Andrew took another sip, and as Martin stuffed his hands back into his pockets—which unfortunately had filled with frigid winter wind in their absence, he noticed with a muted sense of alarm that Andrew’s drink was almost gone.
“Well,” Andrew slurred, “we’ll solve that Monday morning, or we’ll wave bye-bye to Franklin and Hammer-Fiske.”
Martin clucked his teeth with his tongue, looking away into the snow speckled night, debating what to say next. Andrew wasn’t drunk enough yet to miss the conflict on the agent’s face, and he asked tightly, “What aren’t you telling me?”
Martin fought with himself for several more seconds, and then said regretfully, “Listen, Andrew, before you march into the Pinnacle Building Monday morning with your hangover-powered howitzer, you gotta know something about the rumors floating around the Fifth Floor.”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed, and even though Martin knew he was about as dangerous as a tipsy puppy, he felt a touch threatened by his friend’s hard-bitten demeanor. “And?”
Martin breathed in, and then released it slowly as he said, “Word around the top is Franklin’s pissed about your attitude. You’ve bitched pretty loudly.”
“Bitched?” Andrew nearly choked, almost dumping his martini all over himself. “You just agreed with me!”
Martin shot Andrew a look, deciding it was time to stop playing the defenseless kitten and show a few claws of his own. “I do, Drew, but you have been bitching loudly.” He raised an eyebrow. “I run the Myspace page; did you think I wouldn’t notice the blog entry entitled, ‘Hammer-Fiske Hammer-Heads and Other Losers in the Publishing World’?”
Revelation creased Andrew’s brow, and Martin felt accomplished in piercing the enraged writer’s armor. Andrew smiled weakly and said, “Oh, come on, Martin, every author has to complain about his publisher now and then; it’s how we maintain a certain reputation.”
Martin tipped his head, his mouth suddenly dry. “Well, you apparently forgot—or didn’t care, I’ve had a hard time telling which lately—that Hammer-Fiske is one of your top Myspace friends. They saw the blog and apparently didn’t share your opinion concerning the importance of your reputation.”
A sarcastic look spread across Andrew’s face. “Oh, like I’m really worried, especially after the sales of my other novels. They’ll slap me on the wrist Monday, and...”
“They want to drop you, Drew,” Martin interjected, “rumor has it they’re ready to pay the fine on your contract—which doesn’t come close to equaling book sales, and you know it—and wash their hands of you.”
Andrew gaped for several seconds, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Finally, when he did speak, his voice cracked with barely retrained indignation. “That’s freakin’ crazy; Hammer-Fiske is my publisher. Stephen King has Double Day, Koontz has Pocket Books, Dan Vinning has Jove. I have Hammer-Fiske!”
“Not for much longer if you don’t get a handle on your drinking problem and stop acting like an idiot.”
Andrew’s eyes flashed angrily. “Now wait a minute, Martin, that’s not fair. You’ve no right to dig me because I have a few drinks now and then to ease the stress.”
Martin snorted; he knew he was dancing dangerously close to tripping Andrew’s hot-wire, but suddenly, he didn’t care. Enough of this pussy-footing around, he thought, let’s get this thing out in the open, shall we?
Aloud, he scoffed, “Sure, a few drinks now and then—that’s why in the last three years, the only bottle next to your laptop has been a Yuengling— and it’s usually two or three bottles, not just one. How many martinis have you had tonight? Four? Five?”
Those eyes narrowed again, accompanied by a threatening look. “You’re not my mother, Martin; stop wenching at me like I’m some schoolyard child.”
“Andrew, listen to me. I’m your friend and your agent; not only do I care about you, I also don’t want you to throw away your career.” He paused, and said with as much empathy as he could muster, “I want to help.”
A dark look passed over Andrew’s face, and Martin saw something very rare on his friend’s face . . . fear. He looked away into the night, his grip on the martini glass so tight, his knuckles turned white, and Martin was afraid he’d shatter it and cut his hand to ribbons.
“You can’t help, Martin,” he rasped, his voice thick and bitter, “no one can.” He slugged back the martini, swished it around and swallowed, his face twisted and contorted.
