Unhinged

by Reed, Rick R. ;

  The train went dark for an instant as it passed over a non-electrified part of rail.

  When the lights came back on, the woman was gone.

  Oliver scanned the car, looking for the royal blue wool coat, the yellow cap. He knew it was futile. The train had not stopped, and there were only a few passengers.

  Oliver stood and, knowing there hadn’t been enough time but seeing his mission out anyway, walked to the back of the car and peered through the window into the next car.

  As he expected, Oliver saw no trace of the woman.

  “North and Clybourn.” The train slowed to a stop, and Oliver reached out to grab a pole to maintain his balance.

  The next few stops went by in a blur. Oliver couldn’t concentrate; at times everything around him dissolved. When he was between stations and the walls of the dark tunnel were hurtling by, he wondered if he would ever emerge again or if, instead of pulling into a station, they would pull into a riot of ghouls milling around, with flames the size of buildings shooting upward to lick a black starless sky.

  Get close to Lucifer.

  Trembling, he got out of the car at Jackson. Ahead of him the green rail of the stairway beckoned. The stairway that would take him into the tunnel between the State and Dearborn Street subways.

  Nightmare movement. Glue in his veins. Soundless crowds passing him in slow-motion. Green railed stairway growing larger and larger as he neared.

  Oliver stopped, breath coming in gasps.

  He gripped the green railing…cold and wet, something viscous. Oliver snatched his hand away and wiped it on his coat.

  He descended.

  Sometimes, he thought, you just know things before they happen. Inexplicable certainty.

  He knew he would be there.

  Knew before his craggy voice ricocheted off the tile walls and high, arching concrete ceiling.

  The tunnel was bright, a place that shouldn’t exist. One long concrete floor, the color of dried blood, with dingy white tile trimmed in industrial green. Commuters hurried through, and as each train above expelled them, another rush would come down the stairs, bustling through the tunnel. There was something insect-like in all the movement, making Oliver dizzy.

  This was a place where nothing lived, at least not permanently.

  A man, wrapped in a brown wool coat, red stocking cap, and dark corduroy pants that defied color, played a saxophone, accompanied by a driving bass beat coming out of a boom box. The sax wailed, broadcasting its song of despair into the tunnel, where it sought escape and found none.

  And just down from him, a deja vu postcard, sat the man for whom Oliver had come looking. Everything about him was the same: leather jacket, jeans, thermal shirt, unlaced army boots, sitting Indian-style on the rough concrete, arms upraised. “Get close to Lucifer!”

  Oliver thought of turning and running back up the stairs, going home. And realized there was no turning back. A force as relentless as gravity pulled him through the tunnel. Closer, closer.

  He stood in front of him, the only person in the crowd rushing by to do so. Their eyes met.

  He knew. He’d expected Oliver.

  Bottomless eyes, cloudy glass, pupils suspended in irises that were like colorless jelly. He grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth, and licked his lips.

  Oliver covered his mouth in horror.

  The man’s tongue ended in two points, like a serpent.

  No.

  Oliver wanted to rush to him, pry the cracked lips apart and see again for himself, wanting to see a normal human tongue, not this.

  “Get close to Lucifer.” A whisper.

  Oliver squatted beside him. The scent of him set circuits to humming in Oliver’s brain…The scent of wood smoke, embers. Ryan. Or the one masquerading as him.

  “What do you know?” Oliver searched his eyes for an answer.

  “Get close,” he hissed.

  Oliver moved close enough to smell the oiled leather of his jacket and the stench of perspiration.

  “You wanna get close to the devil, man? That what you want?” He giggled. “He been waitin’ for you. Been wantin’ you.”

  “But why?”

  “You know why, don’cha? You opened the door.”

  “What door?”

  “The door to Hell!” he boomed out, deep, sonorous.

  Commuters’ eyes burned into Oliver. He had become one of the crazies he used to gawk at.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our father who art in Hades…he puh-rays on the grieving. The ones who’ve lost the will. You. Easy prey. You better pray, easy prey. Better pray, prey.” He hiccuped out a laugh, and Oliver recoiled. This thing had soiled him. Was he just crazy, or did he know something?

  “What do you know about my grief?”

  “He whispers to me, dear. Tells me all about you.” He winked.

  “What? What are you talking about?” A tiny rodent with razor teeth gnawed from inside his gut, desperate to get out, moving from place to place, biting and clawing.

  “I can get you close. What you want, ain’t it?” He cocked his head, eyebrows raised in a leer. “Just take the dark hand, grasp it tight…and you’re there. With him.”

  Oliver wanted to cry, eyes welling, he choked back tears like caustic fumes. No. Not in front of him. “What are you talking about?”

  “The dark hand! Take the dark hand!” He scowled at Oliver, eyes alive with dancing light, tongue whipping out to lick at the air. His arms came up slowly as if being pulled from above. As if he had no control. A marionette.

  “Get close to Lucifer!” Voice booming. Thunder.

  Oliver scrambled to his feet, heart racing. He stumbled down the passage, bumping into the tide of recently discharged passengers, gasping and pushing them out of his way. The tunnel suddenly felt cold, so cold.

  The walls were closing in.

  “Get close to Ryan!”

  No. He hadn’t said that. Had he?

  He dashed up the stairs, up, up, up, stumbling, arms blindly reaching out for purchase.

  Top of the stairs, dizzy, breathless. Downcast eyes sweeping past. Worse…he felt the gaze of the curious, the concerned.

  “Leave me alone!” Oliver shouted, weeping.

