“Where do you want us to take him?”
“Are you familiar with the Yellow Line?”
Donovan thought for a moment. “The subway?”
“Correct. It is not in use anymore. I prefer it due to its level of discretion.” Dullington paused, allowing a hiss of static to fill the space. “You might say it also possesses a certain liminal quality. Appropriate, I think.”
“Anything else?”
“I believe that is all, Mr. Candle. My associates will be waiting for you at the entrance.”
A rush of white noise filled his ear before the click. Donovan stared at the phone’s blank screen. It was dead again.
“Well?”
He looked up at his brother. “She’s at the subway.”
“The subway?” Michael frowned. “Which one?”
“The Yellow Line.”
“Christ. It’s been out of service for years.”
“I know. Can you get us there?”
Michael started the car and let its engine answer for him. He turned around in the parking lot and entered traffic.
“Why the subway?” he asked. “Of all the places ...”
Donovan shrugged, watching as they returned to the city. A subway, he thought, is in a constant state of transition. It’s always between two points. Always liminal.
Liminal. That word again. He decided he would be happy if he could live the rest of his life without hearing that word.
Dr. Sparrow stirred, whimpering quietly to himself. Donovan looked back at the old man and thought about his words. You’ll end up right back there with me in the end. Too many people refuse to change. It occurred to him that this was his only chance. Getting Donna back from Dullington was his first priority, but he’d let her down if he didn’t make it through this, too. He’d cheated her enough over the years. It was time to atone and make things up to her.
Michael was about to turn onto the bypass and take the shorter route when Donovan asked him not to.
“Why? This is faster.”
“Trust me.”
“All right,” Michael said, shrugging. He guided the car out of the turn-lane and moved on toward the city.
It was the opposite of what Donovan would’ve done, and that was precisely the point. For the first time since the flickering began, he felt a strange sense of peace come over him. It felt right, doing what he was doing, even if it scared him to death.
His fear was a simple fear of the unknown. For the first time in his life, Donovan Candle learned to accept that fear. He embraced it.
As they drove on through the city, Donovan made a silent commitment to Donna, to himself. From now on, he would choose to take the path less traveled. A life transparent was not one he wanted to live, and he would do everything he could to prove Dr. Sparrow wrong.
• 11 •
A STATE OF LOVE AND LIMINALITY
Movement, and footsteps. Donna opened her eyes just as a dark shape knelt beside her. Her heart skipped a couple of beats.
“Mrs. Candle?”
It was Alice. Donna looked up at her, tried to make out her face. Firelight cast dancing shadows upon the wall of the room, giving the young woman’s cheeks a faint, orange outline that traced a smile in the dark.
Donna tried to sit up, wincing as her limbs woke in agony. Alice put a hand behind Donna’s neck to help.
“He’s coming,” Alice said, and for the first time in a day, Donna broke her vow of silence. Her voice cracked.
“Donnie?”
There was a quick tearing sound, and Donna discovered she could move her legs again. Alice helped her to her feet.
“We’re moving you to the meeting place. You’ll see him very soon.”
• • •
“Is that it?”
Michael brought the car to a stop alongside a building that used to house a small department store. Its display windows were shattered and boarded up. Graffiti artists had claimed those boards as their own, marking them with bright neon colors and insignias.
Across the street was an entrance ramp. A sign stood beside it, its letters faded, featuring a yellow circle in its center.
“That looks like the place,” Donovan said, surveying their bleak surroundings. Since construction of the highway bypass over thirty years ago, this previously bustling portion of town had dwindled, dried up, and finally died. Most of the city’s crimes were committed in the South district, and even the cops were hesitant to venture its cracked, transient-ridden streets after dark. Donovan and Michael had the advantage of an overcast afternoon sky, but not much else.
Michael shut off the engine and looked at Donovan.
“Do we know what we’re doing?”
A cold tendril snaked its way around his gut. “No, Mike, I don’t think we do.”