Martin stared at his friend, the seconds washing away like a cosmic tide. Finally, he said, “You realize you’re destroying yourself, right? You walk into Hammer-Fiske Monday morning with a list of demands; you’re out the door.”
Still not looking at him, Andrew responded tightly, “Are you saying you won’t be there?”
Martin shook his head, sorry in a way, but also out of patience. “Andrew, if I walk into that building with you, I can kiss my career goodbye, too.”
“If you were my friend,” Andrew whispered bitterly, “you would.”
“I’m sorry, Drew, this is one grenade I’m not throwing my body on.” He patted the writer’s shoulder lightly, felt Andrew’s muscles tighten, and dropped his hand to his side. “Go back to the hotel, sober up, catch a flight to New York. If you come to your senses, call me, and we’ll hash this thing out. If not—” he paused, letting the silence draw out between them, but when Andrew said nothing, he finished with, “Hey, whatever you choose, Drew, I’ll be thinking of you. Hell, I’ll even go to mass and say a few prayers, too.”
Without another word, Martin walked away, leaving Andrew standing on the cold, empty balcony, sour liquor curdling his stomach, winter air biting his skin.
ANDREW ’S ESCALADE CRUISED ALONG I-91 North out of Boston at treacherous speeds, far too fast for the icy conditions and his altered state. The drinks he’d downed after Martin left him sat heavily in his stomach. The dark road swam before his eyes, and the steering wheel felt slippery in his sweaty grasp.
His eyes burned, his stomach glowed with warm liquor, and his eye-lids drooped. More than once, he caught himself nodding off before lurching awake, heart pounding. A few times, he jerked the wheel so hard in overcompensation; he almost veered into the other lane, earning a few curses and middle fingers for his troubles.
This is stupid, a small part of his mind protested, phenomenally stupid. There’s no need to catch a flight back to New York NOW. Find a hotel, get off the road before you kill yourself or someone else, and sleep it off.
This is crazy . . . it’s freakin’ suicide.
The wheel jerked as the right front tire hit a patch of ice, and for a second he felt the vehicle fish-tail across the dark, snow-blurred highway. Cursing, he fought the slide, lifting his foot off the gas and lightly tapping the brake, quickly bringing the SUV under control. He sighed explosively, and wiped his tired eyes with the back of his hand.
“That’s it,” he muttered, “time to find a Red Roof.”
Of course, Boston Municipal Airport was outside the city, and though he’d passed several expressway convenience stores and gas stations, he’d seen nothing but swirling snow for miles.
Idiot, he cursed himself, knowing your luck, you’ll get there only to find half the flights delayed or re-scheduled because of snow and you’ll end up sleeping in a freakin’ recliner.
After Martin left him on the Ritz-Carlton’s cold, wind-blown balcony, a crippling sense of loathing overwhelmed him: he was destroying himself, ruining everything he loved about writing. Grim reality crashed down, turning his martini sour, leaving him adrift in a black, depthless void. Deep inside, he knew Martin was right; he’d treated everyone miserably, biting the hand that fed him, stomping on the feet of those who’d opened the door to the writing world. However, he’d stumbled on; drinking, back-biting and burning every single bridge behind him, seemingly hell-bent on self-destruction. It had been that way for so long he couldn’t remember how it was before; his previous life was shielded by a curtain of drunkenness.
; A small part of him hated it, but he felt disconnected, as if something he couldn’t control crawled inside and took over when he drank. Confronted with this cold truth, he’d fled the party in a fit of desperation, not speaking to anyone. He called the airport on his elevator ride down, looking for any stand-by flight he could find to New York, even if he had to sleep at the airport while he waited.
“Screw this,” he mumbled, “I need some music— somethin’ to keep my eyes open.” He carefully reached down, fumbled with the radio, jerking the wheel a little too hard in the process, causing the Escalade to jink back and forth, and after several shaky attempts, finally punched the music on. Instantly, the loud twang of country music filled the SUV, and he cursed brightly and pressed search for several seconds until he found some loud but at least slightly harmonious dance music.
“There,” he grunted in drunken satisfaction, tapping the steering wheel, “that’s music you can drive to.”
