Out Through the Attic

by Quincy J. Allen

  “Whatever you say, Stiggs,” Adrienne said kindly. She was as disinterested in people’s personal beliefs as she was in anything else that wasn’t profitable. It just had no meaning to her.

  Just then, Emily walked up and held out a black, cylindrical aerosol bottle twelve inches long and three inches in diameter.

  “Thank you, Emily.” Mathew stood up, took the bottle, and walked towards the edge of the patio. “As I said, God gave it to me, and then he gave me the name.” A strange calm overtook Mathew that seemed to unsettle Adrienne.

  “Brainstorm,” Mathew whispered, almost praying the word under his breath. “Emily, please lower the force field.”

  “It is done,” Emily said as she complied.

  The crowded hiss of the night and a stink of sour air splashed against them. Mathew raised the bottle into the air and pressed the activator. A strong misty cloud shot into the air, pouring out for long seconds and carried off on the strong currents propelled by the endless air traffic moving in all directions.

  It smelled of gardenias. That had been his one small addition to the chain.

  “Raise the field, Emily.”

  “It is done,” she confirmed.

  “Yes. It is,” he added with a severe finality

  “What was it?” Adrienne asked, confused.

  Mathew turned and faced Adrienne with a ghostly, stoic look upon his face.

  “Brainstorm.”

  “What?” You wasted it all?”

  “On the contrary. It will get carried in the air-cars, carried to the river traffic, carried to the space port and to Omikami. It will get carried all across the world. Quickly. And technicians in every Yudius lab on Earth and all four colonies are doing what I just did.”

  A terrible sense of dread gripped Adrienne.

  Panic filled her voice. “What did you just do, Mathew?”

  “Brainstorm is a bacterium. It feeds off of the pollutants in the air, and it replicates in minutes. That’s what I told the lab-techs … that they were helping to clean the air.”

  “It’s going to clean the air?” Adrienne seemed as if she felt a bit better. Matthew could see the wheels turning in her head—there might not be money to be made, seeing as he just released it, but there was immense marketing potential in the notion of clean air. Cleaned by Stiggs. Cleaned by Yudius. He’d known her a long time and knew she was already working out the business and marketing angles.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “But that’s just a life-process of the organism. That’s not its purpose. Everything has a purpose, don’t you think, Adrienne?”

  She cocked her head at him. “What’s its purpose, Mathew?” she asked, nervous once again.

  “It only affects humans, and when it interacts with human tissue it focuses its attention on the neurons of the brain. In a matter of days, human neurons become hyper-energized while nerve impulses are deadened. A human, once exposed, will slip into a coma and dream like never before.” He paused and looked back at Adrienne, staring deeply into her eyes. “Then the human will die,” he added with utter finality.

  “But... but—” she sputtered. Stark terror filled her features. He could see that she was on the brink of insanity.

  “Perhaps everyone will dream of God, as I do. They’ll dream for a few days, maybe even weeks. They simply won’t wake up. It’s remarkably gentle when you think about it.”

  “They’ll stop it!” Adrienne screamed as she reached for her commlink. She hit the contact button to reach the authorities, but nothing happened.

  Matthew was perfectly calm. “There are thirty billion people on earth crammed together like matches in a box. I’ve merely dropped a lit one in amongst them. It is already spreading like wild-fire. Nothing will stop it. It’s being released everywhere, and shuttles will carry it back and forth between Earth, Omikami, Luna, Mars, Europa, and Titan. All in a matter of days.”

  “You’re insane!” she shrieked.

  “Am I?” he asked seriously. “I don’t feel insane. I’ve thought about it quite a bit over the past week. The logic seems flawless. God gave me every other miracle before this one. Humankind wanted every other miracle and Yudius generously presented each of them to humankind. Not a single one was ever rejected. Not one. I asked myself over and over why this particular miracle should go un-realized.” He turned to look out at the glowing city before him. “Humanity was always the answer … all those people. How could I let them all die? Cause them to die. One thing kept coming back, striking that answer down quickly and with utter finality. God doesn’t make mistakes, Adrienne.”

