Hazardous Materials

by Matthew Quinn Martin

  A At the time? Yes.

  Q But not after?

  A Well, there really didn’t get to be an after, did there? Not after what happened in Times Square. Not after—

  Q Clarification for the record. After the initial incident?

  A You mean the bridge?

  Q Correct. What were your initial thoughts?

  A Honestly, I don’t remember what I thought at the time. Probably that it had something to do that job he had. That something he breathed in messed with his circuitry. I know that’s what he thought.

  Q This is what Mr. Foster told you?

  A Not in so many words.

  Q Please use Mr. Foster’s exact words, to the

  (CONT’D NEXT PAGE)

  FIVE

  Nothing he and Geoff did that night could take Jarrod’s mind off the dream. Not the deep-fried bacon-wrapped hot dogs they ate. Not the cans of suds they washed them down with. Not the shots they put away in the hidden speakeasy on the other side of the hot dog joint’s Get Smart phone booth—all of it on Geoff’s dime.

  Nothing. Not the girls Geoff dragged over to their table. Not the outfits those girls wore, the ones that were too small and too thin for November. Nothing—no amount of alcohol, fried food, or chances to get laid—could get him to forget the dream or his desire to be once more lost in the Polybius’s web of red and green vector lines. It was a fever, and there was only one way that fever was going to break.

  “You okay, dude?” Geoff said, leaning over the table, the girls who flanked him giggling from their leather banquette.

  “What?”

  “I said, you okay?”

  All three of them were staring at him as if he’d grown an extra limb. “Not sure.” He excused himself and headed to the bathroom. He stared into the mirror. So what if he wanted to go back and play? Would it really matter that much? He’d had a bad dream. So what?

  He left and didn’t turn back.

  Less than an hour and he was back at his apartment. He was back in the arms of the Polybius. He dropped in his quarter. The voice came: “Prepare to take aim.” He twisted the knob, slapped at the button, blasting the spider creatures as they climbed the cylinder. With each kill, a wash of light filled the room, bathing him in glory. And before he knew it, he was spinning away, back into the dream that wasn’t quite a dream.

  LUDWIG WAS ON fire again. The whole rink was on fire, but now it burned with a heat that could not touch him. Not him and not the boy.

  Again, they gazed at the mural. “You see them now,” the boy said. It wasn’t a question.

  Jarrod nodded. What he’d thought were shadows now moved with the confidence of solid things. “They can change,” he said, knowing. “They can be what we want.”

  “They can only make us think that,” the boy corrected. “Underneath, they are still the same. Underneath, they are still demons.”

  die demon die

  Look deeper. Look up. Look in the trees.”

  Jarrod obeyed. Among the branches and leaves, he saw movement—scales, slitted eyes, and forked tongues.

  “You have to help us,” the boy whispered, tugging Jarrod close. His breath was soft, warm, and familiar.

  “What can I do? I’m nobody special.”

  “You see,” the boy insisted. “You see now, and that’s enough. You see, and that makes you special.”

  “Special,” Jarrod echoed. The flames had grown, eating everything except them, the mural, and the arcade. “Who are you?”

  “You need to see. You need to prepare.”

  “Prepare for what?”

  “Prepare to take aim.”

  Jarrod looked down at his hand, and there, again, was the gun.

  “Come.” The boy took Jarrod’s hand. Suddenly, the rink was gone, and they were high above the clouds. A twinkling skyscape spread out beneath them. Jarrod recognized it. Manhattan. Home.

  “This is what you have to save,” the boy said.

  “Home.”

  “The demons are coming to take your home. To take all of our homes. To make us slaves. To make us food.”

  Jarrod gazed at the city, and with eyes that only a dream could gift him with, he saw everything. He saw the demons walking among us. He saw them wearing human faces, drinking human blood. He saw them using our own lust to enslave us, using what we most desire to lure us to our doom.

  He turned to face the boy, and he saw that look again, the look that had haunted him for ten years. “Simon?”

  The boy did not answer.

  Jarrod knew what he had to do. He raised his gun—

  “FREEZE! DON’T MOVE a muscle, asshole!”