  Rushing to the edge of the platform, Oliver gazed into the darkened mouth of the subway tunnel. Twin luminous eyes waited. “Take the dark hand. Get close to Ryan,” Oliver whispered, no air left for his voice.

  When the train rumbles into the station, I will throw myself in front of it. Take the dark hand…

  Was this what he really wanted?

  Memory rose up, like an assault, like a gift. A summer morning, early. Outside their window, the sun came up over Lake Michigan, turning the grayish waters deep teal, the gold of the sun catching the foam on the waves, turning them tangerine. A strip of pink glimmered on the horizon; the sun a huge, gilded ball hung just above the water.

  In his mind’s eye, there was Ryan, sleepy-eyed, blond hair in his face, lips red from kissing, pressure. Oliver lay at one end of the bed, watching Ryan’s mouth move as he sang, off-key and hoarse, “You Are My Sunshine.”

  The cornball memory stole Oliver’s breath. Another…Ryan coming to him in the darkness, or what seemed like Ryan, the chill of his body as it spread itself over Oliver’s body. Engulfing him.

  He took another step forward; toes dangled over the edge of the platform. The train in the station west of him rumbled forward, a monster growling, coming to claim him.

  The dark hand. Take the dark hand.

  Get close to Ryan.

  So simple just to step off into darkness. The pull was irresistible. He took one last look up. Soon, he would be with him again…in Hell, wherever.

  It didn’t matter.

  A flash of blue against the gray of the station. Royal blue. The woman from the train earlier stood at the other end of the tunnel, smiling. Their eyes met and a curious warmth washed through Oliver as the woman’s blue-eyed gaze pulled him forward. Oli
ver was unable to draw his eyes away as the woman turned the blue-wrapped bundle in her arms so it faced Oliver.

  Although she had taken no steps, the woman seemed closer. Oliver could make out details he hadn’t before. The brass buttons of her coat. Ruddy hue of her cheeks.

  The woman drew back the blue blanket to reveal the baby’s face.

  Even though it was the face of an infant, Oliver recognized it at once: Ryan. The same blond hair, the same lopsided grin.

  He shuddered and cried out as a whistle blew.

  The train, whistle shrieking and sending up a great rush of air, blew through the station like a banshee, not stopping, racing. Oliver stumbled backward from the force of the speeding silver train.

  “Attention passengers, another train is immediately following,” a static-cloaked voice boomed from a loudspeaker. “That delayed eastbound train will make Clark and Lake its next stop. Another train is immediately following.”

  Oliver turned back to find the woman, the child with Ryan’s face.

  But she was gone.

  Again, no trace of the royal blue coat or the swaddled bundle he longed to see.

  Oliver stepped back from the platform. Even though the woman was gone, Oliver tingled still from the curious warmth she had imparted when Oliver locked gazes with her.

  He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take the proffered dark hand. Something more, he didn’t know what, had to be out there.

  He would return home on the next train. Return home and begin life anew.

  Oliver made his way through the station, pausing at the top of the stairs, unsure if he could face the biker jacket-clad man once more.

  But there was a lot he would have to face and it would take time to rebuild his strength. Facing the stranger would be the first step on the road back.

  He descended into the tunnel once more.

  Magic lost. Dim empty corridor, curved ceiling choked with mildew, floor scarred with the passage of many feet. A woman at one end (no royal blue coat this time) disappeared up the stairs. A blind man sat midway, hunched over his white-tipped cane, cigar box full of chewing gum for sale open on his lap.

  Oliver hurried through the tunnel, certain the biker jacketed man would come down the stairs, grinning, forked tongue whipping out, rushing toward him like something from a nightmare.

  But there was no one.

  Oliver climbed the stairs, made his way through the State Street subway station. He wanted to board the front car, where he could sit in the first seat and watch as the train moved from the darkness of the tunnel into day’s bright light.

  Standing. Waiting. There were voices behind him, indistinct, like a staticky radio, tuning dial being whirled.

  Finally…lights shone at the end of tunnel. Headlights, not eyes.

  Relief washed through Oliver as he pictured the train moving north, grinding into the station, and heard the pneumatic wheeze of doors. Homeward bound.

  Oliver pawed the back of his neck, aware suddenly of a coolness behind him. The sensation was deeper than the mere damp chill of the subway station. A dark blanket. Shadow eclipsed, throwing its darkness over Ryan like a stain.

  The train rumbled, growing nearer. Oliver stepped forward a tiny bit, trying to free himself from the closeness of the stranger behind him.

  The dark blanket followed.

  Just as the rumbling reached a crescendo, the shadow deepened and blackened behind him.

  A frightened cry erupted out of Oliver like a hiccup. No time to turn and run. Sirens erupted inside him as he felt the firm pressure of two hands on the small of his back.

  The hoarse voice screamed, “Get close to Lucifer!” just as the train roared into the station.

  And Oliver was flying, caught up in screeching, screaming brakes, and light so bright it burned his retinas.

  THE END

  ABOUT RICK R. REED

  Rick R. Reed is all about exploring the romantic entanglements of gay men in contemporary, realistic settings. While his stories often contain elements of suspense, mystery, and the paranormal, his focus ultimately returns to the power of love.

  He is the author of dozens of published novels, novellas, and short stories. He is a three-time EPIC eBook Award winner for Caregiver, Orientation, and The Blue Moon Cafe. His novel, Raining Men, won the Rainbow Award for Best Contemporary General Fiction. Lambda Literary Review has called him “a writer that doesn’t disappoint.”

  Rick lives in Seattle with his husband and a very spoiled Boston terrier. He is forever “at work on another novel.”

  For more information, visit rickrreed.com.

  ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

  JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!