Ex-Purgatory: A Novel

by Peter Clines

  The photographer snapped off half a dozen pictures of them examining the phones. In a wide shot, it might’ve looked like they were holding hands. George imagined pictures of him and Karen Quilt with provocative captions showing up in magazines between shots of pop stars and hot actors.

  Then he realized he couldn’t picture a single actor or actress who was considered the new big thing. He couldn’t name a new song or the person who sang it.

  There was a plague. It broke out in the spring of 2009 and wiped out most of the world.

  “What’s the last new song you heard?”

  The phone spun and collapsed in her hand like a quick-draw artist with a pistol. “I thought I had made it clear I follow very few popular—”

  “Anything,” he interrupted. “Anything at all. Can you name one song that’s come out in the past couple of years?”

  She shook her head.

  “Movies? Books?”

  Her head moved side to side again. “I cannot.”

  “No new phones,” he said. “No music, no books. Do you see any new cars?”

  Karen scanned the street. “All the models I can identify are 2009 or earlier. With the economic downturn, this is not an impossible occurrence.”

  “In this part of town? At this hotel?”

  The photographer was close, barely fifteen feet away. Another one ran down the street to join him, and a third not far behind. “We shall talk later,” she said.

  She turned and spun the sweatshirt off her shoulders and into her arm with the practiced grace of a runway model. The cameras focused on her as she strode away from George and back to the hotel. George was pretty sure the first guy had already taken at least a dozen photos of them together, but he still used the chance to slip back around the corner and head for his car.

  His 2002 Hyundai. Over ten years old.

  THEN

  I’M FALLING THROUGH the air.

  There are over a hundred people marching in the street below. Their boots kick up dust on the dirt road. They’re all wearing military uniforms, but they don’t move like the military. They’re wobbly and erratic, only loosely in sync. It’s as if the whole crowd is drunk. The crackling popping sound of teeth echoes up to me.

  I realize I’m not falling toward the crowd, but toward a building on the side of the street. And I’m not falling alone. The man in the tinfoil suit, the brilliant man, is falling alongside me. The gleaming suit buzzes as we fall, and the buzzing makes words. If you don’t mind this part of the base being annihilated in the process, sure.

  I’m not sure what the bright man is talking about. The dream has dumped me in the middle of a conversation. I can’t remember how it started, so I’m not sure how to respond.

  The flat roof rushes up at us and only slows just before my boots hit. They never touch, or if they do it’s so gentle I can’t feel it. My arms shift and a third person enters the dream. I’m carrying an older man, with messy hair and an overgrown beard. He doesn’t seem to weigh anything. He looks like a professor who hasn’t slept in days. He’s familiar, both to dream me and to real me, watching the dream from some other vantage point.

  I set the man down on the roof and a voice speaks. My voice. It takes me a moment to recognize it, and by the time I do the few words have passed and been lost. The old professor looks at me and nods. “I understand. I’ll be fine.”

  And then I’m falling again. Some of the parrots—the monsters—see me coming and raise their arms. Up close I can see their uniforms are incomplete. Some have digital-patterned jackets, others T-shirts, and a few just wear sand-colored tanks. A few have belts. One or two have caps. I drop into the center of the crowd and they turn on me.

  I grab a monster by its outstretched arm and swing it like a medieval flail. The corpse batters down a dozen of the dead soldiers. I swing my improvised weapon back the other way and clear a path to a large, hangar-like building. It’s a tomb. I know this in the way people know things in dreams.

  My weapon twists at the end of the swing and the dead body comes apart at the shoulder with a wet sound. I’m holding an arm and most of the shoulder. A yellowed knob of bone glistens at the end of the limb.

  Another monster lumbers out through the entrance into the building. I put my hand on its chest and push it back inside. It stumbles away from my hand and knocks other corpses down behind it.

  I grab the huge door—it’s half the front of the building—with one hand and pull. It squeals on metal wheels and shrinks the opening. Dead things gnaw and claw at my hands, but I know they can’t hurt me.

  Something hisses behind me and the shadows jump and vanish. The tinfoil man hangs in the air with his arms stretched out to push at something. Clouds of black ash in front of him hold the shape of soldiers for a moment, then drift apart. Near the edge of the clouds are three or four other charred monsters that break apart as I watch.

  The man isn’t tinfoil. He’s hot. White-hot.

  My knuckles punch through a dead soldier’s skull. The punch becomes a backhand that crushes another head. I grab a body with each hand and throw them like dolls.

  I speak to the white-hot man and he talks back. I say something else, but the words are lost in the muddle of the dream. We have a whole conversation that I can’t hear.

  No. That I can’t remember. That’s important, part of me knows. I’m not not-hearing this. I’m not-remembering it.

  The monsters are all dead. I’ve thrown them all into a pile and the white-hot man has incinerated them all. It makes him get pale.

  I look up at the old professor on the roof and jump up to him. Like my other dreams, I’m carried up by invisible wires that make my back itch. I hold on to the older man and we fall down to street level together.

