by Leon, Mike
“What the hell was that?”
“It was one of these,” Sid says as he bashes on the brake and twirls the van around again like a squealing top. As the van stabilizes into a forward direction again, Sid is unable to swerve to avoid a big green and white booth featuring a stylized MP logo. The van dashes the tent to pieces, sending plastic rods and bits of wood and polypropylene sailing into the air. A vinyl tarp sign with a big MP logo slaps into the windshield, filling Sid’s entire field of view with the words Millennium Park.
When the banner blows away the next sight is that of a wide open grassy field covered by a trellis of crosshatched steel bows. Across the field is a huge amphitheater of reflective steel curves.
“You’re insane!” Jamie screams. “You’re going to hit somebody!”
That possibility seems unlikely. It’s cold out, and there is no significant foot traffic in the park as far as Sid can see. “There’s nobody out here!” Sid says as he veers across the field toward a gap in the concrete barrier that partitions this area off from the next section of the park.
He is quickly proven wrong as he sees dozens of people in a small crowd ahead, surrounding a massive blob of polished mirror steel that resembles a giant bean. He doesn’t know what that thing is or why people are looking at it, but it’s too late to turn back. The van snaps through some flimsy galvanized steel portable fences, flinging them out of the way and crunching one entirely. Pedestrians run wildly as Sid mashes down on the horn to warn them out of his way. The skyscrapers of the city skyline are only a block beyond the shiny blob of metal in front of them. It would be best to get back there where there are proper streets, as taking the van through the park did not seem to have the desired effect of ending the transient’s pursuit.
“DIE!” barks the screaming monster, his giant burning death’s head peeking through the ceiling of the van next to Sid’s ear. It’s on top of the goddamn van.
“Bail!” Sid lets go of the steering wheel and leaps across the van cabin. He pushes Jamie against the passenger door as he rips at the handle and flings them both out onto the grid of concrete squares outside. Sid rolls onto his back and tucks Jamie against him. The dread suit’s smooth kydex plates take the brunt of the beating as they slide along the textured ground. Sid comes to a stop and hops up just in time to witness the van, with the demonic mass of fiery darkness riding atop it, crashing through a row of picnic tables and hopping up a few short steps toward the huge mirror blob. The van, the monster, a hundred gallons of gasoline, thousands of small arms rounds, a case of HE grenades, and about forty pounds of plastic explosive all goes airborne and slaloms into the side of the sculpture. By Sid’s estimate, it is a spark which ignites the gasoline, then the gasoline explosion which detonates the Semtex. The blast is immense in any case. Whatever that mirror blob thing was, they’ll be finding pieces of it on rooftops for years.
Sid watches the flaming wreckage as he pulls Jamie up from the ground.
“Fuck! It’s not working,” he says. “He followed us into the park anyway. . .”
“Maybe that killed him!” Jamie squeaks out hopefully. “Maybe that was it! Like the reports said!”
Sid shakes his head doubtfully. “I doubt that will even slow him down.” What he just said should be patently absurd given that explosion would have stopped a battle tank, but his assertion is proven by the hulking silent shadow that emerges from the inferno ahead. Sid pushes Jamie back toward the pavilion. “We have to make it until he fizzles out again!”
“Stop running, you quisling abomination!” the transient bellows from behind them. The behemoth monster lashes out with his huge hand, snatching up a screaming bystander by the leg and slinging the woman viciously across the park. The transient is off the mark if he wanted to hit either of them, but the bystander wraps around a lamppost nearby and flops to the lawn below as a sack of lifeless broken bones.
INT. THE VEIDT INSTITUTE - DAY
“Director,” says Dave, breaking a tense silence in the rec room. He’s looking up from his cell phone. “I think maybe we should turn on the TV. They’re talking about the park in the news.”
Helen issues a confounded look at Bruce, and he immediately sets on a quest to find the remote for the parlor television, which Fleabag eventually finds for him in the couch cushions. They have to search through the channels manually, because no one present knows which number corresponds to CNN.
When they finally make it through the vast wasteland of game shows, formula comedies about totally unbelievable families, reality shows about totally unbelievable families, and Sports Center, they see a blurry live feed of a smoke plume branded by the red and white CNN logo. The crossbar graphic reads Explosion at Millennium Park.
Off-screen commentators describe the event, and explore its possible motivations and ramifications as the fire still burns.
