by Bryan Smith
After a while, Carolyn returned with glasses and bottles of wine…and a little vial of pills. The pills were X. Which Mike hadn’t taken since his college days nearly a decade ago. But tonight he accepted the X with eagerness. It would make getting through this so much easier. His anger would melt away. For a while he would feel almost deliriously happy. A crash would come later, of course, but for now he needed this. And he consumed the wine--which was very good and expensive--with equal enthusiasm. In time, the substances worked their magic and he actually began to enjoy himself. The occasional resurfacing of the memory of what he had done to Donnie Wilkerson never lasted more than an insignificant moment. He got caught up in the music, the trance-y doom metal having given way to thumping industrial goth. He danced and laughed and whirled about the room. Before the night was done, he had sex again. First with Carolyn, then with the leggy brunette whose name he didn’t know. And again with Marnie, but by then he didn’t care who his partner was, just that he had another warm body against his own. The night lengthened toward dawn and still the party rolled on and on.
When he woke up later that morning, he didn’t remember it having ended.
8.
He came to with a jolt some hours later. There was an instant awareness of something horrible having occurred and he tried telling himself it had all been a drug-induced dream. But one look around the living room at all the passed-out nude Satanists brought the awful reality screaming back to the forefront of his mind. Here was irrefutable evidence of all the crazy sex stuff he hazily recalled. It wasn’t much of a leap from there to acceptance of the more clearly remembered bloodshed in the garage.
The axe. That heavy blade. All that blood. The mutilation of Donnie Wilkerson’s poor old body…
All real.
Thereafter his mind focused with laser intensity on a single, all-consuming goal--getting the hell out of this madhouse before anyone else woke up. As best he could tell, he was the first to regain consciousness, a supremely lucky break and one he meant to take advantage of without delay. Still, he would have to exercise considerable caution in order to slip away unnoticed, as there were many complications to overcome. He was still nude. And Carolyn was lying snuggled up next to him, with an arm draped across his midsection. He gently took hold of her wrist and lifted her arm slowly off his belly. He then shifted onto his hip and very carefully rolled her onto her back. A panicky moment ensued when her eyes fluttered and seemed about to open. He still had hold of her wrist as he observed this potential complication. She yawned and stretched her body out, causing him to grimace as he maintained his loose grip on her wrist. Then she went still again and appeared to settle back into deep sleep. No more eye flutters. He lowered her arm as carefully as he’d raised it and got to his feet.
Aw, shit.
His head was swimming and his face was still sore from the pounding he had taken. Also, he felt sick to his stomach. Something was roiling around in there. He had a dim recollection of gorging on sloppily prepared food at some point during the night. Some kind of gruesome wee hours culinary concoction involving meatballs, noodles, queso dip, and a jar of jalapeno peppers. Among other things. Some serious time on a toilet likely awaited him in his near future. It was only a matter of time before his body rebelled and started shooting it out one orifice or another. Yet another reason to make fucking haste.
Finding his clothes was the next order of business. He couldn’t very well go running out to his car stark naked. Well, perhaps as a last resort. No way was he sticking around if anyone displayed signs of imminent wakefulness. In that event, he would say fuck this shit, grab his keys from the kitchen, and go. What was the worst that could happen? A citation for indecent exposure, maybe, but even that was unlikely if he moved fast enough.
Still, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. There were discarded garments seemingly everywhere. However, a frantic scan of the floor quickly turned up his jeans and shirt. He threaded his way through the naked bodies, snatched his clothes up, and hurriedly pulled them on, followed by his shoes. Another look around confirmed everyone else was still asleep. He was very close to pulling this thing off. Retrieving his keys from the kitchen was the only thing left to do.
The kitchen was a disaster area. Empty bottles and cans everywhere. Spilled food on the floor, the last remnants of that crazy Frankenstein meal. He nearly slipped in a puddle of milk--milk?--on his way to the counter. He pinwheeled his arms for a scary, vertigo-inducing moment before managing to right himself. Then he grabbed his keys from the counter and got out of the house as fast as he could. His plan was to drive somewhere far away. Far enough that he could sit somewhere in peace, with no expectation of being disturbed by anyone he knew and think about how to handle what had happened--and about what to do next. But as soon as he stepped out onto the porch out front he knew he wouldn’t be doing that.
Marnie craned her head around and smiled up at him from the top step as he came through the front door. “Hi, Mike.”
“Hi.”
So he had been wrong about being the first one up. Marnie looked surprisingly bright-eyed and perky for someone who had been up partying all night. She was dressed and had even had time to fix her hair and makeup. He cursed himself for his shortsightedness. He hadn’t even noted her absence in the living room. If he had just taken an extra moment or two to get a better lay of the land…
Well…then what?
Nothing, probably.
He would have been just as trapped as he was now.
“Shut the door, Mike, and have a seat.”
She patted the step beside her.