  A light as bright as the sun pinned Jarrod, drilling into his mind. He shook it off, twisting away from it.

  “I said . . . don’t . . . fucking . . . move!”

  Jarrod stumbled forward. His foot hit nothing. Beneath him was only empty air and a sliver of river far, far below. “What? Where?”

  “I said, freeze!” The voice belonged to a policeman. His tactical flashlight was trained on Jarrod’s face. So were the five others behind him. So were their guns. “Down! Now! Hands behind your head!”

  Jarrod obeyed, lying down on the cold stone slab. He could see Manhattan’s illuminated skyline as they cuffed him. It hit him that he was on top of the Brooklyn Bridge’s west tower. He was being arrested on the top of the bridge’s west tower, to be exact. The East River churned beneath him, and Jarrod fought with every ounce of nerve to keep from throwing up. He failed, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the shoes of the nearest cop.

  “Ahh! Thanks a fucking lot, pal. Should just roll you off the side.”

  Jarrod almost wished they had then, and he wished so even more as they inched him down the steep curve of the bridge’s main support cable, pistols pointed at his head the whole way down. Just wait till the folks find out about this, he thought. “Couldn’t come home for Thanksgiving,” one of them might say. “Too busy trying to throw yourself off a bridge? Too busy ‘taking care of something’ like your brother?” He could hear the recrimination. He could see the tears. And he knew that if he died on that bridge, it would be the only way—in their eyes, at least—that he’d ever be like his brother.

  The cops bundled him into the back of a police van, and he caught one last glimpse of the bridge. The crisscross pattern of its cables, lit up by floodlights, looked strangely familiar. Comforting and familiar, like the vector lines of the Polybius.

  HE SAT CUFFED to an old steel desk at the Seventh Precinct, as a caffeine-hopped detective screamed at him. “You want me to toss your ass down in the Tombs? Give you some time to think about what the hell you were trying to pull with that stunt? That what you want?”

  “It wasn’t a stunt, officer,” Jarrod pleaded. “I think . . . I think I might have been trying to kill myself.” But why? he wondered, even as he said it. Because of a dream? Because of a freaking video game?

  “You think you might have been trying to kill yourself,” the detective scoffed. “You think? That’s not how it works. You try to kill yourself or you don’t.”

  “I know how suicide works.”

  But the detective rolled on, unheeding. “You don’t think that you might have been trying. You fucking try it. And I’ve never seen anybody try it from the top of the bridge. Do the job just as well from the deck. You wanna do it, that is. Nah, this was a stunt.”

  “Honest, officer—”

  “Shut it! This was a stunt, admit it. You wanted to feel special. You wanted to show off. Tell you what, why don’t I just give you a night down in the Tombs to get friendly with some of the hard-asses down there? Get yourself a new boyfriend? Bet he’ll make you feel real special.”

  Jarrod shook his head. Nothing he said was going to change this guy’s mind, and he knew it. “Could I have some water, please?”<
br />
  “Water? You want water?” The detective turned before Jarrod could even nod and filled a paper cone from the cooler a few steps away. He thrust the water half an inch away from Jarrod’s face. “You want a drink?” He crushed the cone in his hand. The water spilled down his fist, and Jarrod could have cried. “Then give me some answers.”

  “I wish I could.” And Jarrod did, more than anything. “Believe me. I really do. But I can’t.” He shook his head. Nothing about this made one single bit of sense. One minute, he was playing a video game, and the next, he was getting ready to swan dive off the Brooklyn Bridge.

  No . . . that wasn’t true. In between those minutes, there had been the dream. In between those minutes, he’d been shown something. But just as before, when he reached for the images, they slithered deep into the murk of his mind. Slithered away like—

  “You think this is some kind of game?” The detective pounded on the desk, rattling his stapler and coffee mug. “What is it with you hipsters, anyway? You got any idea how much these little stunts cost taxpayers? No, you don’t. Because you’re probably not paying any frickin’ taxes. Living off Mommy and Daddy’s trust fund. You make me sick!”