Michael checked both guns, then handed his brother the revolver. Donovan took it with reservation, afraid to put his finger anywhere near the trigger. He’d decided in the last 24 hours that he didn’t like guns very much.
“When did you get this thing?”
Michael shrugged. “A few years ago. Figured it might come in handy.”
“Has it?”
“You tell me.” They exchanged nervous smiles. Dr. Sparrow mumbled in his sleep.
Donovan looked back at the old man, noting his helplessness, and his stomach lurched. A hint of bile rose in the back of his throat. Can I do this? The answer came, as it always did, from Joe Hopper: Sure you can, hoss. What other choice do you have? Now get to it.
“I guess we should wake up Sleeping Beauty.”
They got out of the car. Michael opened the passenger door.
“Hey, doc.” He slapped Sparrow’s cheeks. “Rise and shine.”
Dr. Sparrow’s eyes opened into narrow slits. He winced as he sat up, touching a hand to his forehead. He looked at the brothers for a moment, then at his surroundings. Everything came back to him.
“You hit me.”
“I did.” Michael took him by the arm. “Get out of the car.”
Donovan turned his attention to the subway entrance across the street. The flickering overcame him, revealing a street teeming with Cretins and Yawning. The creatures separated, forming a path toward the stairs. Donna was down there in the dark. His heart began to pound.
When the Spectrum’s colors bled their way into reality, Donovan turned to find Dr. Sparrow staring at him.
“It won’t be long,” he snickered. “You’re going to fade right into oblivion.”
Donovan gripped the revolver. “We’ll see about that.”
They crossed the street in a single-file line. Donovan led the way, while Michael took up the rear. He pushed the barrel of his gun into the small of Dr. Sparrow’s back.
A gate barred their entrance at the bottom of the stairs. Donovan pulled on it, but it did not budge. A padlock was affixed to the handle from the inside.
No. He gripped the bars and pulled as hard as he could. Not now, he thought. I’m so close.
He cursed as he shook the bars, sending an echo down into the darkness beyond. His legs weakened and he collapsed to his knees, his fingers still wrapped around the bars.
Sparrow chuckled. It rose slowly within his tiny frame, increasing in volume, transforming into a cruel, maniacal cackling that caught Donovan off guard. Donovan glared up at him. A new strength found its way to his legs. He was on his feet and at the old man’s throat within seconds, but Michael was faster. He held his brother back.
“Don’t.”
Donovan clutched at Sparrow’s collar. For a brief moment there was fear in the old man’s eyes, but it quickly faded. He smiled.
“Listen to him, Donovan. If Dullington wants me alive, you’d do well to mind him.”
Donovan stepped back. He leaned against the concrete wall, took a breath, and ran his hands through his hair.
What would Joe Hopper do? he thought. What would I do?
He looked at the gate and its padlock, then remembered his pistol. Michael connect
ed the dots just as Donovan moved toward the bars.
“If you’re thinking about shooting the lock, I wouldn’t do it.”
Donovan looked back at his brother. “Why not? I’ve seen it—”
“In movies. So have I. But if you shoot that lock, all you’ll do is damage it, and then no one’s getting it open.”
He looked down at the lock. So much for that idea.
“Do you know how to pick locks?”
Michael shook his head. “Maybe there’s another entrance. Keep an eye on him—I’ll be right back.”
“Mike—”
But Michael was already halfway up the steps. When he reached street level, he looked down at Donovan and winked, though the gesture did little to alleviate the panic welling up inside him. After all he’d gone through to get to this point, Donovan could not help but feel defeated. Doubt crept into his thoughts. Had Dullington set him up to fail? Did he even intend to follow through with his part of the deal?
The gray sight returned, painting the world in Monochrome shades. Dr. Sparrow shone through, a malignant beacon in an otherwise unremarkable landscape. When he flickered back, Donovan found the good doctor watching him.
