But if the wolf chooses not to? If it refuses to speak? If it looks at you through eyes that catch the moonlight and shine like headlamps and says, “Go home,” soundlessly? Then?
Then, you get in your car and you go home. You park outside of your apartment and walk up the stairs. You rummage in your pocket for your key and use it to unlock your door only to find that your door is already unlocked. And when you swing it open, you find your apartment empty save for the smell of a meal cooked hours ago, a copy of the key abandoned on the arm of the sofa, and a poster of your favorite Magritte painting that wasn’t there before leaning against the wall. The one of the man, his hair impeccably parted in the center and combed to either side, staring into the mirror at the back of his own head.
* * *
Douglas F. Warrick is a writer. His collection of short stories, Plow the Bones, is available from Apex Publications. He dabbles in music as well. He lives in Daegu, South Korea, where he writes children’s books and study guides for a living. He likes to write about depression, video games, feminism, and professional wrestling. He typically doesn’t write about those things at his day job.
The Large Man
Paul Tremblay
Mr. C____ is one of the Problem Solvers. He is dressed in black and quietly works at his desk.
I am Mr. C____. I am one of the Problem Solvers. I am dressed in black and quietly working at my desk. The scrtich scritch of my pen is louder than my breathing. My desk is one of three hundred and fifty three in our office. Our office is in the Great Hall.
Two days ago I was charged with determining the number of citizens with middle names that began with the letters “G-a-e.” There are six. Yesterday, oh yesterday, I was sent into the field! The rarest of rare occurrences, despite my many requests otherwise. It had been years since I’d been sent from the Great Hall to problem solve. Granted, it was only to help assorted members of the citizenry find their lost keys, socks, and one older gentleman’s ivory rook from a chess set that had been carved by his great-grandfather. He didn’t tell me about his great-grandfather carving the rook, but that’s the scenario I dared imagine.
This morning I was handed a ledger. My heart sank despite knowing the probability of being sent into the field two days in a row was zero. Numbers were then dictated to me via speakerphone. I was not told what the numbers represented, only that I was to find a pattern hidden within them. I was reminded that trying to ascribe context to the data would only negatively influence my perception of said data with bias. Bias, we’ve been told repeatedly, is the Problem Solver’s enemy.
The coworkers to my left and right—Ms. Longfeld and Mr. Demet—peer at me over their dusty tomes, their “great works of literature” (so they claim). They hold their books upside down, if the book covers are any indication. I feel them observing my data observation, changing everything. Protocol dictates that I am not to allow myself to wonder if the numbers represent street addresses of physicians who only treat patients felled by incurable diseases, if the numbers are celestial coordinates of black holes that have a craven hunger for worlds, or if the numbers represent the annual sums of unanswered prayers uttered by children in the city.
Hours pass like the digits beneath my fingers. My fingers are ink-stained. Blue. I try to create more stories for the numbers, from the numbers, but the stories don’t take, and my stomach cramps and clenches at my repeated failures. I stop looking for meaning, but still, the numbers do not perfectly fit into any regression models. As it finally occurs to me that these numbers fit into a simple Fibonacci sequence and as I visualize the numbers spinning into a perfect golden spiral, one with infinite possible meanings and conclusions, there is a cough. A clearing of a throat. An introduction to a new problem.
“Ahem. Mr. C____.”
She is an Assigner. She wears a white suit, squared at the shoulders, and a skinny, red necktie spills down her front as though her neck has sprung a leak. The knot is thicker than what is generally customary and makes me uncomfortable. She stands next to my desk, hands folded in front of her. I do not know how long she has been standing there observing me. I have never seen this Assigner before. There is no one else in the office. I did not notice that my coworkers had left.
“The Great Hall has been cleared. I believe you know what this means.”
“My apologies, but I do not.” I get irked at Assigners who assume that I know everything when it has become painfully clear in my many years as a Problem Solver that I know distressingly little.
The Assigner has a small, rectangular, white card clasped between her fingers. I take it. It reads, simply, “The Consortium.”
I say, “Invitation?”
“A command.”
