King's County

by James Carrick

  K was sort of a region in the building, not a true floor level. After leaving the cafe that morning, I went upstairs and noticed that the hallway connecting my room with the elevator only connected to one other room.

  There was a plain redwood door, like mine, with a nameplate on the side: Middlesex.

  I knocked and waited, then tried the knob. It turned easily. The lights inside came on automatically. The room was bare with polished blonde wood floors and similarly paneled walls. There was a door at the opposite end.

  The door opened to another short hallway. The ceiling was low and arched, seamless with the walls which were coated with a textured, gray, fake concrete paint. The place smelled of that paint. Sputtering thick glass fluorescent lights and layers of crude graffiti, all obviously done by the same hand, completed the attempt at replicating an old subway tunnel.

  Some more convincingly stained steps led down to another door. It was rusted and chipped, salvaged from some derelict structure, but it also opened easily. Braulio was there behind it.

  The room was octagonal with 5m high rectangular windows on one side displaying the downtown buildings and waterfront. The pale wood paneled walls opposite the windows were lined with odd, irregularly shaped sofas. On them lounged a half dozen women. Their faces were caked in starkly white makeup with big frowns painted on in brownish red. They wore flimsy ballet outfits with tights and looked drugged. Braulio stood at an easel wearing lavender striped cream pajamas and looking bored. He didn't bother to look up when I walked in.

  "Hola, Chao, Hello, or what-have-you." He said.

  I think one of the ballet girls rolled her eyes at him but it was hard to tell.

  "So, you’re the CO around here, am I right?" I said.

  "Yes, I am." He didn't take the bait. He stood in place, irritatingly calm, and continued making little dis-amused motions with the paint brush.

  I pitched myself on a sofa between two girls and put my arms around them.

  "Are you an artist, too?" I asked the one to my left. She drew her chin into her chest and glared at me. Both of them squirmed, contracting under my arms. I squeezed them in closer.

  She hissed like a cat and swiped at my face scratching my forehead. The other girl fled the room.

  Braulio sprayed his muse with a bottle of water, chiding her to be nice. She calmed down immediately, bowed her head, and sat primly on the sofa with her hands clasped on top of her legs crossed at the knees.

  I was impressed. Braulio and I went over to a recess in the wall that housed a small bar. Without offering or my asking he handed me a cold can of a sour fruity beer.

  "It's good. I've been drinking that red tagged stuff since I got here." I said.

  "Ahh. Be advised: It may stunt your growth as an artist." He said.

  "I'm no artist. Maybe you should know, I don't belong here and I didn't ask to be here. I got kicked out of the army just a few days ago, actually."

  "Well, there's time for you. There's no higher calling. Let me tell you about Gauguin."

  "Yes, I know. He started painting seriously later in life - in his thirties, I think. And he was in the navy as a young man, as well."

  Braulio was incredulous,

  "How would you know that? The erstwhile astronaut surprises."

  "I read and listened to audios while out in space. There was a lot of time for that. Not just art, all kinds of things." I said.

  His eyes narrowed and he raised his can, "I salute you then. Jackie said you might be interesting to know."

  Jackie was Clarke. Jack Clarke, Jackie, Jacko, or JCC, sometimes.

  Braulio invited me to take one of his ballet models into an adjacent bedroom then he excused himself, saying he'd return for me in a few hours. It was awkward for a moment, sitting there alone in that room. But I took the hand of the nearest one, the now tranquil face scratcher, and led her away. I got it over with as fast as possible.

  &

  The three of us stood around the table jabbering at each other. At regular intervals, Braulio pieced out the white powder in tiny little doses, keeping us going and adding an element of anticipation.

  "I am the bloody writer around here. I am the arbiter of the written word, as far as any of these idiots could ever know. None of these kids comes fucking close. I'm a GOD as far as they know."

  Clarke paused to light a smoke and blow a huge cloud above our heads,

  "Nothing to say - never. We've got, here's your students, look: ducks. Ducks. That's it. Ducks in the pond, ducks lined up, and out of fucking proportion to boot. Why would anyone care? I don't care. This is - what - what is it? It's totally bloody fucking insane."

  Clarke was foaming and starting to shake. I was beginning to see why Braulio was so careful with the white powder. I needed to change the subject,

  "What do you think I could do around here? I can't paint or draw. Maybe I could learn something, in enough time."

  Braulio’s eyes were tightened and watery from snorting the acrid powder. He motioned for me to lean in,

  "You worry, even now. I'm going to show you something. Jackie, you need to see this, too.” He waved his hands for attention, “Everyone get a fresh drink, we’re going out."

  &

  We walked out of the square and went east, away from the waterfront, through the vacant downtown. It was mid afternoon but cloudy enough that it was as dark as dusk. Clarke and Braulio chatted, walking smartly abreast while I followed and listened. My army boots squeaked a little on the damp sidewalk.

