by J. D. Lee
“Stacy,” Marcus whispered.
“You did this, Marcus. And it is not the first.”
Marcus watched as the scene before him oscillated between Cafe Diem and the unnatural lot. It waned and waved like a thin veil just before his eyes. The veil dithered and flexed. Then it disappeared entirely, leaving only the disparity contained behind the chain-link fence.
Avant said quickly, “There are more places like this one, Marcus, and each one creates a larger problem, but it is beyond repair. You see, the last time you and I met, I lied to you. We had not met only thirty-three times.”
He paused.
“Well, it wasn’t entirely untrue, it was the thirty-third time that I met with this Marcus, but not the first time you and I’ve met.”
Avant looked Marcus in the eyes as he straightened the Windsor knot at the top of his blue and yellow tie, cleared his throat, and said, “I lied to you about a lot of things. But it is all in vain now, so I may as well be forthcoming. But know that my dishonesty had entirely noble motivations.”
He took Marcus by the arm. “Walk with me,” he said.
Marcus and Avant began down the sidewalk, turning right at the end of the shadowy lot. As they walked, Avant directed Marcus’s attention upward to the sky.
Above them, a flock of birds flew in formation. A single bird broke off sharply from the group and dove toward the empty lot. As it glided over the fence, the little bird vanished in a burst of dust and feathers. Its remains sprinkled the ground at Marcus’s feet.
As he watched the brittle bird bones disintegrate into ash on the sidewalk, Marcus noticed the blackness of the lot lapping at the pale cement like a rising tide. He stepped away, recoiling into the street.
“You see, Marcus: the poor people that were inside that building are dead, just like the bird. You killed them.”
Avant spoke from behind Marcus. His speech was much slower than his normal machine-gun pace. His desperation, fear maybe, was beginning to show. His syllables began to fracture shakily, deeply contrasting with his familiar, fluid articulation.
“There are many more… places… like this one, Marcus. These holes. They are all forming… right now, all around us.”
Avant pointed again toward the dying lot.
Even though they were now too far to make out the chain-link barrier, the black stain in the colorful cityscape was clear and well defined. It had obviously grown. The blue sky above the lot was painfully severed by the deep black shadow. It called to Marcus. He felt it drawing him in. Quickly, he pulled his focus from the void and forced his attention back to Avant.
Avant moved his lips but no words escaped them. His voice had drifted into thin air, sucked from his throat and pulled from Marcus’s ears. The doctor mouthed in silence, defeated by a low, unnerving hum.
A pressure emerged from behind Marcus, first pulling at his coat then at his flesh. It moved to his chest, weighing on him and pulling the air from his lungs.
Avant grabbed Marcus’s sleeve, forcing him into a sprint, dragging him down the street. As they ran in silence, behind them, the mist of death and decay grew. It gulped at the buildings and streets, swallowing them whole, collapsing the concrete and asphalt as it spread. Marcus witnessed the buildings turn brittle. He saw the elaborate, cracking spiderwebs split the walls on either side of him, and cringed as they quietly collapsed and vanished into ash and dust and shadow.
Then it stopped. Gray soot showered the remaining portions of street and sidewalk as the blackness spewed forth that which it had not consumed.
“This is what happens!” Avant shouted through the raining debris as he came to a sudden stop, turning to face Marcus.
The two men were painted in the gray dust. Tiny particles of ash and crumbling concrete clung to Marcus’s brown coat and sat in piles around Avant’s collar. They both desperately shook and patted their clothes, attempting to clean themselves of the death. Marcus could feel it on his skin, seeping into his pores. He felt it digging into him, consuming his surface, using him up.
It grabbed at his nerve endings, reaching deep into his core and filling him with a tangible, living emptiness.
As he frantically brushed at his pants and shook out his sleeves, Marcus’s foot caught the curb. He felt his weight shift in the wrong direction, and Marcus’s body toppled toward the ground.