With the thumping bass pounding through the Escalade as he flew down ice-slicked roads, the thing inside took over, pushing aside his self-hate as he hummed to the music. Twenty minutes away from his panic attack at the Ritz-Carlton had put distance between him and his fears, making them vague, indistinct.
“When I get back to New York, I’ll cut down the booze,” he chattered away with alcoholic fervor as he drove carelessly, “and get my shit together. I’ll sleep it off, call Franklin and Martin, sort them both out, or I’ll take my act elsewhere.”
Yeah right, the tiny but unrelenting voice challenged, and where exactly will you take it, moron? You heard Mar tin tonight—he’s not going to back you, and if you approach Franklin like this, you’re just going to get your ass handed to you.
You’re destroying yourself—and you don’t even care.
“No I’m not,” he muttered, reaching to turn the music up louder so he could drown out the little voice inside, “I’m doing just fine.”
It happened in a breath, a blink, a heartbeat.
He missed the radio’s volume button in his drunkenness; leaned forward to try again, loosening his grip on the steering wheel. He rounded a slight curve to the left that banked slightly, but just enough.
The front wheels of the Escalade drifted; hit a patch of ice, and the SUV jerked, steering wheel spinning wildly in Andrew’s numb grip. He grabbed the wheel frantically with both hands, but it was too late.
Sheer panic filled him as the road fell away; and he was floating, drifting, the Escalade swishing back and forth. His terror consumed him, he slammed both feet on the brake, and for one finite, blessed moment, a nanosecond only, the SUV slowed.
The moment melted away, as the ice grabbed the SUV’s tires and the steering wheel jerked to the right, its own will swelling beneath Andrew’s alcohol slowed hands. The guardrail loomed large and bright in the SUV’s headlights; Andrew twisted the wheel uselessly one last time—a blink, a heartbeat, a breath.
Impact. Screech of metal, roaring engine. Resounding thunder, his own terrified scream.
His head jerked forward, forehead slamming hard against the steering wheel. Things spun away into darkness, and as he struggled at the edge of oblivion, he realized dimly he’d ricocheted off the guardrail and was spinning across the highway towards the opposite median.
Tires skidded and crunched gravel on the highway’s shoulder, the engine revved, the SUV thumped off-road. For a mere second lapsing into eternity, he realized he was flying.
A final crash and rending of metal, and it ended.
DARKNESS.
Scuffling, slithering sounds all around.
Andrew felt rather than saw the cloying darkness surrounding him; it was everywhere, and it was so perfect, even though he felt his muscles and tendons work and flex, he couldn’t be sure they were really there. The darkness was alive, liquid, almost.
Slowly, gradually, whispers rose and fell, uttering secret, unknowable things. He turned around frantically but saw nothing, only more darkness. His throat constricted; his breath catching. Mounting panic swelled, and his teeth ground, choking his cries.
The whispers peaked and then faded, only to start anew seconds later. He stood there forever, the words coming and going; coming and going.
There—something different. A light flared in the distance; a distant supernova, piercing the encompassing darkness around him, throwing things into bas relief. It was non-directional and he glimpsed only lurching shadows in the nanosecond-long flares, but as each grew brighter, fragile hope blossomed in his heart.
He glanced down and almost wept with relief to see flickers of his body jump out in the brief flashes.
He heard something else—a shuffling, sliding sound from the darkness beyond, apart from the whispers. With dread, he sensed something awful waiting for him; a being of dreadful malice wanting nothing more than to lick the skin and muscle off his bones.
He shuddered violently and crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling cold. As he felt the fabric on his arms and body, he realized with dim surprise he still wore his clothes from the ball.
He whirled suddenly as something squelched behind him in the dark; a leathery, rubbery body dragging itself through slime, but though he scanned the darkness pensively, he saw nothing. His mind struggled like an animal flopping in a hunter’s snare; and stark, unreasoning terror filled him at the thought of the beast in the darkness, circling, waiting. He saw nothing, but primal fear filled in the blanks—its dark, flesh-rending talons clicked hungrily; thick, mucus-covered hide glistened; obsidian eyes gazed with malignant intent.