He thought about making a run for his car anyway, but dropped the idea when he saw she was holding a partially concealed gun between her legs. He doubted Marnie would shoot him right out here in broad daylight, at least he didn’t think she would. But it was hard to tell about anything anymore, especially where she was concerned. He figured the gun was just there to encourage him to listen to her and do as she said. And at that it fulfilled its purpose.
He eased the door shut and lowered himself onto the step next to her. “Nice day.”
She grunted. “Yeah.”
The sky was clear and the air was alive with the usual sounds of a weekend in the suburbs. From somewhere nearby came the sound of a lawnmower. Dogs were barking and kids were playing. A minivan drove by in the street and turned into a driveway a few houses down, disgorging even more noisome kids. It was all so grotesquely normal. The things that had happened in the house behind him last night shouldn’t happen in this kind of setting. It was an offense against all that was right and good in the world.
Marnie looked at him. “Trying to slip away, eh?”
Mike didn’t deny it. Why bother with an obvious lie? He nodded at the gun. “Would you really shoot me?”
She didn’t answer that question. Didn’t say anything at all to him for a few moments as she watched the minivan mom down the street get her rambunctious kids together and hustle them inside the house.
Then she stood up and held a hand out to him. “Give me your keys.”
Mike stared at her.
“That wasn’t a request.”
He stared at her a moment longer, then heaved a resigned sigh and handed over the keys. “What now?”
“Get up. We’re going for a ride.”
9.
It was a strange thing being driven around in your own car. There was something almost emasculating about it. He wondered if that might not be part of the point. Or maybe it was a way of illustrating how he had surrendered control of his life over to the cult. But as they traveled to various locations within the city it became clear there was a simpler explanation--Marnie knew exactly where she was going and didn’t want to be bothered with the tedium of giving him directions.
That sick feeling of dread he remembered from the night before recurred as he watched her turn down a familiar series of streets leading to an inevitable destination. Their first stop was a small apartment buildin
g. She parked at the curb outside and opened her purse to remove a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Menthols. She smoked one down to the filter without saying anything. Mike normally didn’t allow smoking in his car, but this time he made no protest. He was too disturbed to care. His sister and her new husband had moved into this building only a month ago. He was pretty sure he had never mentioned this fact to Marnie during any of their recent conversations.
Marnie flicked the cigarette butt out the window, put the car in gear, and drove across town to another familiar location. She pulled into the parking lot outside the retirement complex where his mother lived on the second floor. Again, she didn’t say a word as she lit another cigarette and smoked it all the way down. After that, she drove him to a handful of other locations scattered about town, each of which held a personal significance for him. He wanted to tell her there was no need, because by then he was getting the point, but his anxiety was such that he kept his mouth shut as she finished her tour of the town.
She remained silent until she returned to Nadia’s neighborhood and parked in the same spot at the curb they had vacated an hour earlier. She patted her purse and looked at him. Her gun was nestled in there next to the cigarettes. “I won’t shoot you, Mike. I like you too much for that. Truly. But I don’t have the same level of affection for your sister, your mother, your fucking grandparents, or your goddamned childhood best friend. Got it?”
Mike was trying hard not to hyperventilate. “Yeah. I…listen--”
“Be quiet.”
Mike closed his mouth and winced as his upset stomach churned again.
Marnie reached out and touched his knee, making him jump a little. “You’re one of us, Mike, and you will be until you die. There is no escape. Ever. Understand?”
He nodded, but he was shaking.
This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He was a free man. A citizen with all the rights and liberties of anyone else. And like any other free person, he should be allowed to determine the course of his own life, including the people with whom he chose to associate. But even as he thought these things, he understood they were no longer strictly true. He belonged to this cult now. This goddamned Diabolical Conspiracy. They owned him. It made him want to scream, to rage against the injustice, but he knew no amount of screaming would change anything.
“If you ever give me reason to doubt your commitment to the cause, I’ll return to each of those places we visited today. And the next time you see any of those people, it’ll be in a fucking casket. Understand?”
He looked at her, trembling as he met her unwavering gaze. “Have…have you killed people before?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. And was that even a hint of pride he detected in her tone? He thought it was. For sure there was more than a trace of smugness in her hard expression. She had killed people, hell yes, and she was proud of it.
She removed the key from the ignition and tossed the key ring to Mike. “It’s like Nadia told you last night. Just give yourself over to this. Embrace it. You truly have no choice. And don’t think of warning your loved ones because we’ll definitely get wind of it.” She smiled and touched his knee again. “You can pick me up at six tonight.”
“What?”
“Pick me up at six. At my place. Is there a problem?”
“Um…” He sighed and shook his head. “No problem…so to speak…I’m just curious as to why I’m picking you up. You guys aren’t having another meeting already, are you? I couldn’t handle this shit on a nightly fucking basis, no matter what.”
“Relax, there won’t be a meeting for a while.” She squeezed his knee and winked at him. What the fuck? “You’re picking me up because you’re taking me to dinner. And then to a movie. My choice, of course.”
