by Peter Clines
Zeke liked to tell himself he was the bravest man in town, but when the two men talked, a couple beads of cold sweat left trails down his back. “Please,” he said, “just tell me what this is all abo—”
“SIGN!” Even muffled by skin and masks, the word made the room tremble.
His fingers fumbled with the pen and scrawled his name at the bottom of the page.
“Excellent,” said Fifteen, sliding the page away. “Thank you, Officer Miller.” He tucked the signed sheet back into the file and set the folder on top of the stack marked IN.
“Now what?” asked Zeke. His shoulder throbbed. Was it dislocated? Dislocated would hurt a lot more, he figured, so he counted his blessings.
The clown-agent spun the wheelchair around. The office had a wooden door with a large window of bubbled glass. Fifteen walked past Zeke and retrieved one of two black hats that hung on a coatrack next to the door. He set it precisely on his head with one hand while the clown strapped Zeke’s arm down again. He tried to fight, but it was like being a little kid and fighting with a grown-up.
Fifteen opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The clown pushed Zeke’s wheelchair after him. It was an old-looking building. Lots of wood and plaster. Identical doors with bubbly glass, none of them labeled. Not even a number. It reminded Zeke of detective offices in black-and-white movies.
The hallway stretched as far as he could see to the left. Dozens, maybe hundreds of doors. Countless china-hat light fixtures hanging from the ceiling one after another, making endless bright pools on the beady carpet.
To the right, the hall went maybe a hundred yards. It looked like it opened into a larger room, but Zeke couldn’t be sure. The faint sounds of conversation and movement crept down to them.
Fifteen started down the hallway and the clown pushed Zeke along right behind him. The noise grew. Zeke thought about asking another question, but held his tongue. He didn’t want to look stupid or scared.
The hall ended at a set of double doors, each with a rubber wedge kicked under it to keep it pinned against the wall. Beyond them Zeke could see the big room, a gym-sized room, at least. He glimpsed a press of bodies, a hanging chandelier, and then Fifteen led them into the room without pausing.
Zeke had gone down to Foxwoods Casino a few years back for a long weekend. He’d never admitted it to anyone, but being there reminded him of one of the stories his mom had read him as a kid. The country mouse goes to the big city and finds it all too big and fast. All the people and sounds and lights at Foxwoods had been overwhelming.
A sea of faceless men filled the huge room. Hundreds of them. All in dark suits of black or blue or charcoal, some with pinstripes or a fine herringbone twill. A few wore vests. Others had double-breasted suits, the kind Letterman wore. They sat at dozens of desks and studied maps and marched through aisles in pairs and trios. It was Foxwoods times a thousand, set in a gigantic, old-fashioned office.
“Fuckity Jesus,” said Zeke. “How many of you guys are there?”
“Forty-seven,” said Fifteen without hesitation. “And again, watch the language.”
Zeke flinched, waiting for a blow to the back of his head, but none came. “What?”
“We pride ourselves on being polite and professional.”
“No, you dumb—” Zeke bit down on his tongue. Actually bit down and drew blood to make himself stop. “How’s there only forty-seven of you if the room’s full?”
Fifteen gestured down at the room. “This is all of us. Every version of every faceless man on every assignment at every point in our illustrious history.”
“Looks confusing as…heck.”
“Better,” said Fifteen. “It isn’t. Confusion comes from distraction. We have certainty and purpose, so we aren’t distracted.”
“Right,” muttered Zeke. “Purpose.”
They moved through the crowd. The wheelchair plowed forward, staying a few feet behind Fifteen even as other agents wove back and forth between them and alongside. The press of bodies surrounded them, and from his position Zeke saw nothing but suit jackets, vests, and ties.
A pair of faceless men walked past, heading the other way, and one of them thumped an elbow against the side of Zeke’s head. A solid hit, probably an accident, but his cop reactions leaped to the fore, angry at someone for not noticing his uniform even though he was strapped into a wheelchair. He wrenched his head around on reflex and barked after the faceless man. “Hey, nimrod!”