He stumbled three steps with his arms flailing before he painfully caught himself with his palms upon the pavement.
As Marcus stood to his feet, he found himself face-to-face with the towering blackness. It throbbed and licked at the air before him, but remained still, contained, satiated—for now.
Avant rushed over to Marcus and, while maintaining a safe distance, he confessed, “This is what we’ve done. We’ve done this dozens of times… hundreds maybe. And now we reap what we’ve sown.”
His speech had returned to its typical breakneck pace, which, as it always had, sucked the sincerity from his words.
“I knew it would happen again. Though, I hoped it wouldn’t. I thought I could keep you from this one,” he said.
He kicked a rock with his foot. It skipped twice across the pavement then disappeared, swallowed by the blackness.
Avant continued, “Your first one was Jacob, Jacob Weller. Near where we met later today, outside of Tranquility.”
Avant paused.
Then he asked, “Can you even remember Jacob? Can you remember something that is happening to you now, but somewhere else, and as someone else?”
Avant stared into the breathing darkness, waiting for Marcus to respond.
Marcus wanted to tell him, Yes. At times. But it was too late.
Before he could formulate his response, the blackness lurched forward and they were once again enveloped in the deafening hum.
The weight of each and every collapsed building in San Jose sat on Marcus. Beneath his feet, the ground dried up and cracked in plumes of dust, curling upward as it gave up all signs of life. Structures around him burst as their innards spilled onto the street. The cement turned to ash and the asphalt to tar. Benches turned to soot, and fax-lines disintegrated into thin air. Eaten by rust, the porta-fax on his belt burst open; the roll of glossy paper crumbled and the tiny gears and cogs sprang from their shell, bursting into ash as they fell to the earth.
Then, Marcus collapsed.
As he lay amongst the piling debris, he peered through the clouds of ash and dust, searching for Avant. The doctor, it seemed, like the buildings, the benches, the porta-fax, and the fax-lines, had vanished, turned to dust like the rest. Marcus Metiline was alone.
The pressure upon him persisted, pulling Marcus into the ground. He desperately tried lifting himself, pressing his palms deeper into the dirt. He tried to carry himself out of the blackness, back onto the sidewalk, back into San Jose, back to the world where he belonged.
If I could only get to my knees, he thought to himself, but he couldn’t. His muscles ached in exhaustion and his bones cried in pain. He felt only tired and cold. He gasped for air in short, labored breaths as his body struggled against him.
Finally, as had everything around him, he too submitted to the darkness.
As he stared into the sky, he took comfort in the remaining light of the sun. It bent around him, leaving no part of him bathed in light, but he could see it. As though he were in the vacuum of space; no warmth met his body, but his eyes were still overcome by the brilliance. Then it shrank in the sky. The sun shriveled to the size of a quarter, then a dime. For a moment, it appeared as though it could win. It oscillated, fighting back against the darkness, giving Marcus hope, but it stood no chance. There, on the ashen ground, Marcus watched as the sun, and the world around him, died.
Chapter XIII
When his strength had returned and his bones felt sure again, Ashram Trounce continued toward the top of the stairs. As he carefully placed his feet, he noticed the marble beneath him had been replaced by shadowy, steel plates that carried him upward.
Strange, he thought, yet somehow familiar.
At the top, he came to a large pair of towering double doors. The doors possessed no handles or knobs, and were lined by thin threads of rose-colored light. They hissed, clanged and melted upward to reveal a large office. The far wall was made entirely of plate-glass. Beyond it, fluffy, white clouds floated by, casting an occasional shadow upon the room. On either side of Ashram, eccentric plaster sculptures and poorly chosen art lined the walls.
This was Colin's office, Ashram recognized.
As he made his way to the enormous iron-edged, hoof-legged desk in the center of the room, he felt a confidence wash over him. He suddenly knew his purpose, his destiny, his place in the universe.
Ashram sat himself gracefully upon the desk. It wasn't his desk. He knew that, but something told him that, like a well-fitted puzzle piece, he was right where he needed to be.
