Metro

by Stephen Romano

  And Eddie won’t tell him.

  Eddie has convinced himself that he won’t tell him.

  Eddie thinks about being a child and not flinching when his real father died. He thinks about the years after that, learning every discipline known to the human animal. He thinks about being hardened on the street by every horror and every pleasure. Every weapon and every dirty trick. He is above death. He is above torture. He won’t break.

  “I know this is bad, Eddie. I know that you feel cheated and wronged in this situation. And I know you don’t fear your death, any more than I fear killing you. But that’s not how we work. That’s not how our little club works. You know that. This is bigger than all of us. I must know what you know. If you die with those things in your head . . . and for some reason I can’t get into the safe . . . well . . .”

  Yeah, motherfucker. And let me tell you something right now: I just don’t care anymore.

  Eddie spasms and his throat backs up in an awful grinding jangle and the son of a bitch smiles at him, and Eddie can tell that he just heard his thought—or did that last bit actually come out of his mouth through all the gagging and choking?

  “Sure you care, Eddie. You’ve always cared about the children. That’s what’s bonded us for so many years. What’s made us so alike, even though we are so different. I want to see them taken care of when you are gone. I want to own what you own. But I want to own it for them, not for me. You have to let this end gracefully. You have to step back and let me win.”

  Eddie chokes again, smelling the strawberry gum finally. And he manages to laugh. And the sound rips through the room, his heart thundering to a skid in his breast, about to blow hard. His eyes glaze for three seconds. Then fill with an image of his father. His father, who becomes the son of a bitch, then becomes his father again.

  Drugged me. They’ve drugged me. Darian, you . . . you dirty MOTHER . . .

  “Yes, my son. This is important. So important. Give me the keys.”

  Fuck . . . you . . .

  Eddie tries to laugh, somewhere in the ooze, but it sleets over him much faster than he can think now. Much faster than his eyes can see.

  He is floating in space now.

  Dying . . . this is what dying is like . . .

  “Little Eddie, you have to tell me. It’s very nearly over. Just trust Darian to do the right thing and give him the keys.”

  No . . .

  NO . . .

  Yes . . .

  Father.

  • • •

  He leans in and listens to the low wheezing sound of Eddie’s life ending. The giant man says a series of numbers with his last three breaths, which seem to stretch to the end of everything he has, like muscles pulling back over flesh and bone and soul. The last number fades into nothingness.

  Doesn’t matter though. They figure out what it is anyway.

  • • •

  The code unlocks a concrete door in the room. The door is the size of a compact car. Through that, a narrow tunnel. Past the tunnel, a vault. Inside the vault, a vast computer bank.

  He sits down in front of it and starts talking to it.

  And the keys go into his hand, at last.

  • • •

  Eddie Darling wakes up a little while later and he wonders if he’s in heaven or hell. He’s on his back, and his back doesn’t hurt anymore. Nothing hurts anymore. He feels pretty good, come to think of it. The ghost of his father hovers in front of him, smiling. Old man Jimmy, a young adult gone bad. And then the fingers of a delicate feminine hand are suddenly sliding across his bare-naked chest, slick red nails gently scratching, teasing. His father winks at him. Charlize Theron licks his ear and Kristen Stewart giggles like a schoolgirl at his throat. None of it is sex. All of it is love. Every bit of it a terrible throbbing tease, within the windy canyons of a woman’s breath. And then their lips are on him, and his father winks again and he’s watching the whole thing.

  And it’s love and freedom.

  It’s perfection. It’s bliss.

  It all seems completely real to him, this hallucination.

  This dream.

  This moment, just before he really wakes up, and somehow manages to realize behind a wall of strange oblivion that the son of a bitch kept his promise and didn’t kill him.

  Unfortunately.

  • • •

  She struggles up and up. The fire still in her face. Tears still stinging.

  Andy . . . Mark . . .

  And when she opens her eyes, blurry shapes come into vague focus on all sides. The smell of paper and floor polish. The afterburn of charred soot, still clinging to her clothes. She can smell sweat there too, made into weird grime.

  She tries to move and finds she can’t.

  Starts having terrible visions in that long flash: Am I paralyzed? Are my legs still working?

  Something touches her face, and she realizes it’s her own right hand, and she breathes relief when she sees it there, wiping the grungy sweat out of her eye. She feels the cool air in that moment, then pinpricks from her tired muscles, up and down her wrist. Flexes her fingers. Tries to wiggle her toes too. Isn’t sure at all if they actually move. Then she tries harder and gets more pin pricks, all up and down what seems to be her spine.

  What’s your name?

  Jollie Malian Meeker. Self-employed.

  How old are you? What’s your favorite color? Can you move your legs?

  Twenty-six. Purple. Trying like hell.

  The room begins to solidify as she struggles to an almost upright position. This ain’t no hospital. Looks like ye olde drawing room in a rich person’s house. Bookcases lining the walls. Hard oak floors. A stem lamp in one corner that looks like an antique. She’s lying on something that seems like an antique sofa with no back. She’s still wearing her burned clothes, the jeans and button-up blouse and sneakers she’s had on all throughout her escape from the House of JAM. But there’s no pain—none at all.