“Vaughn, how many bodies can you count at the scene?” asks an unseen woman.
“Well, Brooke. It’s hard to say,” the fuzzy voice of the correspondent replies. “I haven’t seen any bodies just yet, but there are quite a few people who are seriously injured and they may die, which will of course result in a tremendous Nielsen—national tragedy.” He quickly corrects himself. “Sorry, Freudian slip.”
The crossbar graphic shifts to say Untold Number Killed in Deadly Explosion at Millennium Park.
“It didn’t work,” Helen whispers. “He followed them into the park anyway.”
“Wow, Vaughn, what a tragedy,” the CNN anchor gasps overdramatically. “What we’re seeing on the feed here in the studio is just really a tragedy. So much tragedy. For those of you just joining us, there has been an explosion in Millennium Park, Chicago, where Vaughn Bondy is live. Someone has blown up the Cloud Gate monument, and I say someone, but that’s assuming this wasn’t some sort of accident. Could this have been some kind of accident, Vaughn?”
“I think it’s safe to rule that out, Brooke. There are just too many other sensational possibilities. It could have been ISIS or Syrian refugees, right-wing extremists, or just a lone individual with inexplicable motivations we’ll have to discuss on-air for weeks and-”
“Vaughn, I’m sorry I have to interrupt, but we have a hard break coming up. When we come back, more coverage of this unspeakable massacre brought to you by Dr. Pepper, the one you crave.”
CNN fades to a Dr. Pepper commercial, but Bruce isn’t sticking around to watch. He’s seen enough. He drops the remote down on the couch next to Doris the train spotter and storms off in the direction of the waiting room. Helen snatches his arm in a failed attempt to drag him back.
“What are you doing?” she demands to know.
“It’s got to be done,” Bruce says, ripping open the door into the hallway. “It’s the only way.”
“You don’t want to do this, Bruce.” Helen follows, yanking the door closed behind them, so they’re sealed alone in the security hall.
“Nah, I don’t. But you already tried your shot, and it didn’t take. He’s in the park. Now more people are dead. Sid might be dead. This is the only way we know that can stop him.”
“Okay, so never mind the terrible moral ramifications. You’re talking about creating a time paradox here! We don’t know what will happen! Maybe the universe will end!”
“Maybe. But I don’t think it’ll go that way. The transient already changed shit when he came back and killed all those internet writers. The universe didn’t end then. I’m just changing it back the way it was supposed to be.”
“Killing a child makes you every bit as bad as him.”
Bruce doesn’t have anything to say to that. He can only try to contain his own disgust as he continues through the next set of doors. Helen does not try to stop him.
The waiting room is silent, even though a TV is on in the corner and the operator they left standing there is asking Bruce a question. He doesn’t hear anything. He’s too focused on what he has to do.
EXT. JAY PRITZKER PAVILION - DAY
&
nbsp; The transient towers menacingly over Sid Hansen, howling at the sky as he raises a burning fist to hammer down on Jamie Chan. Sid draws both machetes from their crossed sheaths and intercepts the monster’s raging blow in the scissors of both swords. He stands growling back at the monster’s ugly face as he strains to hold up the crushing claw. Sid isn’t sure which is the reason; his unshakeable will or his ability to clean and press 600lbs, but the transient relents. He is surprised he could interact with the massive fist at all.
Emboldened by the transient’s apparent physicality, Sid leaps after the creature’s retreating hand and swipes at its face with a silver smelted machete. The blade contacts the transient’s typically ethereal flesh, but doesn’t even scratch him. It clacks against his cheek like he’s made of rock.
“Is that rock hard skin or are you just happy to see me?” Sid says.
“You’re a fool, Sid Hansen!” the transient bellows. “Because of you, billions will die!”
“That’s a lofty goal. Maybe I better pick up the pace!” Sid jabs a machete point into the transient’s non-extant scrotum and is met with a disappointing clack.
“I understand now!” the transient snarls. The monster pounds down at Sid viciously, narrowly missing as he leaps aside of its fist. “It’s the only thing I didn’t change yet! The only way I haven’t tried! I have to kill you too!”
“You’ve got no chance, you fucking colon impaction.” Sid hacks at the transient’s neck, but both blades slip through nothing but empty space. “I’ll tear your ghost guts out and flush ’em with the rest of the sewage!”