  “I wasn’t pulling any stunt. Honest. I was asleep, I think. Sleepwalking, maybe.”

  “Sleepwalking?” The detective rolled his eyes. “First you think you’re suicidal. Then you think you’re sleepwalking. Sleepwalking! To the top of the Brooklyn Bridge!”

  “I know, I know. Honest, I know how crazy it sounds. But I don’t . . . Look, I don’t have a trust fund, okay? I don’t have anything.” And while that was closer to the truth than Jarrod would have liked, it wasn’t exactly the truth. He did have something. He had the Polybius. He had the dreams. He had the visions. He had . . . he had . . .

  He had to prepare.

  Jarrod balled both fists. He had to get a grip. That’s what he had to do. Time enough to figure out what was going on inside his head once he’d gotten out of these handcuffs. “Honest, officer. No trust fund. I live in a closet, and I work in hazmat removal. I don’t know, maybe I breathed in something. Something bad. Chemicals, maybe.”

  The detective rubbed his shadowed chin. “Hazmat removal? Like asbestos and stuff?”

  “Among other things, yeah,” Jarrod admitted, wishing that he hadn’t mentioned what he’d been breathing in. Wishing, past that, that he had a cigarette. If ever there was a time for a cigarette, it was now.

  “Asbestos,” the detective repeated, his tone softer. “That sounds pretty rough.”

  “It’s a living.” Sort of. “Could I please have some water now?”

  “Yeah, fine.” The detective filled another paper cone and handed it to Jarrod. He drank greedily, but it barely slaked his sandpaper throat.

  “You want some aspirin or anything?”

  “You wouldn’t have . . .” Jarrod started, already hating himself for the words about to escape his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?”

  “Nah, gave it up years ago. Stevie might, want me to—”

  “No,” Jarrod blurted. “Stupid of me to ask. I quit, too. Just . . . you know.”

  “Oh, trust me, I know,” the detective said. “You do your best to keep them out of your mouth, okay? And no more sleepwalking. Tie yourself to the bed frame if you have to.” He bent down and clicked open Jarrod’s cuffs. Then he wrote something on a slip of paper and shoved it toward him. “Jail’s overcrowded. Here’s your arraignment date. Don’t make us come looking for you. And you might want to think about taking some time off.”

  “Thank you, detective,” Jarrod said, sweeping up the note. “I will, I promise. Thank you.”

  “No job’s worth your life, son,” he said, with a pensive neck scratch that made Jarrod wonder if it was Jarrod’s job he meant by that comment or his own. And before he knew it, his mind went again to Simon. It was the job that had really killed his brother, no matter what the coroner’s report said.

  “Now, go on. Call for someone to pick you up before I change my mind.” The detective fished a quarter from his slacks and dropped it onto the desk. “Pay phone’s down the hall. Probably the last one in the city that still works.”

  Jarrod picked up the quarter. As he felt the metal, cool against his skin, the last thing he wanted to do was use it to call for a ride. He wanted to drop it into the Polybius. He wanted to play. Even after all that had happened . . . he wanted to play.

  SIX

  Sure you don’t want a smoke?” Ludwig asked as they drove into the night.

  “Stop asking me that.”

  “Sorreee,” he whined, lighting one for himself. “Just thought it might help. Just figured you had one hell of a night is all.”

  “I know.” Jarrod cracked the pickup’s passenger window to let in some fresh air. “And thanks, but I don’t think it’d be a good idea.”

  “Said the guy the cops just pulled off the top of the Brooklyn Bridge.” Ludwig exhaled. A cloud of smoke broke across the windshield.

  Jarrod clenched his fist tight, so tight he could almost feel the nails drawing blood. “Thanks for coming out this late.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I picked up one of my guys from the pokey. Know why they call it the pokey, right? Right?” Ludwig hit Jarrod with a couple of jabs. “Just joshin’. Gotta ask, though, Jare? You sure you don’t do drugs?”

  Jarrod shook his head.

  “It’s cool. I don’t pass judgment. That’s the Lord’s job.”

  “I’m not on drugs, Ludwig. Not even grass. You can check my tox screen with the guys at the pokey, okay?”