The outburst caught the clown off guard. His hands came away from the wheelchair. Fifteen paused and turned back.
The two faceless men also stopped and snapped around as one, like a pair of targets turning on a shooting range. The shorter one, the one who’d hit him, wore a shirt and tie without a jacket. A dark vest, the same color as the man’s slacks, covered his chest. No plastic mask or hat. The smooth curves of his face turned until his brow lined up with Zeke’s.
They stared at each other for a moment. Zeke wasn’t sure where to look, and ended up focusing his glare on the bridge of the nose, what’d be right between the eyes on a normal person. He could feel his pulse in his throat, but he knew better than to back down. He’d rather die brave anyway.
“That was me,” the faceless man said after a few more moments. His muffled voice sounded uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure he should apologize or not.
“Damn straight it was, moron. Hittin’ a guy in a wheelchair?! What the fuck’s wrong with you? Watch where you’re going!”
The faceless man’s head stayed pointed at him. Zeke realized he’d just told a man with no eyes to “watch.” He wondered if anyone else had caught it. A few other faceless men around them seemed to have noticed the exchange. Two in dark suits were hatless. One dressed in tweed wore a round Dr. Watson–type hat on his head, another had an old colonial triangle.
“It’s not important,” said the taller man. He wore a dark suit, an American flag pin, and a see-through Halloween mask like the rest of them. “He doesn’t matter anymore.” He set a hand on the shorter one’s shoulder and they both turned away.
The words created more beads of sweat inside Zeke’s shirt. “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Zeke. “Hey, I’m talking to you, jackass!”
“That’s enough,” said Fifteen. “We’re on a schedule.”
The clown’s hands settled on the wheelchair again.
Zeke turned, a wiseass remark swelling in his mouth. Then he twisted back around and caught a last glimpse of the retreating faceless men before the wheelchair moved on and they vanished into the crowd. The tall man with the dark suit, the pin, and the Halloween mask.
“Was that you?” he called to Fifteen. “You were here and there?”
“Probably,” said the agent ahead of the wheelchair. “Like he said, it’s not important.”
They left the big room through a single door and entered another hallway. This one was darker and more utilitarian. And cold. The chair’s tires squeaked on a gray-and-white checkerboard of linoleum tiles. Fifteen led them past a few solid doors, turned a corner, and walked past a few more.
An old stretcher, old like the wheelchair and everything else in this place, rested against one wall. Zeke eyed the thick leather straps and the splashes of blood on the sheet. The stain was more red than brown. Still fresh.
Fifteen turned another corner and stopped at another door. A twin door. Instead of handles, each one had a long steel-and-rubber bumper that ran up and down.
A hospital door, Zeke realized. Made to catch gurneys on their way to…
“Fuck a duck,” he whined.
Fifteen pushed open the door with one hand and gestured Zeke inside.
Darkness clung to the corners of the operating room. Rolling trays and tanks of gas lurked on the edges of the shadows, along with some ’70s-looking machines covered in dials and knobs.
The faint light simmered around the gurney in the middle of the room, held there by a big, mirrored fixture on a mechanical arm. A small pillow and
clean white sheets covered its top. Long leather straps dangled about where the head, chest, waist, and ankles would be.
Zeke puffed out a breath and it steamed in the cold air.
One of the trays rolled forward into the light. The scalpels and clamps and saws clattered against one another. Things of chrome and steel sat on the tray that Zeke couldn’t identify, couldn’t even guess at.
Behind the tray, another faceless man stepped out of the shadows. This one wore a long white surgeon’s scrubs and held his hands up to display heavy rubber gloves. A pale-blue face mask hung around the man’s neck, and a paper cap of the same color covered his hair. The doctor’s white clothes pinched in the middle, and Zeke realized the man wore an apron over his long scrubs.
It made him look like a butcher.