“You have no idea the depth of the darkness within!” the transient roars. “The horror awaits! Prepare for the void!”
The monster unleashes a screaming hate that is somehow tangible even if it has no describable substance. It is not unlike a dragon breathing fire, but cold and empty, devoid of volume or location. It blows away all time and reality as it washes over Sid like a tsunami collapsing over a tiny hut.
INT. THE VEIDT INSTITUTE - DAY
Bruce studies the waiting room as discreetly as he can, despite all eyes being pointed at him as the newcomer. The secretary remains at her desk, nervously doing nothing, not even wasting time with a magazine or a game of Minesweeper. Ned, the Graveyard operator who remained to guard the room, leans on the counter next to her looking especially bored. His Scorpion submachine gun rests on the countertop, his hand wrapped loosely around the grip. Harper and his mother are still in the corner of the room, only now Harper is watching the television and his mother is knotted more tightly with the intensity of the situation. She sits in one of the little cloth and wood waiting room chairs, her hands resting on the boy’s shoulders.
“You find some spooky shit back there?” Ned asks. He has to repeat himself before Bruce actually registers he is saying anything.
“Uh, no,” Bruce says. “Looks like this is all just a big goof. Bad intel.” Bruce makes his way through the waiting room with a lying smile that makes him sick. He’s used it plenty of times in the past, but this time is different. “Hey, uh. . .” Bruce points awkwardly at Harper’s mother. He doesn’t remember her name, or if she even said what it was. It really doesn’t matter. He just needs to get through the next minute, and he’ll never have to see her again.
“Michelle,” she finishes for him.
“Right. Michelle, can you head back there? The doctor wanted to talk to you about something.” It’s a shitty lie—shitty because of the hidden intent, but also shitty because of the foundation. Bruce can’t imagine any believable reason why the doctor would ask to see some seemingly uninvolved patient in this bizarre situation. He’s relying entirely on his authoritative appeal, given the cadre of gun-toting commandos with him, and his friendly attitude to get this one past the goalie. He doesn’t want to do this in front of the kid’s mom. He can at least try to maintain that standard of decency. “It’s all good. I’ll watch the little guy for a minute.”
There is a moment in which Bruce is unsure whether she believes him. She obviously has some questions about the veracity of his sketchy claim, and she should, but she gets up from her chair to go. She believes him—at least enough. And why wouldn’t she? What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like someone will shoot her kid in the back of the head while she’s in the other room for a second. . .
Christ. Bruce tries to restrict his internal language. Not the kid. The enemy. The target. This is the kind of shit the CIA trained him to do. Don’t think of them as people. Think of them as assets, targets, enemy combatants, hostiles, tangos, hajjis, reds, gooks, zipperheads, krauts, lobsters.
Michelle pats the transient on the head and promises she’ll be back in just a minute. Then she creeps off through the doors into the security corridor. It won’t take long for her to spot the holes in his terrible story once she gets to the rec room. Bruce hopes Helen has the good sense to restrain her back there. He doesn’t want this to be any uglier than it needs to be.
He sits down in the same chair Michelle occupied previously and glances over at Ned, who has grown quiet if not altogether edgy. Bruce sees that the operator’s gun is now in his hands, rather than resting on the countertop. He cringes and nods toward the back door.
“You want to head back?” Bruce asks. “No reason you need to stick around.”
There is a silent interaction which Bruce only witnesses in part, as Ned’s eyes shift away from him to the safety glass slit in the security door, then back to him. He loosens his grip on his weapon and allows it to dangle on the strap. It can only mean Helen is back there where Bruce can’t see, directing him through the glass.
“We’re gonna head back to the rec room,” Ned says to the secretary, who responds with some confused stammering. His glare and gun make it much more of a command than a request though, and the secretary complies.
When they’re gone, Bruce is alone in the waiting room with the transient and the television. Son Goku is powering up to throw the spirit bomb that obliterates Kid Buu on the TV screen. Bruce thinks this is going to ruin Dragonball for him forever. Then he thinks that was a disgusting and selfish thought, because it’s hardly the worst part of what he’s doing here.
“Which one’s your favorite, mister?” the kid says—the transient says.
“Everybody likes Goku the best, right?”
“I guess. I like Vegeta.”
“Why?”