A moment later, a portion of the eastern wall dissolved and a giant of a man appeared. He huffed loudly as he dragged an unconscious lump to the center of the room.
The broad shouldered, barrel-chested man dropped the lump before Ashram's feet, and quickly stood at attention, his arms tight to his sides. Ashram had not met him before, but he knew it in his core; the lump on the floor was named Marcus.
“We found these on him,” the behemoth said as he handed a book of matches, a porta-fax, a crumpled pack of smokes, and a briefcase to Ashram Trounce. He quickly dropped all but the matches on the hard, wooden floor.
Ashram reached into his own pocket and removed an identical matchbook. He inspected them briefly, turning them over in his hand, feeling them each in his fingers. He compared them, finding the same number of matches, the same colors, the same shape, even the same wear on the bindings and strike-strips.
As he grasped both matchbooks in his right hand, they began to flicker. They oscillated back and forth; one fading away then returning only to have the other vanish. For nearly a minute, this tug of war between the matches continued upon Ashram's open palm, neither entirely existing at the same time, as if they were competing for the same space. Then, finally, the existential seesaw stopped and there was only one book of matches sitting alone upon Ashram's hand. No trace of its twin existed.
As the man on the floor began to come to, he coughed and drooled. He gasped and gulped for air. He lifted himself to his knees, staring up at Ashram in confusion.
“Hello, Marcus Metiline,” Ashram sang.
Ashram continued, “You are so narrow-minded to have thought me blind to your attempts.”
Marcus continued gagging reflexively. His spit landed in splashes upon Ashram's neon orange toenails. It was absolutely offensive.
Ashram wiped the spit from his foot, leaned toward Marcus and said, “I know what you’re up to.”
The behemoth jerked Marcus to his feet, forcing him upright and making him watch.
Ashram skillfully flipped a match against the book, igniting it. He knew exactly what he was doing. It felt impossibly right. In a flash, the match-head consumed itself in fire and the bright, yellow light engulfed Ashram wholly.
Ashram found himself on the cold marble of his extravagant staircase. He had been knocked to his knees, his cheek pressed tight against the icy stone. A lingering sense of unease persisted inside him. Ghosts of a struggling man and flashes of fire floated across his frontal lobe. The sting of sulfur and phosphorus persisted in his brain. He felt intimately tied to the man in his vision. Ashram was absolutely sure he had been there.
When? He thought to himself, It’s been two years since I've been in his office.
Then the feelings left him, his certainty faded, and Ashram got his feet. He grabbed the banister firmly and continued toward his room.
Once at the top of the staircase, he paused once again to regain his strength.
“Thank the stars for Belis's machines,” he said to himself between breaths, “Otherwise I'd never get anything done.”
He continued on his way, taking his final steps to the archway of his master bedroom.
The room was massive, much larger than it needed to be. The floor consisted of an odd combination of bamboo and cotton. The bamboo was distributed in a matrix across the floor, framing individual trapezoids of thick cotton tiles. It almost gave the room the look of an unfinished attic. Large, irregularly shaped, colorless curtains sagged in patches from the ceiling, nearly reaching the floor. Beyond the arrays of drapery, distorted light billowed in through a stained glass wall. The panels of fabric swallowed the beams, creating various hues and shapes across the few pieces of furniture in the room, and those not tangled in drapery cast ghastly shades of green, purple and yellow upon the weathered, sagging skin of Ashram Trounce.
He removed his taupe smock and hung it on the wall. The wall instantly folded in on itself, swallowing his smock within. After removing a key from his pocket and placing it upon a small table, he fed the wall his trousers and made his way to the far corner of the room.
There, he sat himself upon a small stool before a large baroque box. The large chest before him was held closed by an old dried rope whose ends had begun to fray. It was wrapped strategically in a succession of figure-eights, deftly binding the wooden top to the heavy, metal bottom.
