by Bruce Jones
And the smell was overpowering.
He recognized it now; it was the same odor he’d encountered in Iraq. The odor of decaying flesh.
His shoe caught on a piece of shattered concrete and he twisted, pin-wheeled and crashed to the pavement. He winced pain, stared down with unbelieving eyes at the burns on his body, his wasted flesh, ribs jutting white under dust-smudged, shredded clothing. He tried to push up again, but the effort sent slivers of pain through his leg. He seemed to have no strength at all.
* * *
He sat alone in the center of the rubble-strewn remains of what had once been a church.
Above him, the poisonous red clouds boiled together and sent a light curtain of rain hissing across the parched earth. The sound it produced was the only sound against the night, save the occasional rumble of thunder.
Robert Wilkes heard none of this. Nor saw the glowing holocaust around him. Nor felt the stifling heat. He braced himself against the frigid blasts of December wind as he and Lindy struggled across the slush-strewn parking lot to the department store entrance. Once again he regarded with irritation the seething mob of last-minute shoppers.
For the eighth time that day, Robert Wilkes relived the same endless dream kept alive by a single thread of sanity still pulsing feebly within his mangled mind. All alone among the crumbling rubble, rocking gently to and fro, he crooned softly to the radiation-choked heavens above.
“God rest ye merry gentleman,” he sang, “let nothing you dismay…”
When I was “out there” in Hollywood I did pretty much what ever one else there does—or used to do—waited for my agent to send me to one of the studios to “take” a meeting, armed with two or three ideas I had to “pitch.” If you’re one of those attempting to make a living in the screen trade allow me a couple of pieces of friendly advice: never pitch more three movie ideas; if they don’t like the first one and that’s all you’ve got, it’s going to be a short meeting. On the other hand, if you pitch three and they don’t bite at any of them, shake hands and leave. Otherwise you’ll look desperate. They can smell desperation. Also, never make your pitches longer than ten minutes; no producer has an attention span longer than that. More importantly, never expect to sell one of your pitches. That’s not why you’re there. You’re there to see if you can get along. If you can, they will then pitch you their idea. You act enthusiastic you may get a shot a writing what four or five or fifty other writers have already attempted and failed to write, and four or five or fifty will attempt once you fail. Which brings us to the following story. This was one of those rare times when the producers actually came to me. They read the story and loved it, absolutely, unequivocally loved it, bought my lunch and promised they’d be in touch. They never got back to me, of course, but this was one of the few times I really didn’t want them to. I like this story a lot, but even before we sat down to lunch I thought it was the worst idea for a movie in the world. Movies, you see, are a visual medium. This story takes place almost entirely in the dark. A half hour TV show, maybe; a 90 minute movie, not a chance. The best thing about the entire experience was that it was, as I recall, a damn good lunch. That and wondering for days afterwards why on earth a place even as nutty as Hollywood would ever want to attempt filming something like
“I took your advice about the affair,” Karen was mumbling.
She sounded distant-dreamy, echoed as the Lincoln Tunnel, barely audible and less visible to Glenda, groping her way steadily through darkened house, tripping on something and something else in the living room, calling back through the black cavity of hallway, “Hey? Where the hell are you, sweets?
“In the bathroom! Follow the wall! Did you feel the quake?”
Feel it? It terrified her. Glenda Hope, future big shot CEO returning to hometown haunts from big city triumphs, just off the plane, just in best friend Karen’s neighborhood and driveway when what happens? The ground shudders, the Volvo sluices, street lamps wink out. Blackness. Not even a porch light to find the front door with. Feel it?
“Feel it? The whole neighborhood’s gone dark! Karen, where’s the goddamn bathroom!” She kept banging her shins on things.
“Getting warmer!”
“Keep talking. I don’t like this. I’ve been reading about your serial killer in the tabloids. Am I close?”
“Just at the door.”
“Is that you? You sound half asleep, where are you, it’s like a fucking cave!”
“In the tub. Come sit on the potty lid.”
“I can’t even see you!”
“Isn’t it divine, I adore the dark! We should live like this, like cavemen. How’s Frisco, did you get the job?”
“I got it. Where’s Ed?” Glenda found the toilet, pulled down the lid, sat, whooshed.
“Being a cop, I guess, collecting his fuck movies.”
“You sound slightly wasted—shit, what did I kick? Was that glass…?”
“Johnnie Walker.”
“Karen! Not you! Since when? What fuck movies?”
“Didn’t I tell you about his porno? He gets them from the department, confiscated or something, brings them home for us to watch. Or him to watch. I just lie there under him fighting for air. Gives him a thrill.”
“He screws you while watching porn? Wow, romantic.”
“While regaling me with all the gory details of our serial killer’s latest exploits. The bloodier the better. Twisted fuck. Have you really been gone three months? I’ve missed you.”