  She could only sit there in shock, her mind numb

  “God gave us free will to do as we please,” Mathew said to the night sky. He turned again to Adrienne. “And we have, haven’t we? Look out there.” He gestured at the churning skyline of lights and meaningless profit and consumption that had become the driving force of humankind. “Look at what we’ve done to the Garden. It’s not a garden anymore, is it?”

  He walked past her and back into his apartment, heading for his bed for the last time. He stopped in the doorway, turning to Adrienne who was now catatonic with shock.

  “God gave the miracles to me so I could give them to you, Adrienne. And as the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.”

  He slid the patio door closed, leaving Adrienne to pursue her own dreams.

  Cornelius

  (Originally appeared in Seven Dwarf Stories, published by 7DS Publishing in 2013.)

  The downpour fits my mood, but I’m still grateful for it. The rain is sure to wash away my blood.

  I sigh, wondering what it’ll feel like when the Queen’s thugs beat me to death. I don’t even plan on fighting. Not that a runty little dwarf like me could take two full-grown trolls, but the sorry truth is that I got myself into this mess … practically begged for it. I’ll take it like a dwarf. I just hope the whiskey and drugs take the edge off when they lay into me.

  The chipper one—I nickname him Smiley—asks me how I ended up here. He’s all mooney-eyed and awestruck, like most of my fans used to be. He remembers me from movies he’d seen as a kid. But I’m sure he can’t reconcile what he remembers with the wreck of a dwarf before him now—shadowed, deep-set eyes; threadbare clothes; a grungy, red cap; and that look of death you see on drug addicts right before someone finds them face-down in a rain-filled gutter.

  Six dwarves, caps canted foreword, stare down the bar at me. Expectant.

  How did I end up here?

  The question skips across my thoughts like a stone across water. I’ve asked it a thousand times, looking for any answer besides the truth. And a thousand times I’ve come up with nothing but reality as cold and hard as an axe blade set in ice.

  Through the addled haze of a two-day bender, I feel a low chortle soft-shoe its way across my throat like an old, gay fairy. I sniff hard. It’s a long, drawn out thing piggy-backed by flames that ignite the inside of my skull. I’m grateful for the pain, though. It lets me know I’m still alive.

  I’m not sniffing because I’m crying though, or because I know I’m gonna die. I got past feeling sorry for myself months ago. I sniff again, and the pleasure-pain flares anew. Sniffing is just one of the more obvious side effects for habitual PD users. The stuff goes by a lot of names, but those of us on the hook call it PD for short. I guess that’s a side effect too. At parties, it’s how we separate ‘us’ from the normals.

  You may not know it, but there’s a bunch of us in the movie biz with the sniffs. None so much as me, though. I have it bad. Hell, I’m practically the poster child. Or at least I was.

  I think about Smiley’s question. And how to answer. I suppose most would say I’d done a lot in my life. Movie star. Big house. Beautiful wife. Great kids. Hell, I’ve seen most of the world … and done shit not a soul in this whole damn kingdom would believe. But when you’re sitting in a strange bar waiting for a couple of hit-trolls to bash your brains in … let’s just say my life doesn’t seem to add up to as much
as it should.

  A clap of thunder encourages me to raise red-rimmed eyes from the ‘W’ I’d traced in a splash of whiskey on the bar. The effort is more than I bargain for. A wave of dizziness crashes into my skull like storm-tossed breakers on a levy. There’s an upside, though. The stars swirling in the air between Smiley and me are every color of the rainbow. Another side effect of PD. What can I say?

  PD side effects is a long list.

  There’s a clock behind the bar, and I try to focus my eyes on the damn thing, but stars keep getting in the way. I spend a minute bobbing my head around and fluttering my eyes, trying to see past the stars. It dawns on me that I must look like some whacked-out lizard doing a mating dance. I don’t give a shit though, because I finally get a bead on the numbers.

  Ten o’clock.

