to the large steel desk over by a bank of non-functioning video monitors.