  I craned my neck up to get a look at the modified buildings. Giant banana trees hung out of a terrace on a high floor of what I think was once a condominium. Mist covered my face and ran salt into the corner of my mouth.

  "Roooff! Roooff, Roooff, Roooff!"

  "Howwwwwlll! HowHowHowww."

  Braulio and Clarke had stepped into the street and were making dog noises, harassing a group of three men on the opposite side.

  They looked like the market traders from the night before. They stopped walking to roar insults back at us. They called us queers.

  It escalated. I stayed put and watched them meet in the middle of the empty street. At about five meters they slowed and started circling. Dread was on all their faces. At this range, the taunts came more carefully, less frequently.

  Clarke lunged into the bunch whipping his thin hands at them in a few frantic slaps. Everyone in the scrum, Clarke included, recoiled at his attack, cringing, holding their arms up around their head.

  The shorter, stockier of the three traders made the next move. He kept his arms up as a shield as he advanced forward bent at the knees like he was walking into a hurricane. Clarke and Braulio both slapped at his arms but he stood his ground and weathered the blows.

  The slapping got more intense, their confidence was increasing. The trader was stuck in place. His friends panicked and ran. Clarke became frenzied. He alternated hitting with one hand after the other, raising them over his head and slapping his palms down onto the man’s reddening arms.

  The trader’s knees buckled and he went down. He was terrified; Braulio turned sick and whitened at the sight of it. Clarke was wild-eyed, his lungs heaved; he stopped swinging.

  The trader’s suit was ruined. Something in him broke. He began crying. His friends watched dumbly from the corner, far away at the end of the block. The fight was over - I pulled my friends back to the sidewalk to let him get away.

  &

  In the aftermath, I worked to calm them down. Clarke furiously chained smoked. I had to help him light the first one. Braulio killed his thermos can of whatever he was drinking then drank all of mine.

  The building we sought wasn’t far. Braulio’s card turned the lights green. The door clicked and cracked opened a bit for us.

  There was a foyer of dusty black marble. The fittings were of tarnished brass in an ornate style from the twentieth century. A bank of three elevators was at the end. At the middle one, Braulio pulled out his card again and it opened with an oily
slickness.

  Clarke was quiet. He seemed genuinely curious to find out why we had been brought here. Braulio didn't offer any explanation. We followed his lead, standing half-drunk in the confined space, still feeling the powder though its edge had dulled considerably.

  The door opened. Beyond the threshold was total darkness. Cold air filled the elevator. Braulio reached into a pocket on his khaki photographer’s jacket and brought out a small flashlight.

  We walked straight ahead in single file. Braulio kept the beam of white light on the ground in front of him so we couldn't see anything in the room. There was a sort of musty paper smell and a steady cool draft on my neck.

  After about a minute he stopped, so we stopped. He clicked the flashlight off.

  "Alright, boys, are you ready for this?" He said and then shouted, enunciating each word into the air above him, "LIGHTS ON!"

  All the lights came on at once. We were in an enormous room, much of the building’s footprint. The ceiling was seven or eight floors up. Junk was stacked thirty feet high on the sides.

  We stood in a narrow pathway going through a chest-high stack of framed paintings. Unframed paintings were heaped behind them like old carpets. There were sculptures of all kinds, most in an eclectic style, mostly a bunch of odd stuff glued or wired together. There were the blob like things, dogs and horses, lots of splatters and basic geometric shapes and patterns of lines, circles, triangles and grids; and whole installations: bedroom furniture, bloody toys, and naked light bulbs, everything gathered up and stuffed into boxes. Along one wall was a tangled mountain of paper mâché and colorful acrylic mobiles. In front of me were hundreds of abstract nudes done in oil paints. On the ground beneath the stack were a few small sculptures, paper mâché turtles. They caught my attention.

  I knelt down to examine them. One turtle's back foot was labeled with a name: Opal. When Clarke and Braulio weren't looking, I tore off the foot and put it in my pocket.

  *

  Space 2070

  The ship was not spinning. Everything in front of us was. We faced Jupiter in a controlled low orbit, lining up to catch the correct trajectory to take us home.

  The chips in our back wouldn't let us vomit. The high speed blur of boiling atmosphere brought on waves of nausea that came on suddenly, were quickly annihilated by our technologically enhanced hormones, and then returned in what to us in our slowed down condition felt like only seconds.

  "Ughh, Jesus Christ, this is getting old, man. Well, we can't speed up - it’ll take forever." Ed said.

  I closed my eyes but could still feel the presence loom. I swear I could feel its immense gravity overpowering our ship, pulling us into the core.

  "Hey! Wake up, Captain. Take your medicine." Ed reached out to hold a blue capsule under my face. His southern accent was in effect.

  "What is it?" I said and took it and swallowed.

  "Vitamin. Say, what did you think of that Moby Dick?"

  "Well, it was great. You wouldn't think whaling was so interesting."