  I realize I’m just about due for another hit. I can feel the others still staring at me. Waiting. Wondering if I’m even lucid. They look worried … and a little scared … all except the grouchy one. He seems to be disgusted. I run a hand over the sniffer in my pocket—another habit you’ll find with PD users—and take some comfort that I have just enough shit to get me through the rest of my life.

  I trace a finger around and around the lump in my pocket, trying to forestall the inevitable. But who am I kidding? I know I can’t wait anymore. Besides, another snort is the only way I’ll be able to tell them the whole story.

  With only a small bit of fumbling, I work the sniffer out. The glint of shining metal and sparkling facets dazzles my eyes, adding another colorful layer to the dancing stars. It’s one hell of a show, and I get lost in it for a few seconds. The dwarves’ eyes shift from me to it. I bet most have never seen such a small bauble worth so much money.

  I smile.

  The thing had been a gift from my dealer. Sterling silver, clockwork cap, inlaid rubies, gold-filigree fairies etched into the sides … it’s beautiful … really. She’d given it to me a few years back at a big party full of the movie moguls and underworld muckity-mucks that I used to call friends. She’d sent it as an apology for not making a party.

  That night she had bigger fish to fry, but she never would have made it where she did if it weren’t for me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but the Queen’s reign of terror started the moment I took my first snort.

  A blurry shadow crosses in front of the clock. It’s a hand.

  I guess I got lost in the shiny.

  “You look like shit.” It’s a gruff, grumble of a voice that presses down through the haze and draws me up enough to almost think clearly.

  I pull my eyes away from the sniffer and trace back along the hand, up the sleeve, over the shoulder and into the eyes of the grouchy one. He’s frowning.

  I laugh. The laugh turns into a cough, the cough into a bleary-eyed fit that almost makes good on a promise to toss my lungs up onto the bar.

  “Thanksh, pal,” I mumble through a weak smile. I raise my glass for a refill of the rotgut I’ve been pouring down my neck for two days. I’m down to my last fifty in coin, but I plan on living it up as best I can in the time I have left. I give the grouch another smile, the very same smile that melted the hearts of movie-going dwarves for nearly a decade.

  His frown doesn’t waver, doesn’t move a millimeter. Like it’s etched in stone.

  Must not be a moviegoer, I muse.

  “Maybe you ought to call it quits,” one of the other dwarves adds, genuine concern coming through. I think he’s an MD, but I can’t be sure. My vision is too blurry to see that far along the bar.

  Call it quits? I chuckle. That’s exactly what I am doing.

  “I appreshiate the conshern,” I slur in a hollow, raspy voice that would have worried me under different circumstances, “but another drink and another shnort is the only way I’ll get this shtory out.”

  “Then out with it!” the grouchy one barks.

  “Riiiight,” I reply, nodding. My shot glass has mysteriously been refilled, so I toss it back and feel the burn. I pop the cap on my sniffer, take a blast in each nostril and let the PD light up the inside of my head like a fireworks display at the castle.

  My heart pounds.

  My ears ring.

  Energy works its way back into my limbs.

  I feel bright-eyed and bushy-tailed … well, if my eyes were wrapped in cotton and I had a tail, anyway. The old me settles in—the performer, the shining star, the bigger-than-life hero of the silver screen. The god.

  I look over my shoulder and eye the two, massive trolls sitting in a back corner. Black grimwig hats, dark goggles, and brass gauntlets with spikes … the hand gear perfect for terminating deadbeats. If ever a couple of trolls look like killers, they do.

  Their eyes never leave me, and one of them tightens his gauntlet around a pewter tankard of ale in front of him. The sides cave in. I’m almost relieved. It means I won’t have to suffer long when they finally get their hands on me.

  My six companions see where I’m looking and cast quick glances in that direction. Only the grouchy one seems to make the connection, his eyes going wide, and then they all look at me again.

  “My story, hunh?” I ask.

  Several of them nod, Smiley vigorously. The grouchy one just narrows his eyes.

  

  I was one of the lucky ones.

  The first movie I ever made was a smash hit, a bona fide blockbuster.

