by David Wong
I said, “Wait, you know what’s going on here?”
He gave me a dismissive look. “I’ll send you home with a copy of my book.”
Big Jim said, “He’s trying to break through, isn’t he?”
Marconi nodded. “He or his lackeys, yes.”
“Goddammit!” I screamed. “Did everybody else know this was gonna happen but me?”
“I most certainly did not know this was going to happen,” Marconi said, “or I would have canceled and issued full refunds. But when I became aware of the ‘sauce’ as you call it, I knew that it had only one purpose.”
There was a scratching from the opposite side of the door that I suspected was the sound of the beasts trying to bite through it.
“And that purpose is?”
“I offer people a window into the spiritual. Someone wishes to turn it into a door.”
A blue eye, in the darkness.
Jim whispered, “The Devil.”
Marconi said, “Son, the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world there was only one of him.”
I held up a hand in a “halt” motion and said, “How. Do. We. Get. Out. Of. This?”
Marconi placed his glasses back on his nose and said, “We’re like one German soldier alone on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day, holding a sharp stick. I assure you, son, if any of us were capable of destroying such evil, the world would have killed us long before now. The world turns, son. And now it turns into the darkness.”
I said, “So, what do you suggest?”
“I am a retired priest. Did you know that?”
John asked, “Are you one of those priests who can shoot lasers out of their eyes? Because that would be really helpful right now.”
“No,” he said. “But I can bless water to make it holy. The ice statue, I mean.”
John’s face brightened and he said, “That’s perfect!” He thrust his index finger into the air. “We bless the ice, then we just have to somehow get all hundred or so of those monsters to go lick the statue!”
I stared hard into the face of the older man, said, “Okay, there is no possible combination of English words that would form a dumber plan than that.”
“We’ll need to buy time, of course,” he said, undeterred. “But if I’m right, if they’re doing what I think they’re doing, it’s most likely the only hope we’ve got. The travelers out there, the beasts I mean, they do have a weakness.”
John said, “We know. Chairs.”
“Uh, not exactly. They’re natural discordians. It’s a product of where they’re from, you see. When you live in a world of black noise, melody is like a blade to the ears. Angels and their harps and all that.”
I asked, “What does that have to do with—”
A hole exploded from the center of the door. A little pink fist and a segmented leg curled through, reaching around between John and Big Jim. John grabbed it by the wrist and Jennifer severed the arm with the switchblade. There was a feline shriek from the other side. John held the detached arm in his hand for a moment, then shoved it back through the ragged hole.
Marconi said, “I see you have your instruments. Can any of you sing? The old spirituals work best.”
John said, “I can sing.”
I said, “No, you can’t, John.”
“Well, I play the guitar.”
“So can I,” said Big Jim. “We have two guitars.”
I said, “This could not be any stupider.”
John said, “Dave, you remember the words to ‘Camel Holocaust’?”
“Ah, once again, you prove me wrong, John.”
Marconi looked down at the two carts stacked with amps and cables and said, “How long is it? I’ll need several minutes.”
John stepped around and lifted the guitar off my back, said, “ ‘Camel Holocaust’ is as long as you want it to be, my friend. I’m lead, Jim is rhythm, Jen sings backup. Jen, just repeat everything Dave sings, only like one second behind. The sound system will be on the stage. We duck out there and plug in and wail. Okay? Guys, this is just retarded enough to work.”
We set up, then faced the banging door. John said, “You know, I’m surprised the door stopped them, since they can teleport around like that. You’d think they could just blink right through it.”
There was sudden silence from beyond the door, a muttering like the creatures had just realized something. From behind me, Jim screamed.
One of the beasts was on his back. A second appeared on his chest, and in a blurred motion it snatched at his throat.
Jim collapsed on his guitar, the white instrument turning instantly crimson.
Jennifer lunged with the switchblade and stabbed one beast to death. She was good with that thing.