Donovan sat on the steps. He kept the revolver in plain sight to ensure there were no illusions between them. He might not be able to kill Sparrow, but he realized he would have no problem putting a bullet in the man’s leg.
“It’s happening,” Sparrow said, “and it’s only going to get worse.” He nodded to the gate. “And do you think he’ll really give back your wife? Once he gets what he wants, he’ll fuck you over just like the rest of them.”
The rest of them. Donovan let the doctor’s words sink in. He remembered Sparrow’s analogy about negative spaces. How many times had he given a homeless person more than a hurried glance? There were invisible men and women inhabiting every part of the city, in every part of the country, and no one acknowledged them. How many of them were Dullington’s slaves?
The prospect of millions lost in the Monochrome terrified him.
“Are there really others?”
Sparrow rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “More than you could ever imagine. People like you, with meaningless lives, born with no real purpose, and obscured by their own mediocrity.”
“Is that why you wrote your book?”
Dr. Sparrow looked down at him. He seemed genuinely surprised. “Why do you think I wrote my book?”
“I’d like to believe you wanted to help people. To warn them.”
Sparrow scoffed. “I don’t care about people. I don’t care about you. The book is eighty thousand words of bullshit wrapped in a neat package and marketed to people who think they want to better their lives. Help people? Please.” He shook his head. “People are insects. They don’t give a shit. They don’t want to better themselves. They only want to eat, fuck, and watch reality television.”
Donovan frowned. “I’m not like that.”
“And I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t be here if that were true.”
He thought about this. I just want to support myself and my wife. Maybe a child some day, too. Days before, if asked, Donovan would have said he wanted life with all its material perks. He would’ve wanted that promotion at his job, which in the scheme of things meant only a few more pennies on the hour. And what good would that do? He would just use it as a reason to strive for even more he couldn’t have. Donna was right: it was never enough for him.
Donovan realized these things weren’t all he wanted out of life. Not really. A flash of Donna’s smiling face in his mind confirmed what he already knew.
“I just want to be happy,” he whispered.
“Ah, happiness,” Sparrow said. “Society raises you to believe it’s attainable. They show you their view of what happiness is, and then they set you free to find your own. ‘Go, find happiness.’ It’s the greatest con of all.”
“Con?”
“Of course. I figured a man of your apparent intelligence would recognize that. It’s a rigged game, kid. The happiness we’re taught to buy doesn’t exist. We’re all running in place trying to snatch the carrot dangling out of reach. People sacrifice their lives for something they can never have. Some of them—the worst of them—end up like us.” He rubbed absently at the wound on his forehead. “Tell me, how long have you been a salesman?”
Donovan felt the heat of embarrassment, but found no reason to run from the truth any longer. There was no point in lying to himself or Sparrow.
“Nine years,” he said. “Nine long, fruitless years.”
“And here you are. I saw you flickering. It’s how you’re going to pay for your greatest crime.”
“What are you talking about? What crime?”
“A crime against your own humanity. You’ve squandered your life by not reaching your own potential as a human being. That’s what brought me to the Monochrome, and that’s what will inevitably happen to you. Yours has become a life transparent.”
Donovan smirked. “Is that a line out of your book?”
“No.” Sparrow’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not.”
Footsteps above broke the tension between them. Michael Candle jogged down the steps and caught his breath.
“I found another entrance,” he said, “but it was locked up, too.”
Donovan’s heart sank. He looked back at the gate, wishing he had a crowbar or—
A beam of light traced across the wall, revealing markings of graffiti and cracks in the concrete. The light bobbed up and down, growing brighter as it neared. Donovan rose to his feet and took a step toward the gate.
“What the hell is that?” Michael asked, but Donovan said nothing. He and Sparrow looked into the darkness beyond the bars. A pale circle of light came into view, bobbing its way toward them.
“Donovan Candle?” asked a voice. It was weak, quiet. At first Donovan wasn’t sure if he should answer. When the voice called out to him again, he walked to the gate and spoke.