“Hello,” said the doctor. “Shall we begin?”
Zeke threw himself against the straps. The chair creaked, the leather bent, but nothing gave. He thrashed back and forth, wrenching his neck and his sore shoulder and his hips.
Nothing budged.
The clown slapped a hand down on either arm, squeezing Zeke’s biceps as Fifteen unbuckled the straps across his forearms. Zeke tried to leap again as the buckles opened, but the clown’s grip made him wince. He slammed his head back and heard plastic crinkle before he hit something that felt and sounded like a wooden block. A few white spots twisted across his eyes and faded.
The grip didn’t budge.
Fifteen unfastened the straps across his legs and grabbed his ankles before he could start kicking. Zeke tried kicking anyway. He thrust his hips up at the faceless man, then threw them side to side.
“On the table, please,” said the surgeon. He gestured at the small pillow. “Faceup, head here.”
They heaved Zeke up and stretched him across the gurney. The surgeon adjusted the pillow, placing it beneath Zeke’s neck. Then he lifted the straps on his side of the gurney one by one, resting them on Zeke’s body.
“I don’t know what they told you,” Zeke said to the surgeon, trying to keep his voice steady, “but I’m a cop. You can’t do this to me. People will look for me. They’ll find you.”
The leather strap across his waist and wrists cinched down, pushing him against the gurney. Another strap compressed his chest. The clown vanished back into the shadows.
“D’you hear me? I’m a cop! A police officer!”
The surgeon set the last restraint across Zeke’s forehead, right at the hairline. It creaked against his skull. The doctor paused, then pulled it tighter. His blank face panned back and forth. He nodded once, then stepped away.
Zeke tried to follow the man with his eyes. He flexed his fingers and rolled them into fists. He stared up into the lights over the table and told himself he would get through this. He would survive it and then everybody would know he was not to be messed with.
Especially Eli. None of this would’ve happened if not for goddamned Eli. Zeke’d still be back at the station, probably eating pizza and—
A faint hiss echoed off to the side, like a gas stove waiting for the pilot to catch.
The surgeon returned. He’d pulled his blue mask up to cover the lower half of his empty face. His hand came up holding a triangle of black rubber attached to a long hose. The hiss came from inside the triangle, and it came down toward Zeke’s mouth.
“Take a few deep breaths,” said the faceless surgeon. “In and out. Count backwards from ten. And the next time you open your eyes…”
Zeke stared up at him as the rubber triangle settled over his nose and mouth. “Yeah?”
“Well,” said the surgeon, “there won’t be a next time after this.”
15
Shadows stretched out and filled in all the space on either side of the road. Two hours after leaving the town, the dark sky rose up ahead and came crashing down like a wave, leaving a foam of stars above them. Eleanor’s headlights cast a bright oval on the road ahead of them as they raced along.
Eli remembered his astronomy professor telling a story about Albert Einstein and headlights, but couldn’t recall the point of it.
Harry cleared her throat. “The founding fathers were very forward thinkers,” she said, her voice falling back into the practiced cadence. “They left ways to change the Constitution because they knew ideas change or fade away altogether. What’s dangerous now can be harmless in a few generations, and vice versa. When they created the dream, they understood just how powerful it was. They knew how dangerous its ability to change the country could be in the wrong hands. So they petitioned Ptah to make guardians for it.”
“Petitioned?”
“It’s how the story’s come down the Chain. You’re interrupting again.”
“Sorry.”
“Supposedly Franklin had General Washington ask his best men for volunteers. Dozens offered their lives, but only five of them were found to be worthy.”
Eli opened his mouth, but a glare from Harry cut through the dark and killed any words in his throat.
“These five became the first of the faceless men. Their identity, their features, it was all stripped away. All they have is their duty to protect the dream.”
“Okay…wait.”
She sighed. “Honestly, Mr. Teague—”
“You’re saying they’re not wearing some special mask or…or cloaking field or something? Like, a mask under the plastic mask? They actually don’t have faces. No eyes or nose or mouth.”