Mike had no idea what to say to this. A real date with Marnie was the thing he had wanted most for many months. But now that it was actually happening, it was just about the last thing in the world he wanted. It was strange how the world turned sometimes. Actually, it was pretty fucked up. How in hell was he supposed to make polite dinner conversation with someone who had just threatened to murder his entire family?
She touched his face, stroked his cheek with her fingertips. “I know what you’re thinking and you need to relax. You’re only getting what you always wanted, after all.” She leaned toward him as her hand slipped behind his neck and pressed him closer. “Now kiss me, bitch.”
He kissed her.
There was nothing else he could do. It was like she said, he had to embrace what was happening.
The kiss became heated, unexpectedly passionate under the circumstances. She broke it off briefly at one point and searched his face, her eyes blazing with intensity. “Say you love Satan.”
He told her what she wanted to hear.
“Say it like you mean it.”
So he said it again, striving to infuse his voice with a conviction he didn’t really feel. She made him repeat it several more times.
And each time it got easier to say.
10.
Three months later…
The last call of the day came through at six minutes before quitting time. Mike knew the person on the other end of the line would be a problem caller before she even uttered a word. Three and a half long, soul-killing years on the job had honed his instincts to a sharpness that bordered on telepathy. It was very similar to the way Nadia seemed able to read the minds of conspiracy members, except along a narrower, more specialized path. He heard it in the quick little intake of breath the caller took before launching into a high-volume, barely intelligible tirade about supposedly poor customer service. The moment he heard that he knew what was coming and knew chances were strong he wouldn’t be clocking out for at least another half hour. And he was right. Of course he was. By now he knew every customer type so well he could almost recite everything they might feasibly say ahead of time. This included anticipation of inflection of voice and at which juncture in the conversation they would insert certain stock phrases, including--but certainly not limited to--all-time top-of-the-charts favorites such as “I want to speak to a manager!”, “Isn’t there anyone there higher up than you?”, “I’m reporting you to the Better Business Bureau!”, and (his personal favorite) “I’ll never do business with your company again!”
One could only hope.
Thirty-five hellishly tedious minutes later he was able to wrap the exchange up after offering the customer free shipping on her next order and a one-time use twenty percent discount code. He counted this as a personal victory, as he always did any time he was successfully able to avoid allowing a customer to badger him into giving them something they didn’t deserve. Because he did consider himself at war with the legions of spoiled, entitled assholes out there. Most of them figured they could get something for free if they screamed loud enough, and maybe they could if they lucked into talking to a newer--and more easily intimidated--rep. But Mike was a battle-hardened veteran of the customer service wars and would not put up with that shit. Every now and then someone would call in with a legitimate gripe. Those were equally easy to instantly recognize and, funnily enough, those people were usually far calmer than the sanctimonious, screeching pricks he had to deal with much of the time. He was happy to accommodate the people in this sadly smaller category of callers, and he treated them with the respect they deserved. But when it came to the screamers, he did not fuck around. He allowed them to scream and vent for as long as they liked--and often that was a very long time indeed--but he never budged from the position he knew to be right.
It was a tough, hard-earned mindset.
So it was a pity that mental toughness didn’t carry over into certain other areas of his life, such as dealing with the Diabolical Conspiracy. That was how he thought of it in his head, with capital letters--with the same emphasis all the other conspiracy members used when they spoke the name aloud. He followed their lead in that regard, just as he did with every other aspect of cult membership. But every day
he wrestled with the urge to stand up and take some kind of action against the group. His conscience told him he should do something. Maybe even take his story to the cops, as daunting as he found that prospect.
The mayor’s disappearance was big news and the source of endless speculation. The host of theories offered up covered a wide spectrum of highly unlikely fates for a small city mayor. Some posited that Donnie Wilkerson had been the target of a Jimmy Hoffa-style mob hit, while others said he had split town with a secret mistress and a stash of embezzled city funds. It didn’t matter that there was no evidence to support any of this. The media abhors an information vacuum--particularly when the vacuum exists at the center of a major story--so sometimes it simply manufactures “facts” of its own. Mike found it morbidly amusing that none of the wild stories circulating even approached the sheer insanity of the truth.
He could put a stop to it all any time. Today, even. Right now. He was thinking of this yet again as he finally exited the call center and trudged across the now half-empty parking lot toward his car. Though there was a veritable sea of open spaces now, his car was where he’d left it early this morning, at a very distant corner of the lot. The first shift was always the most fully staffed and the lot had been nearly full then. There was a lot of noise and bustle in the morning as his co-workers hurried to make it inside and be ready at their desks before the start of their shifts. Now, though, all was eerily quiet. The dismal gray sky overhead and the slight nip in the air contributed to an atmosphere of oppressive gloom. It made him uptight. And paranoid. He glanced over his shoulder more than once, half-expecting to see Diabolical Conspiracy spies shadowing his every move. Which was absurd, but he couldn’t help it. Ever since that disturbing morning drive with Marnie following his first conspiracy meeting, a large part of him had felt like he was living in a deeply strange satanic version of an espionage novel.