* * *
Mr. C____ stands in situ before the members of the Consortium, as is required by Parliamentary Procedure. He nervously waits to be addressed.
I am Mr. C____. I stand in situ before the members of the Consortium, as is required by Parliamentary Procedure. I nervously wait to be addressed.
I last stood before the Consortium many years ago, during Initiation, when my memories were wiped away, including the memory of the Initiation itself. After, I was assured that my previous life was one of intolerable suffering and sadness and that I’d earned the tabula rasa and honor of being a Problem Solver. I was assured that my old life was vestigial and those memories would be as obsolete as a burned, unread book.
How is it then, that instead of excitement at the prospect of being assigned a clearly important problem by the Consortium themselves, I am filled with primal dread? I am sweating and I push my glasses up the length of my nose.
The members of the Consortium stand behind a white, marble desk that spans the cavernous length of Parliament. The members wear black, silk robes that flow over their bodies like water. Hoods obscure their identities. They’re huddled close, clinging to one another, whispering, pointing, until finally, one speaks.
“Problem Solver, we have a problem that needs solving.” I cannot tell which member of the Consortium is speaking as they remain huddled and constantly in motion.
I say, “At your service.”
“There is a Large Man.”
“A large man?”
“Yes. He is murdering family members of the Consortium.”
I don’t know quite what to say. My pulse beats insistently against my collar. “Horrific. Tragic.”
“Yes. Yes. We’re all frightened and very angry, and of course, demand justice.”
“At your service.”
“Direct your attention to the video, please.”
A white curtain falls in front of the members of the Consortium. From somewhere behind me a projector whirs to life, my own shadow darkens the curtain, and giant, grainy images flicker before me.
A plain bedroom chamber. An ornate bed, brass posts reaching toward a vaulted ceiling. A sleeping form under the bed covers. The person in the bed is blurred out. Identity still to be protected. The bed covers are blue. A large man, presumably, the Large Man suddenly fills the curtain screen. If the dimensions of the projected room are to be trusted, he must stand over eight feet tall. His shoulders are as broad as the horizon. He wears a fedora and a trench coat. That there was a trench coat of that size produced at all strikes me as a horror. The Large Man turns momentarily toward the camera, his face is obscured by shadow, tufts of thick dark hair curl around the hat’s brim, perhaps a mustache, perhaps a beard. He shuffles slowly to the bed. The blurred-out victim—I already presume the person to be the victim—stirs, and then screams. The scream has been modified to protect the identity of the screamer. I am thankful for the blurring and modification as I don’t want to actually see what happens, but at the same time, I do. I do so very much. The Large Man pulls two, large rats out of his pockets. Their tails are as thick as ropes. The nasty clicking of their teeth is audible despite the victim’s (modulated) screams. The Large Man releases the rats and holds down the victim. The blur turns red. The terrible sounds con
tinue.
The Consortium play me four more videos. Each bedchamber is similar. Each death by rats is similar. The only difference is the size of the blurred out victim. The last one is distressingly small.
The projector goes quiet. I am breathing heavy and I wipe my eyes with a handkerchief. My shadow no longer stains the white curtain. The curtain raises.
Some members of the Consortium pantomime weeping and grief, others console them. One member separates from the group, and speaks. “We don’t yet know who The Large Man is.”
“May I?” I ask and pull out a small notebook. The notebook is red. “Are the rats—”
“As far as we’re concerned, our long standing truce with all of the City’s creatures, including the rats, remains in good standing.” The speaker’s tone is annoyed.
Problem Solvers aren’t supposed to ask questions of the Consortium. I know this, but I can’t help myself. I feel feverish with questions, with the idea of daring to ask questions and where those questions might lead. I ask, “Have the birds—”
I am interrupted again. “The birds either know nothing or they wish to remain neutral observers.”
“Do you fear that whomever this Large Man is, he is trying to start the war again?” This time, I am allowed to ask my presumptuous and potentially dangerous (to me) question.
“We fear nothing, Problem Solver. We want the truth and we want to know who The Large Man is and his whereabouts. That is what we want from you.”