She nodded.
“So, how do they talk? Or eat? Or breathe?”
“Nobody knows.”
“So how do they see?”
“As I explained before, certainty.”
“Yeah, but what does that mean?”
“It means they have absolute certainty of what’s around them and what they’re doing.”
“How, though?”
“Nobody kno—”
Eli sighed and slumped back on the Model A’s bench seat.
“What little we do know,” said Harry, “comes from one of the greatest searchers, a man named Abraham Porter. He tested their range, learned how far their certainty reached.”
“How’d he do that?”
“He used a sniper rifle.”
“Oh…”
“Abraham is one of the very few searchers to ever kill a faceless man. Turns out they’re only certain of things within three or four hundred feet of themselves.”
“He killed one of them?”
“He killed eight of them, altogether.”
Eli whistled. Then he straightened up on the bench. “Wait. You said there were five of these…of them.”
“The first five,” she nodded. “Since then they’ve recruited soldiers and agents from across history. The Civil War. Both world wars. Korea. Operation Desert Strike. The One-Day War of 2029.”
“Jesus. How many of them are there?”
“There are dozens now. Maybe hundreds. Time flows differently around the dream. I’ve heard stories that one of the original faceless men is still alive and over a thousand years old because of all his time on the road.”
“Wait,” he said. “The dream’s protected by dozens of these guys?”
“At the least.”
“All like the one that showed up at my job? Like in Pasadena? That tough? That strong?”
“Yes.”
“Are they all that strong and…bulletproof?”
“They’re not actually bulletproof.”
“They’re wearing vests?”
“No, they just…” Her fingers tap-tap-tapped the steering wheel, and the rhythm tickled the edges of Eli’s brain. “You’ve perhaps heard stories,” said Harry, “where people are shot, but the round strikes at just the perfect angle, in just the perfect place, and they survive with minimal injury. It bounces off a bone without so much as breaking the skin?”
“I think so, yeah.”
She nodded. “That’s what the faceless men do. Certainty allows them to know just how to stand or move themselves to be i
n that perfect position where the round will cause the least amount of injury.”
“So…they’re bulletproof.”
“No,” said Harry. “Abraham proved that. It just takes a great deal of work to stop one.”
“And they’re guarding the dream?”
“They were, yes.”
Eli shook his head. “How the hell did someone get past a few dozen of those guys to steal something? Hell, how’d they get past them and then back out of…wherever it was?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Do you know who took it?”
She glanced at him and shrugged.
“There’s a lot of ‘nobody knows’ to this.”
“Truer words, Mr. Teague. Truer words.”
Eli sighed. The headlights of the Model A hit the glossy surface of a roadside billboard, turning it into a white rectangle. They drove past, and he blinked away the glare in time to glimpse ALL-NEW STARDUST CASINO in curling letters on the sign.
“The faceless man who first came to talk to me, who followed me to Boston. He had a badge.”
“They do,” Harry said.
“I think he used it to hypnotize the crowd in Boston.”
“Like most badges, it’s a symbol of power. It allows the bearer to ignore some rules and laws.”
“How?”
“Just having the badge makes them less noticeable. If it’s out, they can influence what people see. How they perceive things. It’s why people usually don’t notice the masks. Or the lack of features.”
“And you know this because…?”
“Abraham, again. When he killed one, he tried taking its badge. Experimenting a bit. It worked for a while, but once they realized he had it, they could…I don’t know, see around it? Ignore it?” She yawned. “He tossed it in a trash can in Times Square on V-Day.”
“Why do they wear the masks, then? If the badge can make people ignore them?”
“Once again…”
“Wait, let me guess—no idea?”
“One thing we do know,” she said, “through hard experience, is that they were fanatical about protecting the dream. Franklin, Monroe, Jefferson, and the other founding fathers—even they weren’t allowed in its presence again once it was created. They all knew it’d be too tempting for them.”