“Y-Yes,” he said. “I’m here.”
A young man stepped forward, squinting into the daylight. He held a flashlight in his hand.
Donovan got a good look at him. He was dressed in a tattered button-down dress shirt and torn khakis. Half of a tie hung from his neck. He looked, in all ways, like absolute hell, and that’s when Donovan realized he was staring at one of Dullington’s casualties.
• • •
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Joel.”
Donovan glanced at his brother, who remained on the steps. He shrugged.
“Joel. Do you know why we’re here?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Mr. Dullington told us to expect you. He said you’d be nearby, and here you are.” He shifted his gaze over Donovan’s shoulder, toward the old man. “Is this Dr. Sparrow?”
Sparrow glared at him. Joel offered a weak smile and looked back at Donovan.
“Very good,” he said, producing a key from his pocket. “I’ll let you through.”
“Where is my wife?” His words sounded rushed, more panicked than Donovan expected, and he tried to get a grip on himself.
Joel ignored his urgency. He opened the padlock and pushed open the gate. It swung back with a shrill cry of agony that echoed down into the dark. He looked back at the trio and pointed his flashlight at the shadows.
“This way.”
Donovan hesitated, then took a breath and entered. The air was stale, musty. This must be what a tomb smells like, he thought, turning back to face the opening. Michael lowered the handgun and pushed it against Sparrow’s back.
“Easy does it, old timer.”
Sparrow waited at the threshold, glaring into the darkness. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and there was slight tremble in his chin. He caught Donovan’s eye just before stepping into the darkness.
“This is going to haunt you, Donovan Candle. I’m going to haunt you.” Sparrow’s words echoed down the stairwell. Donovan thought about responding, bu
t the words faltered on his tongue.
Once Michael was inside, Joel closed the gate and engaged the padlock. He pointed the flashlight at Sparrow, forcing the old man to back away and squint.
“I’ve heard much about you, Dr. Sparrow. The master said you might try to run.”
Sparrow flashed a smile. “Your master was right.”
He moved fast, shoving his elbow into Michael’s gut. Donovan was still looking down into the darkened stairwell, and when he looked back at the commotion he was blinded by daylight pouring across the threshold.
Michael’s gun clattered on the floor. Sparrow snatched it up, spun on his heels, and was about to fire at the young man, but Michael was faster. He growled, grabbing the old man’s arm just as the gun went off. The shot filled the cavern, amplifying into a small explosion that made Donovan’s ears ring.
“I won’t go back!” Sparrow screamed. He used his free arm to claw at Michael’s face as the two men struggled into the shadows. Donovan lifted the revolver, but he couldn’t find a clean shot. Not that it would have made a difference—his heart was pounding like a jackhammer, and his hands shook along with it.
Joel pointed the light into the darkness of the shrouded tunnel, searching for the two men. They could be heard scuffling, but the beam of light failed to reveal them. Donovan muttered under his breath and stepped into the dark. Joel followed, lighting the way.
Finally, after a moment of searching, they heard Michael shout. They found him at the next landing. He knelt on the ground, a hand to his jaw.
“The son of a bitch clocked me.”
Donovan did not waste any time. He snatched the flashlight from Joel’s hands and descended the steps two at a time. Michael called out to him, but he did not stop. His body moved with a will all its own.
The beam danced across the walls, compounding his confusion and panic. Find him, his mind screamed. If Sparrow got away, Donna was done for. That thought raced laps across his brain as he moved down to the subway terminal.
The stairwell finally opened up into a larger cavern littered with garbage and other human detritus: broken furniture, bags of trash, food wrappers, discarded cans. A fire in an old refuse barrel illuminated the room, casting dancing shadows across its walls. Donovan concentrated his flashlight along the floor, following the beam of light to a token booth, its windows shattered and door smeared with years of grime. The smell of the place made his head swim. It stank of dried waste, and he wondered how long it had been since the transients—the Missing—had made this place their home.
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