“At your service. I know I’ve already overstepped my bounds, but in wanting to ensure that I fulfill my duties to their fullest, I’d like to ask if I will have permission to apply my skills in the field, if necessary. Do I have permission to confront and apprehend the Large Man myself, should the opportunity be presented?” Despite my longing to be out in the field and away from the Great Hall, the prospect of physical confrontation dizzies my head, but in a way that makes me smile. I know I shouldn’t be smiling. I look down, and away, as though hiding my eyes will keep my yearnings a secret.
The speaker doesn’t respond, so I continue. “While weapons and apprehension, if that is the correct word, are not my forte.” I pronounce forte, properly, as “fort,” as all Problem Solves have been trained to do. “I’m quite confident, if properly equipped, in my ability to handle the entirety of The Large Man problem, as it were.”
The speaker: “Once located, The Large Man will be confronted by members of the Army of White.”
“I understand, particularly given the potential diplomatic difficulties involved, I only would like to add—”
“That is most certainly enough! You will do as asked. We will supply you with all the information that you will need. We will ensure that you are well equipped for the task that is required of you.”
“Of course. At your service.”
* * *
Mr. C____ is dropped off at a curb in front of the Great Hall. He carries a plastic container of luke-warm broth and an umbrella even though it is no longer raining.
I am Mr. C____. I am dropped off at a curb in front the Great Hall. I carry a plastic container of luke-warm broth and an umbrella even though it is no longer raining. The umbrella is my weapon of choice, even if it isn’t very much of a weapon at all. Ahead are the Great Stairs that lead to the Great Hall. Foot traffic is light. The surrounding buildings are brightly lit but no one stands in their windows to look out at me. Still, I can’t help but feel watched, as though I’ve been marked by my assignment. The only problems that I can never solve are my own.
I look down and there’s a dead rat in the gutter. There are always dead rats in the gutter. Its body is flattened and desiccated. Flies and ants crawl in and out of empty eye sockets and its gaping mouth. An ant on its terrible yellow teeth. I nudge the rat with my foot. Insects scurry away but quickly regroup.
Problem Solvers are remade and trained to ignore our gut and remain coolly rational and devoted to data. I say out loud, as though speaking to the dead rat, “Without having consulted any further evidence than what the Consortium has already shown me, I think the rats are behind the Large Man attacks.” Sudden and powerful nausea buckles my knees and I drop the container of broth and it spills, washing the rat into a sewer drain. My body quivers, rejecting my announced intention toward bias as toxic, but the nausea ebbs, if not disappearing completely. I breathe, then stand shakily, and I scurry up the stairs to the Great Hall. At the top of the stairs, I look back to the street, and the discarded broth container, and I shudder with pleasure at the unpleasant memory of the bias-induced nausea.
The Great Hall’s interior remains cleared. I sit at my desk, which buckles under the weight of a new computer. The screen is in the shape of a crescent moon and pulses with the blue light of its electronic heartbeat. I have been granted unprecedented access to the Grid, surveillance video, government files (including the most recent FFCS—Flora Fauna Census and Survey—along with the closely monitored migratory analysis, sentience quotients, and hive-mind constants of the numerous superorganisms—all of which we have hard-earned peace pacts—within the city.), consumer data including voting records and political affiliations, employee and banking records. I feel appropriate awe at the infinite gathering of information and I imagine bytes of data parsed into quarks, and those data quarks are living organisms infesting every corner and crevice of my head. It’s a glorious nightmare.
The problem that has been assigned to me is extraordinary, and I’ve rationally concluded that my methods will have to be extraordinary as well. Extraordinary means unorthodox and anti-policy. So I begin with bias, my delicious bias. I begin with the rats. I being by assuming the rats are behind the murders of Consortium family members. I ask myself a question in a voice that crackles like a downed power line. “Why not simply murder the Consortium members themselves?” And I answer, “Because the rats don’t want the Consortium replaced, they want them to be afraid, and then be pliable, easily swayed, willing to compromise in the face of the terror of The Large Man’s attacks. The rats know that Consortium members can be easily replaced with hardliners who don’t have the albatross of loved ones.” I smile at this induction, this simply calculated dream of mine. As a Problem Solver, I’ve been designed to ignore dreams. I am a human algorithm, a program trained to find glitches in the code, the diamond in the data, and intuition and imagination are words belonging to a dead tongue.