“Anything left to drink?”
“Sorry, I’ve been a pig. Was it a big quake do you think?”
Glenda strained impatient pupils, tried to make out the vague form swimming before her, the ghostly hulk that must be the Sanford’s tub. “Felt like it. What’s this about an affair?”
“How’s that?”
“You are drunk. You said something about an affair on my way in here.”
“I’ve been fucking like a Trooper, Glennie.”
Glenda started in blackness, unused to gentle, retiring little Karen Sanford using the F word with such casual aplomb, drunk or no. “For real? Who?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea.”
“What? You’re fading, kid.”
“I don’t know his name!”
“You don’t know his name. You’re having an affair with someone and you don’t know his name?”
“Like Last Tango. Remember, with Brando?”
“What do you know about him?”
“Well, let’s see…I know every inch of his more than considerable cock, for one. You were right, I should have cheated on Ed years ago.”
Something about it. The eerie ring of little girl voice against harsh tile? Something. Glenda fought down a distant chill. Craned about in darkness. When would they have the damn lights back on? “--And how did you meet this mysterious superstud?”
“You wouldn’t believe…you truly would not…”
“Hello? Fading again! Don’t go to sleep on me and drown. I’ll be Lamb and Rector’s new CEO with a drowned best friend, consider my resume.”
“I won’t drown. I won’t go that way. Ah, me. Where to begin…?”
Glenda heard the liquid rustle of bath water.
“…well, Ed, I guess. Fat, sloppy, cop-husband Ed and his disgusting porno vids. I think his favorite title was Anal Antics. Every night the same thing…same thing…”
“You’re drifting, stay awake.”
“…same thing. He comes in half tight, we eat dinner, he hauls out those big steel manacles, cuffs me to the four-poster, puts on his tapes and slaps it to me. Same time, same station, same position. Big gut, little pecker, that’s my Ed. Gotta love ‘im.”
“He screws you while watching porno.”
“And gives me all the latest lab report updates courtesy of our local lady killer. Have you heard about our killer, or did I already ask?”
“It’s in the Frisco papers too. Are you very scared, honey?” Glenda twitched around at invisible shap
es, swallowed thickly. “I’d be terrified. I wish the goddamn electric would come back on…”
“I wasn’t, in the beginning. Scared, I mean. Mostly just disgusted. He cuts their nipples off, you know. Oh yes, Eddie tells me all about it. Cuts their titties and comes in their hair. Me, I’d have preferred flowers.”
“All right, all right! About the affair!”
“The affair, yes. I met him at the mall.”
“Karen, no.”
“I know, classy huh, but Glennie, you should have seen him. Forget those TV hunks, this guy…this guy…”
“Trailing again…”
“Sorry.”
“How much did you drink?”
“Plaid shirts. He always wore these plaid shirts. Like a lumberjack. Lumberjack…with a big, lovely…axe…”
“Oh, you’re gone, you are.”
“I’m sitting there at Olga’s Kitchen sipping my mango iced tea, minding my iced tea business, and I look up and there’s Mr. Dream Pecs staring at me.”
“’Staring’?”
“At me. Not the other chicks. Me. And you know me, Glennie, I’m blushing out to here, from the toes up. I get so hot and scrunchy I have to leave the booth.”
“You left?”
“So shook up I ducked into the nearest multiplex, sat there in the dark actually trembling.”
“I’ve got to see this guy. Hey, do you have candles, we could—“
“No. Do you want to hear about this?”
“I’d like to see you for chrissake! What happened after the theater?”
“I’m getting there. The place is practically empty. And the next thing I know this guy, this incredible-looking male model, is sitting next to me.”
“Oh, wow.”
“And then—and this is without saying a word—he’s got his hand on my leg.”
“No.”
“And then he’s got it somewhere else.”
“My God! What did you do!”
“What did I do? What did I do? What do you think I did? I came like the fourth of July. Finally. After all these years. I think I yelped.”
“Karen, this is incredible.”
“And he says, this big hunk says, ‘I don’t want to talk. I don’t want addresses. I don’t even want to know your name.’ And then he leaves.”
“Jesus. And what did you do?”
“I think I passed out there in the theater seat. It was fantastic. Incredible. At least until I got home and Ed started in with the cuffs and the smut flicks. That was the night he first told me there was a killer in the area.”
Glenda huddled against the toilet rubbing her arms; no air-conditioning, the house cloying, the bathroom worse, and she was rubbing her arms. “But the killer, Karen. I mean, weren’t you—you must have—“
“Of course. I mean, I thought about it certainly. Even if it was a long shot it was still dangerous, right? Foolhardy, really. I think that’s what made it so exciting. I think that’s why I showed up at the mall the next day.”
“And…?”
“He was there. We did it in the women’s john. Twice.”
“You didn’t!”