  She acts on instinct and finds she can move just fine. Nothing paralyzed, nothing broken. She checks her right arm, which seemed like it was on fire before she passed out. Her clothes are black and burned, but there’s not a single scorch on her body.

  What about Andy? What about Mark?

  What the hell happened back there?

  She remembers the ring. Mark’s plastic cereal ring. Goes through her pockets and doesn’t find it. The cell phone Mark gave her is not there either.

  Shit.

  She shakes her head and tries to stand up. Works out pretty well. She only stumbles once. Looks around for a mirror and finds nothing on the walls but books—but there’s a small table just a few feet away, the only other piece of furniture in the room. In the center of the table is a can of Coca-Cola with a note taped to it that reads in beautiful handwritten script: drink me!

  I’m a guest in someone’s house. Lewis Carroll’s house?

  Smiling, she takes the can in one hand, and it’s still very cold, like a cruel joke. Holds it for a long moment. Moves for the door, still holding it, her smile vanishing. The knob is made of brass and it’s cool also. It grinds and clicks as she turns it.

  The door opens on a long, almost-dark hallway.

  She can see the same elegant lines and hardwood floors, and flowery chandeliers casting pale yellow light, dimmer and dimmer to the end in one direction, which seems like north, deeper into the house. In the other direction, she sees pulsing, changing light around a far corner. Like the light from a TV. She leaves the room behind her, still clutching the Coke can in her hand. It’s a cooling comfort. The hard, cold floor under her feet. No sound at all. Just her own heartbeat and her own breath.

  She walks toward the corner with the changing light—it’s so dim, so far away, but it’s a sign of life. She thinks about calling for someone. Calling Andy’s name. Mark’s name. Anyth
ing. She clutches the soda can tighter, moving toward the light.

  Shapes on the walls that might be framed portraits. Sleek lines of elegant construction. Doors that lead to other rooms, all in rows on either side of her. She counts them nervously. There are six, directly opposite each other, before she reaches the corner.

  The light is stronger now, pulling her into an intersecting hallway.

  Still so quiet.

  The far end of the next corridor empties into a large open room, with one wall dominated by a big screen, which is showing a cartoon of Bugs Bunny. The sound is all the way down. The rabbit is getting away with murder. Elmer Fudd pounds the ground with his fists in mad frustration. It almost makes Jollie smile. She comes closer, sensing that Elmer is somehow her doom. But she still comes. Because what choice does she have?

  The room is dark and has high ceilings. Lots of shapes that look like tables and desks and chairs. Some toys scattered on the floor. She almost trips on a giant stuffed Miss Piggy.

  Two of the children turn their heads when she bumps into it.

  Then go back to watching the rabbit torturing Elmer.

  • • •

  She suddenly sees that there are about twenty small kids in front of the big screen, sitting quietly on a huge throw rug that dominates most of the floor. Their faces all silent and staring. The weirdness of the image hits her hard and she finds herself plopping down into one of the chairs near the back of the room. It’s a beanbag chair, of course.

  You know, for kids.

  The cartoon ends, and another one starts—silently.

  None of the children make a sound, washed in the glow like undersea creatures, floating in storied silence. She sees that they’re all arranged in polite, practiced rows, and that their legs are all crossed. Their eyes transfixed by the images on the screen.

  She sinks in the beans, holding the soda can with both hands now.

  The next cartoon is a classic. She’s seen it a million times. It’s the one where poor hungry Sylvester the Cat is left alone in the house full of tuna fish with a shit-eating mouse who won’t give him the can opener.

  And, umm . . . hilarity ensues.

  All the old Warner shorts were basically about people torturing each other.

  The kids stare up at it like religion. Jollie is terrified in this moment. Because she realizes that this is a lesson being given to them. One taught in simple, broad strokes, by someone who wants their children to know the awful truth about everything.

  • • •

  It’s still sinking in when the cartoon ends and the lights come up in dim layers. The kids all turn and look her way, nothing left for them on the big screen. Dull yellow bathes the playroom. They all smile when they see the man, who was standing near Jollie the whole time she was sitting there. Like a ghost. He’s wearing a black suit and he seems taller than God. His hair is black, his eyes green and hypnotic.

  His voice is something deep and terrifying: “Did we enjoy ourselves, children?”

  Their collective voice is neutral and all at once: “No, sir.”

  He smiles at their answer, though Jollie can hardly see his face: “And why did we not enjoy ourselves, children?”

  All at once, almost sad now: “Because this is quiet time.”

  He smiles again, and the scar that splits his lip makes something hideous scrawl through his face for just a moment—then it seems to correct itself, and the smile becomes even stranger. Like a creature of some other world trying and very nearly succeeding in becoming human, as he claps his hands together.

  “Excellent. Now who wants candy?”