I close my eyes. I breathe. I imagine the rats meeting in their secret meeting places and planning their secret plans, twitching their whiskers, folding their pink little hands, and I am there, in a corner of the dark underbelly of the sewers with the rats crawling and planning and planning and planning.
I am light-headed, drunk with this imagining, and I know I should stop, but I can’t. Only I can stop the rats. I am Mr. C____. Me, my newborn imagination, and my umbrella will find the Large Man they’ve coerced into their service and stop the rats and their attempted coup.
While in the throes of my reverie I maintain a modicum of procedure and build algorithms to begin sifting through the data, and I build algorithms for the algorithms until the computer is working by itself. On the computer monitor contoured to nearly wrap around my head this universe of information collapses down before my eyes into a singularity of a discovery, a singularity of a story.
Based in part on the shadowy stills culled from the videos of the attacks, the Large Man is Wenton Foles (a 95.45% probability match). He is thirty-seven-years old, an unemployed union machinist who is described by coworkers as having a fierce temper but unwavering loyalty, twice-divorced to the same woman who has since left the city after changing her name, a cribbage enthusiast, an amateur anarchist who once received a citation for purposefully flipping a one-way street sign so that it pointed to the sewers below. In recent years he’s taken to wearing a thick mustache and sideburns presumably to hide the facial features distorted by acromegaly, a once rare disease that results in unchecked growth of facial features. Four other union machinists have th
e same disease although they each believe that they suffer alone. Wenton is two weeks behind in rent. He was last seen alive purchasing flounders from the Market nine days ago. He is not eight feet tall. The change in height is puzzling, though perhaps that can be attributed to acromegaly or something as simple as platform shoes. The Large Man does not move well due to his physical abnormalities.
I also imagine that Wenton does not move well under the weight of his betrayal and guilt, and the weight of unhappiness. His trade, his training, his preordained station in life has yielded him divorce and disease, and what else? Perhaps he is thinking Why not help the rats? They couldn’t do worse than the current tenants of Parliament. No, there’s more to our Wenton, and if I were not to follow protocol and not simply report my findings and his name to the Army of the White I would then find out how much more there is to Wenton and his story. If I were to attempt to confront him myself, perhaps a few hours from now, when it’ll still be raining…as he tries to sneak out of his apartment’s back window, he had returned to his apartment for money or his fake ID or a picture of his ex-ex-wife, the one he still loves, but Mr. C____ is there sitting on the fire escape, the tip of his umbrella pointed at Wenton’s barrel-sized chest, Mr. C____ cruelly makes light of the mountainous terrain of the man’s morphing facial features to let Wenton know that Mr. C____ is not afraid of him, and that really, Mr. C____ only has to look at him a certain way and Wenton will then tell him everything he needs to know, Mr. C____ lies, telling Wenton that he paid a visit to his ex-ex-wife, the one who already told him everything he needed to know about Wenton, the one with a beauty mark that tickles her upper thigh, Wenton attempts to strike Mr. C____ but Mr. C____ swats it away nonchalantly, Mr. C____ then tells him that he knows of the acromegaly Wenton caught from a life spent inhaling and absorbing factory chemical fumes, and Mr. C____ knows of the years spent flirting with the underground, as though his lifestyle was a child’s dare, and Mr. C____ knows of the unpopular, unwelcomed, and exciting company he keeps, and Mr. C____ knows his bars and his alleys and what Wenton likes to drink and who he wants to fight and who he wants to fuck, and Mr. C____ knows that Wenton yearns for something more than what’s hidden in the sweet lies of a better life promised within the diaphanous whispers of the rats, Wenton listens and then promises to show Mr. C____ everything he’s learned from the rats, including how feeling pain is better than feeling nothing—
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