“He followed me in. I was sitting there doing my thing and all at once there he was, pulling back the door, grinning. He shoved me up against the tile, hiked up my dress and away we went. I came like a drunk nun, pounding on the wall.”
“You’re putting me on! In a mall toilet!”
“I think he liked it down and dirty like that. We did it in elevators too. Hotel halls. Any place dangerous and exciting. Outside in the park, sometimes. The warm sun on his hard, white ass. Neither of us uttering a word to each other. Just groans. And gasps. Mmm.”
“Karen, this is sick.”
“Isn’t it? We did it ten times one afternoon. Ten times. In every position. I was awash in the Big Sticky, kiddo. It was unreal. Unreal. It was…it was…”
“What! Don’t drift off on me now!”
“…it was…addictive. I fell in love.”
“You fell in lust. I can’t believe this is you talking.”
“It went on that way for weeks. Every day. I was so…sore. And the more sore I got, the more I wanted it. I got so bad one night I broke the rules. I shouldn’t have done that…shouldn’t have…that’s when it all started coming apart…”
“The ‘rules’?”
“The no-address rules. I followed him home one night. He lived over on the West Side, nice place, big two-story Victorian. Dormers and all. I pulled up down the street, watched him go in, watched him come out again. I should have gone home. But I wanted him, I wanted him so bad. And the only thing at home was Ed. And his smut. So…I sneaked into lumberjack’s house…”
“Please tell me you’re making this up.”
“I snooped around downstairs like a common thief. It was thrilling. Dangerous. Nerve-wracking. Made me wet. Can you understand? I went upstairs. He had this incredible enormous canopy bed. I stripped, lay across the satin duvet, awaited my prince.”
“Christ, Karen, I can’t believe—weren’t you—“
“To death! I heard voices below, then on the staircase. He had someone with him. I hid in the closet.”
“With your clothes, I hope!”
“He brings in this really gorgeous blonde, really stacked. I’m watching through the crack in the closet door. The room is suddenly very bright, very bright, like the sun just came up. Glennie—this gets pretty sick now…”
“Don’t—“
“He’s got her bent over the bed, his big thing in her, and it’s turning me on, Glennie, I know how that sounds, but this guy…I wasn’t jealous, wasn’t mad, just so goddamn unbelievably hot. That’s when…that’s when…”
“What what!”
“He picks up the knife.”
“No.”
“From atop the bureau.”
“Karen, don’t!”
“I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.”
“Oh Jesus, Oh Christ, I knew it! Don’t tell me anymore, I can’t do this!”
“He stabbed her, Glennie. He stabbed her. He stabbed her. The blood just…flew.”
“Karen—“
“And the bastard, the bastard is still in her! And then and then…then I guess I passed out.”
“Please, I’m going to be sick!”
“When I woke up, the room was dark. The house was empty. I got the hell out of there. Back at home, Ed’s waiting with his damn cuffs. And his stories about how they found another girl. I threw up most of the night. Told Ed it was the flu.”
“Dear God. Dear God.” Glenda shook spastically, managed to keep it under control. “You—my God, you’re lucky to be alive! Did they catch the guy? Karen? Hey! Karen--?”
“…what…”
“Wake up! Did they catch the guy?”
“I…no…I didn’t tell them…”
“Didn’t…why!”
“…you don’t understand, Glennie…you could never understand…I tell you I was addicted…I was…I was beyond sick…I’d like there in bed at night and see the knife, the red…and all I could think about was being under him. I didn’t care, don’t you see…I was ready to die for it…”
“Karen, oh God. What’s happened to you!”
“He happened. He happened. And I couldn’t let him go. Didn’t want to let him go. I got a knife from the kitchen, just for protection, took it with me. We had this Tuesday night thing at this cruddy motel. I don’t think I really intended to ever use it…didn’t really believe he’d—“
“Karen, don’t! I can’t breathe in here!”
“I panicked. He was standing over me there next to the crummy bed, naked…so big, so huge, huge…I just…I panicked. And then the knife was out of my hands and—in him. Way in. I don’t even know how it got there. And I was running…running…running…”
Glenda clutched nausea, the room listing lazily, like Uncle Fred’s yacht. “Karen? Honey? Are you there?”
Barely audible now, slipping: “…
wasn’t much blood, not on me. And then I was just home again. Just suddenly home again. Like it never happened. Only it had. It had.”
“Baby…”
“No, there’s more. I washed my face, gave myself a few minutes, then came into the living room. Ed was setting up the damn DVD player, had this sick grin on his face. ‘You’ll like this one,’ he says, ‘One of them phony snuff movies! Lots of fake blood and bad acting!” And then he’s got me down, cuffed me down, and he’s huffing away and I’m…I’m…I’m looking up at the screen, my heart…my heart just seemed to stop…”