  Not fall. This is something else important. These aren’t falling dreams. They’re—

  The ground shakes and disrupts my thoughts. It’s a heavy, steady thumping—the sound of construction sites and dinosaurs. Reflections tremble in the windows of nearby buildings.

  A few buildings down, something smashes through the doors of another hangar. The long slats fold like cardboard. Rivets pop and scatter like bullets. Without thinking, I pull the old man back and step in front of him. Shards of metal patter against my body. I feel them, but they don’t hurt.

  For just an instant, the huge robot stands in front of the hole it’s made. Then it turns and runs down the street away from us. The trembling ground goes with it and—

  EIGHTEEN

  GEORGE WOKE UP to the click-click-click of the chain against the side of the fan. He couldn’t stop it. The sound had even made its way into his dreams.

  Then he remembered he was awake.

  He lunged up and the parrot chewing on his arm staggered back. It had been a woman once. Very petite. Strawberry-blond hair cut short. Small teeth that had probably made her look even younger. Back when she was alive.

  The dead thing’s camisole was thin, almost sheer. If it hadn’t been caked with blood it would’ve been see-through. The corpse wore tiny shorts and had bare feet. The woman had died in her sleep. Or been killed in her sleep.

  The dead thing stumbled forward again. He grabbed it by the shoulders and kept it at arm’s length. The skin felt like cold meat. It bent its head and snapped its teeth at his wrists. He slipped his hands down onto its arms and kept them pinned at its sides. Its hands pawed the air between them at elbow height.

  His apartment was destroyed again. Not destroyed, he realized, as much as neglected for years. The broken windows. The peeling paint. Mildew everywhere near the windows, dust everywhere away from them. It was derelict. Abandoned.

  And he was wrestling with a dead woman. In her pajamas. While he was in his pajamas.

  George walked the parrot—why was it a parrot? That was from the dreams—back through the apartment and toward the door. The corpse weighed as much as he thought, but it had no balance or coordination. Each push or tug made it stumble.

  Past the dead woman’s bobbin
g head he could see the apartment door hanging open. The lock had been smashed. The wood was cracked and splintered around the dead bolt. The hallway beyond looked as neglected as his apartment. A dark stain decorated one wall. It wasn’t mildew.

  He twisted the monster’s arms and levered it back a few more steps. It tripped on its own foot and thumped off a wall. He almost shifted his grip to catch it, but then the gnashing teeth and chalk eyes reminded him it wasn’t a woman.

  Another few steps and the dead thing was in the hall. It kept biting the air between them. He bent his arms a little bit and one of its fingers brushed his stomach. The painted nails almost got snagged in his T-shirt.

  He shoved hard and the corpse staggered across the hall to crash into the opposite door. Its skull cracked just below the faux-iron numbers, right on the peephole lens. The dead thing slumped for a moment, then pushed itself back up against the door. Its camisole dragged down to expose more gray skin and a purple nipple.

  George stepped back and slammed his apartment’s door. The broken wood around the lock jammed it before it could close all the way. He gave two more hard shoves and wedged it into the frame. He reached for the dead bolt out of instinct, then fumbled with the chain instead.

  The door shook as the petite woman hit it from the other side. It shook again. And a third time. Then he heard lacquered nails clawing at the wood.

  It would be as hard to force the door open again as it had been to close it. He could use the remains of the couch to block it even more and give himself a few minutes to think. And find some clothes.

  He double-checked the chain and turned to look at his apartment.

  The carpet was clean. The blinds were half-down over the windows. Sunlight streamed in through the glass. He turned back at the door, nestled in its solid frame.

  “Son of a bitch,” muttered George.

  He stepped closer to the door but heard nothing. He lowered his eye to the peephole. The fish-eye view of the hallway didn’t show him anything. It was empty.

  He slid the chain loose and flipped the dead bolt. The door glided open on the hinges. He stepped into the hall and looked both ways. The dead woman was gone. There was no stain on the far wall.

  George went back into his apartment and closed the door behind him.

  He didn’t remember turning the ceiling fan on last night. The nights were getting cool, even in Los Angeles. But the blades were swinging in lazy arcs. The beads wobbled back and forth and tapped the motor housing again and again.

  He’d come home and eaten some leftovers. He remembered wondering when he should call Karen, and not being sure what was the best time of night to reach a supermodel. Then he’d just called and they’d talked for ten minutes. He’d made a joke about all of their ten-minute conversations. She hadn’t laughed, but he’d sensed she didn’t look down on him for it.

  He was supposed to be meeting her at a coffee shop near her hotel at ten o’clock. He looked at the clock. He’d overslept. It was almost seven. Rush hour was in full swing, which meant it’d take him close to an hour to get over to the—

  It meant he was going to be late for work!

  Panic made his heart pound. He could skip his shower, put on some extra deodorant, or maybe a spot of the cologne he wore once a month or so. He’d get crap from the other workers but it meant he could be on the road as soon as he was dressed.

  And then he took another breath. He’d made this decision last night. Whatever was happening to him was more important than work. He’d call Jarvis halfway through the day and tell him the illness had gotten worse.