I said, “Jim? Are you—”
He rolled over, his throat laying open in shreds and flaps, as if it had been hit with a shotgun blast. His eyes were wide, his mouth working. Then, he was gone.
I opened my mouth to say something when suddenly my vision was obstructed by blackness. There were little pinches on my chest and belly, like something grabbing hold. My vision focused and I saw a dozen mismatched eyes staring back at me.
I fell backward, hit the ground, the wig monster riding on my chest. Its beak opened and I saw a pink, human tongue lolling around inside.
An electric shriek emerged from the ballroom. A guitar.
The creature closed its beak and turned toward the open door where John played, a look of intense annoyance on its face. It trotted away, two tiny hands over its ears.
Marconi said, “Good! Go!”
I stood and pushed through the open door. John played his ax with his legs spread apart, holding the guitar low to the ground. I sprinted around him, grabbed the mic off of the stage. For a moment, I was speechless.
The base of the fountain was now hidden behind a seven-foot-high circle of stacked body parts, the ice angel rising from the center. The remaining wig monsters gathered around the perimeter, facing inward, as if waiting.
There is no possible way this is actually happening.
Well, might as well go with it. I clenched my throat, filled my lungs until my diaphragm pushed out against the gold-plated belt I was wearing, and screeched:“I knew a manNo, I made that part upHair! Hair! Haaairrr!Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!”
The creatures spun our way, donned some very disappointed frowns, backed away.
“Brilliant!” shouted Marconi. “You’re really annoying them! Let’s move!”
We pushed forward toward the fountain, the sound of the music thundering through the room, scattering the beasts before us like a leaf blower. One of the wig monsters spat at me.“My melon soulCrushed by your Gallagher of apathySledgehammer! Hammerrrrr!Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!”
We reached the length of our cables, still some distance from the fountain. Marconi went forward with Jennifer in tow. They got within blessing distance of the angel and Marconi said, “Father, you give us grace through sacramental signs, which tell us of the wonders of your unseen power. In baptism we use your gift of water, which you have made a rich symbol of the grace you give us in this sacrament. At the very dawn of creation . . .”“There’s a wolf behind youNo, wait, it’s just a dogOh, shit! Badger! Baaaadgeeeerrr!Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!”
We hit the first solo, John ripped into it. Several of the wig monsters were now chewing on John’s guitar wire.
The sound died into faint, pathetic guitar pluckings.
The monsters lurched toward us en masse. John, thinking quickly, ran over and snatched the microphone from my hands. He began making guitar sounds with his mouth.
“WAAAAHHHH wah-wah-wah-wah-wah, weet woo weet weet woo—”
I didn’t think that would work. I spun on Dr. Marconi, saw him stepping up over the human-parts wall toward the fountain itself. I followed him, climbed up, stepped on a face, a bundle of six hands, an ass.
The pool was black now. Not black like oil, but black like a cave,
so that you couldn’t see any reflection or ripples in the surface, not even when Dr. Marconi waded out into it. A black rain fell off the angel’s wings above us.
John mounted the pile behind us, screamed, “WAH, DO-DO-DO-DOOOO-DO, DEE DOO DOO—”
Marconi, knee-deep in black oil, reached out and touched the icy surface of the statue. He said, “We ask you, Father, with your Son . . .”
John had reached the end of his solo, was now making up a third verse to the song.“My hat smells likelubricant, I don’t wanna touch itWait, this isn’t mine! And it’s not a hat!Camel Holo—”
John’s mic cable was cut. The sound died.
“—on the waters of this font. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Marconi stepped back.
Nothing.
John turned to the waves of approaching monsters and said, “NOW LICK THE STATUE!”
The blackness in the pool suddenly rose, covering the feet of the statue, spilling over the edges of the fountain. I leaned over and pulled at Marconi’s jacket, pulling him back, not sure what was happening but certain we didn’t want to be standing in the middle of it when it did. He waded over to the edge of the pool. He raised one leg out of the blackness and we saw, with horror, that he had no leg. Everything that had been submerged was gone, his pants ending in a neat line with only empty space beneath—
—and then it was back, whole again. Like a trick of the light. The doctor suddenly sprang out of the pool with renewed motivation. I glanced nervously at my white patent leather shoes disappearing under the rising black tide.