The transient shrugs. “Cause his hair is like this.” He puts his hands on his head in a maneuver Bruce doesn’t understand even a little bit. It’s supposed to be some kind of mimicry of Vegeta’s bizarre anime widow’s peak, but it comes across as nonsense. Kids do stuff like that. From their stilted viewpoint it means something, but they lack the perspective to understand it isn’t the same way other people see what they’re doing.
Bruce snickers, then catches himself. Don’t laugh at the kid. Shoot the kid.
“Have you seen this one before?” Bruce says, trying to make sure the transient is focused on the TV as he grips the pistol concealed in his coat. “This is a really good one.”
The transient returns his view to the TV. Bruce quietly pulls his hefty HK from its holster and points the muzzle at the base of the transient’s skull.
He has to squeeze the trigger fast. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. It’s got to go. Then he can close his eyes and be done with it forever. He can get the fuck out of here. He can go somewhere and get drunk, because that’s what he wants right now. There’s not enough beer in the world to get Bruce as drunk as he wants for as long as he wants. He’s going to chug a fucking handle of something from Kentucky until he blacks out, and he wants to stay that way until he doesn’t remember any of this. Maybe when he pulls the trigger it will all go away anyway and he won’t have to erase it that way. Maybe Helen was right. Maybe the universe will collapse on itself or some shit.
Bruce is so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice Harper is staring down the gun barrel for a full five seconds
. Even when he does register what his eyes are seeing, he doesn’t do anything about it. He just holds the gun there. The fucking safety lever is still up. Who the fuck is he kidding? Harper says nothing to him. He just stares with wide blue eyes, too young to understand what’s happening or why.
“I—” Bruce starts to say. He doesn’t know how to finish that statement. There isn’t a statement to finish. He just stops.
Helen Anderson clears her throat across the room. Bruce didn’t even realize she came through the door. She could have been there for ten minutes or an hour. He doesn’t know how long he has been sitting here, but too much sweat has soaked the underarms of his shirt for it to be the blink it feels like.
“Bruce?” she inquires.
Bruce says nothing. His gun is still trained on the boy’s head, haphazardly, one-handed, resting on his lap, aimed by approximation only. He thumbs the safety lever. The hammer is already decocked for double action. The trigger pull is gritty as a cat clawing sandpaper. He doesn’t make it to the end.
“I can’t fuckin’ do it,” he says.
“I know.” Helen’s matter-of-fact inflection further evidences she has been watching him for a long while. Bruce stuffs the HK back in his jacket as he stands and heads for the door. Harper begins to cry as Bruce punches his way out of the Veidt center. He just wants to leave before he sees the mother again. He can’t look that lady in the eyes after this.
???. THE BILGE OF THE HUMAN ANIMAL - ???
A dead opossum, squirming with insects and gaseous bloat, with its dead litter of babies still latched to its dried out teats. A man in a burning desert cherishes his necklace of infant feet far above anything ever felt for the babies they came from. He no longer remembers or cares which of them belonged to his own progeny. A boy splits his cock down the middle with rusty kitchen shears because he thinks it is the best way to fuck two girls at the same time. He bleeds out and dies. The teens chained in his filthy cave last almost a week without water. A million screaming bodies melt in nuclear fire. The hobbling radiation poisoned refugees from the outskirts of the blast are easy prey for the rape gangs. Someone grinds nails against a chalkboard. The nails used to be attached to someone else’s hand. Tubgirl. Spacedocking. Lena Dunham. A burn victim, her face a mass of featureless collagen, uses a severed penis to pleasure herself. It is shunted with a broken radio antenna. A boy shoots another boy for his bright red sneakers. Upon closer inspection, he sees that they were only colored that way with permanent marker. He pisses on the shoes. A man throws acid on the face of a little girl. Her skin oozes and bleeds. Dozens of onlookers see. Some of them kick her. Boys feed a puppy to a boa constrictor. Then they set the snake on fire with kerosene and matches. The soldiers keep on raping Nanking. Other soldiers set Tokyo on fire. The smell of children burning is not like other meat, but it is not so horrible when compared to that of a young mother, left spread open by the Japanese, her split-open vagina stuffed with a whole bundle of sharpened bamboo shoots. Maggots writhe in the dried ichor caked in the dirt. Her daughter was too small for penetration, so the soldiers cut her open wider. This is only the beginning of the depravities of the void. The visions go on without slowing, without gaps, without repeat, with absolutely no respite before driving any conscionable man completely insane—or Sid Hansen to boredom.