  It had it all—dragons, dwarves in shining armor, some of the most beautiful females ever to grace the silver screen. It was a historical epic about old King Hoffur Bomberbast IV and how he defeated the dragon hordes. I played the young Hoffur, during the years when he was still slaying dragons and not shtupping ladies of the court like he did when his beard went gray.

  After the premier, the producers put together this big party at some palace of a home the likes of which I’d never seen. The place was huge, with art and statues and furniture that cost more than the small house I was living in at the time. And I mean everyone was at this party, even the King.

  Everyone was dancing and laughing, having a great time. There was food and booze all over the place. Cakes, candies, just about anything you could put in your mouth was laid out on every surface or tucked away in nooks and crannies. They’d even brought in hookers—male and female—of damn near every species you could schtupp. There were dwarves, elves, humans, fairies, ogres … all walking around in red silk drawers and high boots. You ever see a female ogre in a red thong and knee-high red boots? It sure is something …. I’ll tell you that for nothing.

  I doubt there was a single appetite that didn’t get satisfied that night, including my own.

  As the sun started to set, the Hoffer Director pulled me aside. He said he had a surprise for me … job well done and all that. He led me through a maze of hallways into a back room. As we approached, this drone pricked up my ears. It’s a chatter, mostly high-pitched, and I eventually figured out it’s people talking … lots of them … like they’re on fast-forward or something.

  We walked into a wide room with low lighting above, a rainbow of multi-colored lamps lining every wall. I’d never seen anything like it. There were sofas and sectionals, a few day beds, and even some beanbags scattered around the place. Most were occupied, and a few occupied by folks doing the horizontal mambo. Like I said, it was a hell of a party.

  Along one side of the room was a table. On the table, someone had laid out every bit of contraband you ever heard of. Right in the middle, the centerpiece of the whole thing, was a pile of gold dust that would cover a dinner plate. Set on a little swing above it was a tiny fairy wearing a top hat … doing her business … and her business was the pile of gold dust. She just kept shooting it out as if she was sitting on a toilet. She was even reading a newspaper, a bored look on her face. I barely noticed the small, silver chain attached to her ankle and anchored to the swing.

  My eyes got wide, and the Director had to pull me along towards the table.

  I’d done grass and mush
rooms before. Hell, who hasn’t? But pixie dust as a drug was new back then. The bee’s knees in the drug world. Up till that moment, I’d only ever heard about the stuff.

  The Director guided me to the table, picked up a short, silver tube from a stack of them next to the dust and handed it to me. The pixie raised her eyes from the newspaper, gave me a fake wink and a strained smile, and then went back to the paper.

  “Ever done PD?” the Director asked, whispering it in my ear. He’s got this weird look on his face, like he’s excited and scared and hungry … all at once.

  “PD?” I replied.

  “Pixie dust.” He patted me on the back and nudged me forward. “Once you try PD, you’ll never go back to anything else.”

  I don’t think truer words were ever spoken to me.

  I took the tube … took a snort.

  Fireworks, thunder, and orgasms cooked off inside my head, all at once.

  I staggered. I smiled.

  Every line, every crease, every color in that room was magnified a thousand times. I felt invincible, like there was nothing I couldn’t do.

  The Director smiled right along with me. “Welcome to the club,” he said. He took a snort himself and led me back down the labyrinth to where the rest of the party was ramping up. Inside my head, the whole place is on fire. And I love it. I slowly start to understand what it must feel like to be a god.

  

  Birdsong filled the air. Sunlight warmed my skin. I heard a waterfall. In the background, someone shuffled about.

  I thought, Shit, I’m gonna die.

  As I lay there, eyes closed, wondering where the hell I was, that phrase rattled around inside my head, mixed in with what felt like ball bearings ricocheting as if they’d been fired out of a cannon. I waited for the rapid pounding behind my eyes to slow to a dull, sporadic thud and raised my eyelids just a hair.

  Blue sky.

  A cloud shaped like a zeppelin swam through the blue. Or was it a white zeppelin? I couldn’t tell.

  A bee trundled over me, oblivious of my agony. Selfish bastard, I thought.