John and Jennifer helped us clamber up the wall of human limbs, then we ran our asses off across the ballroom floor. There was a whistling sound, like wind howling through tree branches. I saw a couple of chairs scooting along the floor toward the fountain, suddenly felt a pull like I was running from an electromagnet with a gut full of iron pellets.
One of the wig monsters skittered toward us, but was suddenly lifted out of the air and sucked back to what I was fairly certain was a portal to Hell. The howling sound was loud now, deafening, the sound of a jetliner. Folding chairs were flying through the air as if propelled by dozens of invisible Bobby Knights. The five of us pushed our way forward, somebody screaming around me but the sound lost in the rushing noise. John grabbed my shirt and pointed me toward the small space behind the stage, room to crouch back there. Jennifer screamed something I couldn’t hear, something that sounded like “Todd!”
Sparks blew out from the ceiling lights, and we were cast into darkness.
A few small banks of emergency lights clicked on, faintly glinting off the wings of the ice angel in the center of the room. We stumbled back behind the stage, huddled down like tornado victims. We waited.
Silence. I risked a peek back at the dark well. From the blackness, there was movement. Dark shapes rose up out of the portal. They were like freestanding shadows, vaguely human, long and lean figures, eight or ten feet tall each. Their only features were a pair of tiny, glowing eyes like two lit cigarettes.
One by one they slipped out and into the dark room, a crowd of them, shoulder to shoulder, flowing out of the portal. They shambled out like a spreading pool of spilt oil, perfectly silent, filling the room, a constellation of little red flickering eyes.
They were around us now, closing in just feet away, making their advance in perfect stillness.
And then, the silence was broken. There was a low, screeching sound, like steam escaping. Plumes of smoke or steam rose from the base of the ice angel, a bright, white light down there like it was a rocket about to take off.
The sound grew and grew and grew, became animal, a scream of pain.
In the dim light of the emergency lamps, the holy water angel sank, descending into the black hole.
There was a thunderclap, so loud I thought it would split me in half. I clenched my eyes shut, covered my head with my hands, begged God to forgive me for accidentally bringing an end to all of creation.
There was a jolt, then a bodiless, weightless feeling like drifting out of a dream.
A hand touched my shoulder. I flinched as if gouged with a branding iron. Things were quiet again. How much time had passed? I felt like a man waking after a nap to complete darkness, confused about the time of day.
I opened my eyes and it was Jennifer, with John and Marconi standing behind her. Lights were on. She helped me up and I turned to the center of the floor.
Nothing there but empty, red carpet. No fountain, no bodies, no black hole. The room was completely vacant except for us and a few random toppled chairs still scattered about. I sat down on the floor, suddenly exhausted. John and I looked hard at the spot where the fountain had been. We each extended a hand toward it, and gave it the finger.
The doors burst open. Suits and cop uniforms poured in.
Molly the dog came bounding in with them, a bundle of chewed-up papers in her mouth. She dropped the stuff in front of me, barking her head off. I looked down at two tickets to the Marconi show, which she had presumably gotten out of the young couple’s luggage. I nudged the tickets aside, saw a CD labeled: Amazing Grace: The Brooklyn Choir Sings the Gospel.
A bearded man wandered over, looking dazed, and I recognized him as the husband of the woman we tried to save before she dismembered herself and everything went to Hell.
I said, “I’m sorry. About your wife. What was her name? Becky.”
He looked at me, confused, said, “No, I’m not married. What happened in here?”
I couldn’t answer. I lay back on the floor, my body shutting down even with shoes shuffling all around me. I hadn’t slept in forty hours, every muscle screamed in pain. I had flown off the cliff of a gargantuan adrenaline rush and was crashing fast.