  • • •

  Their faces seem to turn on when he says that, like someone hit a remote control and made them into real kids all of a sudden. They break rank and scramble toward the hallway, as two men in white clothes enter the room with trays of snacks. Most of the kids clamor for the sweets, taking handfuls of Tootsie Rolls and individually wrapped Twinkies. A few hang at the bigger man’s heels, pulling at his jacket sleeves. They call him Darian. They ask him for stories. They want to hear him read from Harry Potter again, apparently.

  Jollie makes most of that out in the jumble of kidspeak and chaos.

  She notices that they are all dressed in very nice clothes that are not exactly school uniforms, but darn close. Like they all shopped at the same kids’ section at Target or something. They look clean and healthy.

  She finds it all horrifying, and has no idea why.

  One of the little girls comes over to her, ignoring the trays of goodies. She is smaller than the others, and pretty, but not special. Her voice is strong and weak at the same time: “What’s your name?”

  “Jollie.”

  There. That wasn’t so bad was it? My goddamn voice works, after all.

  “That’s a neat name. Mine’s Gretchen.”

  “That’s a perfect name for a little girl.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I know a couple of big girls named Gretchen too.”

  “You’re a big girl.”

  The man in the black suit turns his head right when she says that and snaps in a perfectly controlled tone of authority: “Gretchen! That’s not polite, is it?”

  The little girl shrugs her shoulders. “I didn’t mean because she was big big. I just mean she’s all grown up.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you meant, Gretchen. It matters what you said. You must choose your words more carefully.”

  “I’m sorry, Darian.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to our guest.”

  “I’m sorry, Jollie. I think you’re really pretty.”

  Jollie is suddenly overwhelmed with absurdity, shaking her head. “Thank you. But I wasn’t upset at all. I know I’m a big girl. Hell, let’s face it, I’m fat. But there’s all kinds of pretty in this world. You’re very pretty too.”

  “Are you the new teacher?”

  “I . . . well, I’m not sure why I’m here, really.”

  “That’s silly. How can you not know why you’re here?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” And she laughs. Then cocks her head slyly. “Why are you here, Gretchen?”

  “I live here.”

  “That’s enough for now,” says the man in the black suit. “Come have a snack with the others. You can get to know Jollie later.”

  “Okay, Darian.”

  The girl trots back to the trays with the others. They all eat and chatter, looking at Jollie with excited smiles.

  This is so fucked up, she thinks.

  And she has no idea why.

  She sees a digital clock hanging on a wall near the TV set that says it’s just now 10:30 at night. But what night? How long has she been in this—what is it, a school?

  She shakes her head, sinking back into the beans one more time.

  • • •

  Darian Stanwell walks over to her.

  “You should drink that. You need the caffeine and the fluids.”

  She realizes she’s still holding the soda can. It’s still almost cold. “I think I’ll be okay,” she says, looking up at his face.

  Split down the middle, the face of a monster.

  A beautiful monster.

  “The soda is not poisoned or drugged in any way, I assure you.”

  “Assurances haven’t been good to me lately, sir.”

  “If I’d wanted to drug you, it would have been easy to do to that while you were still sleeping. In fact, we actually did have you on a mild sedative for a few hours. You almost had a stroke back there.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “You’re a very lucky lady. Life-and-death struggles are never good to one’s heart, especially when they have such high levels of cholesterol clogging the entryways. Not to mention the drugs you were already on. There were t
races of very dirty MDMA in your system, but I took care of that too.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I told you already. My name is Darian.”

  “I know what your name is. I mean who are you?”

  “I’m the man who’s saved your life several times. And I’m the man who will save your life again. If the two of us can become friends, that is.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. But, like the lessons these children must learn every day, nothing in life is anything we are expected to like.”

  “Who are they? What is this place?”

  “This is my place. And those are fair questions. Please hold them for now. Soon you’ll know all the answers. And perhaps you’ll have a few for me.”

  He turns back to the kids and they swarm him like a rock star, begging for stories, jacked up on sugar and cartoons.

  • • •

  She watches him as he sits in a large oak chair and reads from Harry Potter for exactly thirty minutes. They all gather around, hanging on every word. He shapes his sentences long and deliberately, makes eye contact and places just the right amount of emphasis on all the right words. Every now and then he smiles at Jollie, just barely.

  When he gets to the end of four chapters, right when that big clock reads 11:05 pm, he closes the book and tells them it’s time for bed. They don’t moan or groan about it. They know better than that.

  They all say “Yes, Darian” in unison.

  The two men in white escort the kids out of the room, single file. They know the drill without even being told what to do. They go back the way Jollie came, and she realizes that’s what all the doors in the hallway were for—bunks for the rug rats.

  Darian makes Gretchen stay behind, with his hands on her shoulders.

  Speaks to her softly, seriously. She nods like a sad little girl. Jollie can make out something in what he says about a special room.

  • • •

  Gretchen is taken down the hall by another white suit who appears after the other kids have gone. She is taken gently, by the hand. Darian Stanwell stands up and watches as they go, moving closer to Jollie.