  Seeing Karen again was more important than work.

  He shook the nerves out of his arms and gave his apartment another look. Not a single sign of the devastation he’d woken up with. Woken up with twice now.

  George double-checked the locks on his door and headed for the shower.

  He’d parked his car around the corner. This morning was a scheduled street-sweeping day, which meant last night the whole neighborhood’s parking habits had shifted. As an early riser, these days usually meant easy parking the night before—George would be long gone before the parking fines kicked into effect. But last night he’d decided to park somewhere safer, just in case, and that had meant parking a block and a half away from his apartment.

  He waited to cross the street as a black sedan with tinted windows rolled past him. There were a few gangs active in the area, and his first thought was somebody was cruising very early in the morning. The car was too basic for that, though. It wasn’t a flashy vehicle, it was a workhorse. A Crown Victoria or something like that.

  So his second thought, right on the tail of the first one, was that it was a cop. Which was also kind of reassuring after the first thought. But even through the tinted windows he was pretty sure the man and woman in the car weren’t cops. They wore dark suits. The woman stared back at him through the glass as they drove past.

  He stepped out behind the sedan and headed across to the corner. He saw his car and grumbled. A black van was double-parked in the street, blocking him in his space. The other driver didn’t even have his hazards on. George steeled himself for a possible confrontation. He knew most folks would move without question and look apologetic when they did, but there was always that small percentage who got angry at the suggestion that every road in LA wasn’t built to be their private parking spot. As he got close, though, the van pulled away fast and headed up the street.

  George pulled out his keys and heard a squeal of rubber. The van had made a wide turn and cut off two other cars. Not just a turn—a U-turn. The van roared back toward him, cutting across the yellow line. It twisted in at the last moment and almost kissed the front corner of his Hyundai just before it came to a stop.

  The two men in the front of the van were both staring at him. The side door slid open and George saw two more men in the back. All of them wore dark suits.

  Another squeal of brakes made him spin. The black sedan had doubled back, too. It stopped in the road right behind him. Its nose was inches from the Hyundai’s rear bumper. The two black vehicles and his own car had him surrounded on three sides. Even as he thought it a second car pulled up in the far lane. They formed a tight box around him.

  The passenger door opened while the sedan settled and a short blonde stepped out. The woman he’d glimpsed as they drove by outside his apartment. Her hair was cut short. She had a face that might’ve been cute when she was younger, but had gotten lean and harsh as she matured. She wore the same dark suit as the men in the van, and her driver.

  The blonde held up something dark in her hand. A twitch of her fingers opened it to show a gold shield, a photograph, and some tiny words on a white background. George registered a capital S, but the wallet closed before he could read anything.

  “George Bailey,” the woman said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. She was just letting him know everything was intentional and deliberate.

  George realized an instant too late he should’ve spent that thinking time trying to run.

  A man grabbed either arm. A third one dropped the bag over his head. It was made of heavy black material, like denim. He heard a zipping sound as it cinched around his neck.

  He fought back. The man holding his right arm let go. George swung his arm around and heard a grunt of pain from someone. The man holding the other arm let go, but then someone slammed into him. The world spun inside the black bag, something hit him in the side of the head, and everything stopped.

  NINETEEN

  IT WAS VERY stuffy.

  George realized the darkness wasn’t unconsciousness but something draped over his head. He reached up to pull it away and something cold clicked and cut into his wrists. Then he remembered the van and the men and—

  “He’s awake.”

  The bag whipped off his head. The blonde was standing in front of him. She was going through his wallet. She had his driver’s license out and was holding it up to the light. She tilted it back a
nd forth, checking the holograms.

  They were in a square room. One of the dark-suited men stood in each corner. One had a bruise on the side of his head that hadn’t been there when they grabbed him. Another one had splints on two fingers and his thumb. The only furniture was the chair George was handcuffed to and a table off to the side.

  There wasn’t a mirror. He thought there was always a one-way mirror in these rooms so people on the other side could watch what went on. He craned his head around. No mirror, and also no cameras.

  He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  The blond woman tossed his license on the table. His credit cards were already there, along with what little cash he had and a few receipts. “George H. Bailey. H stands for Harrison.” She shook her head. “Seriously, with a name like that you’d think Homeland would’ve picked you up years ago.”

  “It’s my real name,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. She pulled a few grocery store cards from his wallet, glanced at each of them, and tossed them on the table. “Your parents were Beatles fans?”

  She stared at him for a moment and George realized she was waiting on an answer. He swallowed and tried to stay calm. “Star Wars,” he said. “Dad said I was almost George Han Bailey, but Mom won out.”

  The man in the corner to George’s left, the one with the bruise, bit back a snort.

  The blonde’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are you a sci-fi geek?”

  “When I was a kid.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “No more than anyone else, I guess.”

  Another long pause stretched out. Her eyes were bright green. The longer he looked, the more he was sure she wasn’t a nice person.

  He looked away from her eyes. “Ummmm … What’s this all about?”

  The blonde tossed his wallet on the table. “You do any sports?”