Somebody said my name, asked if I was okay. I didn’t answer, the sound of the commotion dying around me as the heavy monkey of sleep rested its warm, furry ass on my eyelids.
DARKNESS AND WARMTH, and then the nasal EEEK EEEK EEEK of an alarm clock. I had a taste in my mouth, smoky, like I had licked an ashtray. I felt something itchy and thick around my mouth. I shot my eyes open. Where the hell was I?
I sat up in bed. Not my bedroom. I looked over at a watch on a nightstand. Not my watch. A nicer one.
I looked around the room, the alarm still screeching its complaints from the nightstand. I found a mirror. There was something dark on my face, and I slapped my hand up to it. Hair. I climbed out of bed and walked toward the mirror. I had a thick, full goatee.
What the hell?
I sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Whose room was this? A voice from behind me said, “Are you going to get that?”
I fumbled around and found a button on the alarm. Jennifer Lopez was in the bed. And I mean the actress.
Oh, wait. No, she rolled over and it was just the local Jennifer Lopez. She got out of bed, wearing a tank top and underwear, and she sleepily walked off to what I guess was a bathroom. She had a faint, white scar at the top of her thigh. She farted softly as she closed the door.
I stood, found a cell phone among the stuff on a nearby chest of drawers, dialed John’s number.
Operator recording. “This number has been disconnected . . .”
I was in a slow-burn panic now. I glanced out a window, saw a tree in the front yard with leaves turning fall colors. I went back to the phone, scrolled through the quick-dial numbers. I found an entry for John—a different number than I knew—and dialed it.
I heard water running in the bathroom. I held my breath as the phone rang four, five, six times. Seven.
“Hello?” John, sounding sleepy.
“John? It’s me.”
“Yeah. What’s goin’ on?”
“Oh. Nothin’.”
After a moment, he said, “You don’t remember the last six months, do you?”
“You, too?”
“No, I’m okay. This will be the fourth time it’s happened to you, though. You lose everything since that night. Is Vegas the
last thing you remember?”
“Yeah.”
“I think it’s a side effect of the sauce. Come to my—well, you don’t know where my apartment is now, do you? Meet me at Dairy Queen.”
Jennifer came out and, much to my surprise, we kissed for several minutes. Ashtray.
I went out, took in the neat little white bungalow-style house and was a little relieved to find my familiar Hyundai in the drive.
I drove and found John sitting on a bench outside the restaurant, a brown DQ sack in his hand. I observed that he, too, had grown a thick goatee.
I said, “This sucks.”
“You say that every time.”
“Do I have to, like, work today? Where do I work?”
“Wally’s. You get Sundays off. This is Sunday, by the way. Come on.”
John walked me to a very nice motorcycle. He jumped on, slapped the seat behind him. I looked at it for a moment and then walked to my car, said, “I’ll follow you.”
As we walked down the hall to John’s new apartment he said, “It was a big deal, but not, you know, the real big deal. The story that came out was that five hundred people freaked out at a Marconi show, rushed the doors, one kid got killed in the stampede. That would be, you know, Jim.”
We stepped through the doors and I said, “One guy? What about the dozens of people who—”
I stopped, taken aback by John’s place. He had a brown leather couch, a matching armchair. He had a big-screen plasma TV sitting in the middle of the room; hooked to it were four video game systems, with game boxes littering the floor. A fairly nice DVD player, a one-hundred-disk CD changer in an entertainment center.
“John, are we crack dealers now?”
John opened a drawer on a writing desk and pulled out a big manila envelope. He extracted a bundle of papers, newspaper clippings, a couple of folded-up tabloids, a glossy magazine called Strange Days with a picture of a UFO on the front.
He said, “No. Nothing like that. Out in Vegas, we met a guy. He was a pimp. We made quite a bit of money as male whores. They used to call you Rocket Rimjob. You won the gold at the Greater Nevada Sodomy Olympics back in July, landed a bunch of endorsement deals. You own that house you and Jennifer live in. Paid cash, I think.”