Crouching forward, he slowly untied the rope and lifted the lid. His skin stretched tight against his bones as he reached into the trunk and took from it a pair of open-toed sandals, flowing canvas like pants and a waxy, white smock with blue gemstones inlaid upon its collar; these items he kept perfectly folded and laid neatly beside him. As well, he removed a small black box, the BelisCo emblem carved into its face. Ashram placed the small box between his bare feet and opened it. Various brushes, polishes, and containers of makeup were held neatly within its confines.
As much as Ashram hated the idea, it was in the Belis-Trounce Distribution Agreement.
Each party must don a countenance of similarity as to maintain an air of negotiation not hindered by bias and conducive to agreement, article 130.9 subsection b, he recited in his mind.
Wearing makeup at my age? Ashram thought as he sighed audibly. He knew Colin wouldn't entertain a meeting with him if he showed up any other way.
“And so it must be,” he murmured quietly to himself.
Hunched over in the corner of his enormous bedroom, Ashram proceeded to unscrew a small bottle of polish. He steadily ran the applicator against each of his long toenails, slowly transforming the flesh colored keratin to bright, neon orange. Once all of his toenails had been glazed in the offensive orange color, he took from the small, black box a brush and palette and began applying a silver sheen to his lips. He dusted his lips lightly with the feather-tipped brush, making sure to dab each millimeter of his dry, cracked lips. Upon completing his silver treatment, Ashram began applying long, talon-like nails to his fingertips. Then he took from the chest a dozen or so metal rings, another mandate of today's meeting. Each possessed vastly different characteristics; not one complimented another. He placed the large bracelets over his hands. They clanked obnoxiously against one another as he slid them down onto his wrists.
Before he stood, Ashram held a small mirror to his face, inspecting his required facade. As he stared into the mirror, he combed his wiry beard and brushed his unkempt hair. Then he eased himself to his feet, his garments in hand.
Ashram pulled his flowing trousers on, one leg at a time. Then he tied them around his round belly with a golden tassel. He pulled the smock over his head and regarded his costume one last time as he saw his reflection dance upon the mirror across the room.
Horrible, he thought as he lowered himself onto his twin-sized mattress. He crossed his legs and casually took a small corncob-pipe and a book of matches from his nightstand.
Ashram suspiciously inspected the booklet; seven remained.
He continued staring intently at the seven matches for a few long moments, and then ripped one from its binding. He lit it, and shakily brought the flame to the bowl of his pipe. He toked
heavily.
The smell of marijuana quickly enveloped the room. As Ashram inhaled deeply, his hands began to calm and his breathing eased. He looked intently at the six remaining matches.
The worn edges and tattered binding of the matchbook instantly transported Ashram back to the grim office of Colin Belis.
Ashram Trounce patiently awaited his host.
After a long period of sitting, he left the center of the room, traversing the large office, examining the sculptures and paintings one by one. The occasional swishing of his loose pants was the only sound in the room. He paused a moment at each of the dystopian displays, speculating about the importance of each one.
After completing his gradual, contemplative lap around the room, he turned his attention to the escritoire-style liquor cabinet. Ashram lifted the cabinet door along its track to reveal an array of handcrafted bottles, each containing its own uniquely colored liquid. Below the arrangement of bottles sat three highball glasses. Ashram ran his finger across each of the unlabeled bottles before settling on a blue-tinged liquor in a rectangular, frosted glass flask. He plucked it off the shelf, uncorked the container and proceeded to pour himself a drink. The liquid swirled around the walls of his glass as he tilted the spout downward. Once his glass was sufficiently full, he re-corked the bottle and placed it back on the shelf.
As Ashram brought the blue-filled glass to his lips, a ringing and humming initiated beside him, startling a large portion of his drink onto the floor. He turned his attention to a boxy, metal device resting on the table beside the cabinet. After a few moments of gears turning and mechanisms shifting, the device deposited a bold-faced message upon the table's surface.