  Ludwig nodded. “Fair enough. Had to ask. Can’t blame a guy.” He turned off Houston, heading downtown toward Jarrod’s Lower East Side apartment.

  Jarrod rubbed his arms. His head throbbed. All he wanted was more aspirin, more water, and his bed. No. That was a lie. He wanted to play the game again. He wanted to stand in front of the Polybius and get lost in it. He needed to play. It was insane. It was beyond insane. Why? Why? WHY?

  “Hey, you still got that game I gave ya?” Ludwig asked, almost as if he could read Jarrod’s thoughts. “You know, that game, what was it called, Polybius?”

  “No,” he lied quickly, surprised at the words even as they formed on his lips. “Sold it on eBay. Got a hunderd beans for it.”

  “Sold it, huh? That was awful quick. Too bad. Figured if you still had it, I’d take it off your hands.” Ludwig slowed the pickup, almost as if he wanted time to draw the conversation out. “Don’t have it no more, huh?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Some guys were asking about it.” Ludwig stared off into the night, avoiding Jarrod’s gaze.

  Sure they were. Just some random guys showed up asking about a game that neither of us is supposed to own. One that’s been rotting in a welded-shut arcade in an abandoned roller rink for thirty years. That was a line of bullshit they could smell in Jersey City. Ludwig must have run across a collector looking for rare games when he was unloading the eleven others. He must have found somebody looking to pay big and now wanted to welch on the deal.

  “Too bad you didn’t hang on to it,” Ludwig added. “Would have given you more than a hunderd beans. Heck, I’d have given you at least a grand.”

  “Well, I don’t have it anymore,” he said. Case closed. That game’s worth more than a measly grand, something inside his head screamed. It was worth more than a bullshit story about “some guys.” It was priceless. It was the way in. It was how he was going to prepare.

  “No biggie.” Ludwig eased off the pedal, letting the truck slow to a crawl. A heavy pause hung in the air. “Long as we’re on the subject, though, you got the number of the guy who bought it? Maybe—”

  “No, Ludwig. I don’t have the guy’s number, okay? I’ve had a long night. Just drop me off home.”

  “Maybe I’ll j
ust drop you off here.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Jarrod said, already reaching for the door handle.

  “Whoa! Whoa, bucko. Sorry. Just—”

  “It’s cool. I can walk. I could use the fresh air.”

  “Suit yourself, then.” Ludwig stopped the truck and let Jarrod out.

  “See you at work.”

  Ludwig scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe you need to take some time off. Heck, maybe we need to reevaluate your whole work ethic.”

  “Whatever, Ludwig.” Jarrod turned, cutting him off without so much as a glance behind and started plodding back to his apartment. Great, he thought. Now add “no job” to my growing list of problems that include psychotic episodes and an arcade game that might be possessed by demons.

  “Die demon die,” Jarrod muttered to himself, freezing on the spot.

  No. No. No. The game is not possessed. There are no such things as demons. No such things as ghosts. You are not living in some cheesy fucking horror movie. He forced himself forward, repeating these things to himself with every three steps and adding, You breathed in something bad at your shitting, minimum-wage, better-get-that-Obamacare-it’s-better-than-nothing, shitting, fucking shitting job. And now, not only is Ludwig trying to cover his ass about that, but he wants to take away the one thing of value you have in your shitty fucking excuse for a life. The only thing you’ve ever had that made you special.

  Jarrod Hanlon Foster, if you had a single ounce of stone in that sad sack dangling between your legs, you’d take care of Ludwig. You’d take care of all the Ludwigs of the world. You’d—

  You’d prepare to take aim.

  Jarrod froze. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk in a daze, not sure if he’d heard the words in his ears, in his head, or from his own mouth. And what was more, Jarrod was scared. Even blocks away, he could feel the Polybius’s lure drawing him in, setting the hooks in his mind and soul.

  It was time to stop lying to himself. The dreams and the game were linked. They had to be. It had to be more than just sleep deprivation or mold spores that left him stranded on the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, about to take a four-hundred-foot high dive. It had to be the game—or something inside it.