  "Yeah, so I heard. A lot of bad stuff happened out there, though. Bad stuff. That captain in the story - he goes crazy, right?" Ed said.

  "Yes, you could say that." I said.

  "Yeah. Yeah, you know I can't say I don't understand. Out there at sea, stuck on that ship for so long. Way out there. You know? It might just kind of do things to a man. You think, Captain?"

  I didn't like this. I was getting anxious. I wasn't going crazy. Why was he saying this stuff? I could feel my body sweating, beading and running down my back - that wasn't supposed to happen,

  “You think...I don't know. I guess you take your chances on a trip like that.” I said.

  "OK, son. Oh... well now." Ed was distracted by something in his HUD, "I'm not wanting to make a guess. Well, I’m thinking we might know something soon enough anyway."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" I said. Ed ignored my nasty tone.

  "We might have a little hole in the old screen door here." Ed started to rapidly move his eyes, opening and closing files in his HUD. The screens blinked. Ed was the cool expert. But whatever it was wasn't getting better.

  "Get ready, son." Ed said.

  A wave of overpowering fear shot through me. Actual trouble? Everything was still at 70-80x speed. Our ship decoupled from Jupiter and whipped out of orbit. My stomach rippled and clenched into a wet rubber ball. This wasn't right.

  We saw Io. Our path was converging with it. There was a huge eruption bursting through the surface crust, spewing molten matter out of its own gravity and into space.

  "The other chunk of Hektor did that!" Ed screamed. "We’re losing it!"

  "What’s wrong! What’s going on!" I said.

  "We’ve lost control. Oh - we’re done. I don't believe it. We’re going in, Cap. Oh god, we’re going in." Ed said.

  I was too terrified to think. Ed started whimpering like some small animal. The console emitted a sharp beeping. We could only sit and watch Io get larger in the window.

  "Do you love me?" Ed said finally.

  I didn't answer him. He asked again.

  "I want to know, do you love me? We’ve been together for 5 years now. I love you, Captain Waller."

  "I don't know. OK, sure. Why not."

  "Thank you." He said and was quiet for awhile. The console beeped faster and a light overhead started flashing red. There was nothing I could think to do. We were going to die at 80x perceived speed.

  We passed through the plume of Io’s volcano. Ejecta rushed past at an incredible rate. We were going inside. My pulse sounded in my ears like ripping fabric. I checked the HUD: 165 beats per minute.

  "Will you do something for me? Please? Captain - please, before we die." Ed said. I hate that hick accent.

  "What is it, Major?" I said.

  "Please, don't be mad. Will you touch me? I want you to touch me. I love you, Captain. Will you just reach your hand over here?" He said. His voice was high and breaking.

  "No, Major. I don't, I really don't want to do that."

  "What does it matter now? Just put your hand on it. I want you to be holding me as we die. Please. Just please." He was crying, sobbing. It was getting darker inside the volcano.

  "Goddamnit! This is fucked up, Major!"

  "Please do it now! For me. I love you!" That whimpering sound started again, louder than before.

  "OK! OK! I'll do it if you shut the fuck up!"

  The console went back to normal. All of the flashing lights and alarms stopped.

  "You will?" Ed said. His voice was calm and curious. There was no trace of fear or the Texas accent. We started rising out of the volcano.

  "Well, Captain, it's good to know that you're there for me, I guess. How about we don't speak of this again, what do you say?" He said. "Oh, and watch out for those blue ones. Another purple might set you straight, though."

  “You're an idiot.”

  He cracked up laughing and didn't stop for a week until we were well away from the Jupiter system. Asshole. Looking back, I should have just sped myself back up to get away from him.

  When Hektor’s half hit Io, the mission plan was altered to observe the impact and aftermath. I didn't know this, of course. Ed did and he was allowed partial control of the module.

  For the next few months, I was too pissed to talk to him but I got over it. We had a long ride back to Earth, a lot longer than the way there. And I had to admit it wasn’t that bad a joke.

  *

  WA 2092

  Clarke wandered around the huge storage room slowly nodding with his mouth open. He was ecstatic, beyond laughter.

  "They tell them it's going to Africa, like it's part of the reconstruction. Now you know." Braulio said explaining to me.

  We were soon back out on the street. It was wet and dark enough for the streetlights to come on. Clarke walked out ahead of us, and suddenly spun around,

  "You really think ya’re hot shit, don’t ya, mate?" Clarke had been taking regular hits off of
an unmarked plastic inhaler, "I saw what you did back there. What is that, soldier boy?"

  He walked up to me, narrowing his eyes. Braulio watched like a stone, hiding behind his thick beard.

  "So what are you up to then, eh, private? I wanna know why-you’re-here. You obviously ain't no artist. You’re here to spy on us."

  Clarke took a step closer and jabbed a thin finger into my chest. I cut off his next words. I grabbed the finger and twisted it until he screamed.