A gurgling voice screamed, shattering the dark silence, inhuman vocals grating against his sanity, and Andrew instantly clapped his hands over his ears. The booming voice set fire to his mind, and as he collapsed to his knees, unknowingly screaming himself, the eldritch words burned themselves onto his brain.
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!
Suddenly, everything convulsed—himself, the darkness around him— and a great pulling twisted his insides as he jerked with a seizure-like palsy. The light exploded with fantastic brilliance as the whispered voices ignited into a crescendo of sound.
Andrew collapsed to his knees alongside Route I–91 North out of Boston.
HE LOOKED UP, realizing with relief he could see. It was still night, and only intermittent highway lights blazed in the darkness, but as he raised t r e m b l i n g hands before his eyes, he could see.
For several seconds he remained kneeling, disoriented. Memories of the place before faded quickly, along with the darkness and the alien voice. He’d been in an accident, was hurt, and had obviously hallucinated it all.
He struggled to breathe because he was hyperventilating, and the cold, winter air burned his throat. Gradually, he managed to slow his gasps, taking deep, controlled breaths, as a preternatural calm settled over him.
He looked up and down the highway and saw nothing, both I-91 North and South faded into snow-speckled, black nothingness. The roads were empty; not a vehicle in sight.
He looked over his shoulder and saw his totaled Escalade, fenders crumpled into a cruel parody of an accordion, front window spider-webbed and hanging in pieces from the frame. The driver’s side door hung open, and a pair of crooked, stumbling foot-prints—his, presumably—led to where he’d collapsed to his knees at the highway’s shoulder.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, images of steel rending, wheels skidding, the steering wheel spinning wildly in his hands flashed through his mind. In his mind’s eye, the guardrail jumped out into the beams of the Escalade’s headlights, and his whole body shook at the remembered impact.
He shakily reached up and touched his forehead, feeling a wet stickiness near the hairline. He winced as he remembered his head striking the steering wheel, and he realized with a chill he was fortunate not to have bled to death inside the wreck.
I remember the accident, he thought wearily, I remember spinning across the highway, into the median. I can’t belie
ve I didn’t get plowed by a tractor trailer, but somehow . . .
He pushed himself shakily to his feet, and to his surprise, he didn’t feel all that bad. His legs were rubbery and his entire body felt bruised, but as he looked down and brushed the snow and dirt off his clothes, it appeared he was no worse for wear.
Somehow, I got out of the car and stumbled my way here, he thought, thankful to someone out there he hadn’t been trapped inside the vehicle, forced into painful repose while he slowly died of the cold or his injuries.
A thought struck him, and he realized he was a fool. With blooming vigor, he plunged his hand into his pocket, grasping the slim, cool metal of his cell phone. He sagged when he was greeted by a cracked casing and a kaleidoscope of spiraling, useless colors on the cell phone’s screen. He snapped it shut with a curse, dropping it back into his pocket.
He looked up, and saw something that filled him with a simultaneous shiver of hope and touch of dread. Sitting innocuously across the highway was a run-down old diner. Looking like a vintage ‘50s “mom ‘n pop” place, it was a cross between an old train car, trailer, and RV. The establishment appeared rugged enough, though time had dulled its sheet metal exterior. Above the diner a flickering sign read Al’s Eats, and the place blazed with welcome, hospitable light. He squinted and saw no one inside, nor did he see any vehicles parked outside. He supposed the owner’s car could be parked out back, but even so, despite the light streaming from the windows, the place was still.
The haunting idea tickled in the back of his mind that he didn’t remember seeing signs for a diner anywhere on the highway he’d just traveled.
“Of course not, idiot,” he scoffed, “you were drunk and you don’t know the area. Probably would’ve missed a Hooters.”
Even if the place was inexplicably abandoned, light meant electricity, which at least meant warmth and maybe a working phone. Best case s c e n a r i o , the phone worked, the diner’s owner was out back cleaning the grease vat or whatever they did in places like these, and not only would he call Martin—who’d hopefully forgive him for his behavior and come get him—he’d also get a burger and fries, with a cup of coffee or Pepsi.
MIdnight Diner 1: Jesus vs. Cthulhu Page 3