Metro

by Stephen Romano

  The knife stops.

  “You also wasted Eddie because that’s how you rise in rank inside the company, isn’t it? You outgrow the control of your superior officers. That would mean that dictators are not promoted. They’d be self-made. That’s something Mark never told me. He probably never knew, really—because I bet it’s a secret you have to learn on your own. That’s how it’s always worked, right? They turn you loose in a maze and see how many of you figure out where the cheese really is. It’s perfect, isn’t it? The best way in the world to run a network of endemic spies and killers. I bet you don’t even have any idea who your bosses actually are, do you? The big guys, I mean.”

  He holds the knife just over Andy’s eye.

  He has all the time he needs, after all.

  And she’s right.

  “I know plenty, Jollie. Enough to make you doubt the earth under your feet.”

  “Then why are you doing this? Why the torture-and-scare routine? You must be one loyal soldier to hack your way so ruthlessly to the golden goose. Or do you just get off on it, Darian?”

  “I think we’ve already established that I do.”

  “Then let’s stop bullshitting each other. You’re just a rat in the maze, like I am. They’ve used you since you were a kid and never told you what the other hand was doing. You sacrificed everything for it. Your life, your humanity, even your brother.”

  “You don’t know anything about my brother.”

  “I knew his last name, didn’t I? I was there when he got killed, wasn’t I?”

  “You don’t know anything . . .”

  “Of course I do. He was your polarized mirror image, wasn’t he? A dumb fuck. Not smooth or calculated or eloquent like you. That’s how it always works. One is good, the other is fucked up. And you go on apologizing for him until the inevitable end.”

  “You’re very smart, Jollie. But I know what you’re doing.”

  “All I’m doing is figuring this whole thing out, Darian. It’s all becoming so damn clear to me. I’m amazed I didn’t see it before. Like you said, I was letting my emotions rule.”

  “So . . . tell me, Jollie. What are you figuring out? You couldn’t possibly comprehend the depth of this particular ocean.”

  “I’m not the first person to investigate it. A lot of dictators have access to secret stashes of information, don’t they? And a lot of other operatives kill them and see those stashes. That’s what you did tonight. To get promoted in the field. You guys need leverage over your employers so they don’t kill you. It’s like a game of chess. A system of backstabbing that goes all the way up the food chain. You get your hands on the right files, the right names, and everything opens up for you. Then the guys above you make their next move and you play yourself into the right square. And meanwhile, the whole world goes about its business and—”

  “The world doesn’t care about our business. Or my business for that matter.”

  He says that with a hiss—but not like a snake.

  Like a man who’s just swallowed his gum.

  He smiles, almost choking for a second. Says his next words in a terrible whisper: “That’s what makes the world so easy to rule, Jollie. You know that.”

  “Sure I do. I know about apathy. I know about the failure of humanity to save itself. But I also know about revolution. I know about people who will fight you.”

  “Your people don’t even know our names.”

  “They will eventually. If you keep using knives to get what you want.”

  “How very heroic of you to say. But with one obvious fallacy.” He comes over to her and puts the knife right in her face. “This,” he says loudly. “This knife . . . is TRUTH.”

  “You keep saying that. And it all still sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “I’m sure it does, Jollie. I’m sure you’re telling me what you really think. And you’re doing a very good job of buying your friend a few more minutes of sight and wholeness. But when those minutes are over, the truth will hit him to the bone. And that’s where the world is now, Jollie. That’s where we all stand and where we’ve always stood. METRO rules the secret world all those revolutionaries of yours cannot see—and they do it with steel and force. I’ve seen it all my life and will see it long after you are dead.”

  “Is that what you said to Eddie Darling?”

  “I didn’t have to. He already knew. And I didn’t kill Eddie, just FYI. He’s very much alive. We made a deal and I kept my end. That’s how it works with me, Jollie. You look me in the eye and you say the right thing, and you get to go on living. That’s what everyone wants in the end. To hang on to a bit more life.”

  “I bet Mister Darling isn’t much enjoying that life, is he?”

  “Well, let’s just say he’ll never be quite the same again. Would you like to see? I had it piped in, just for you.” He snaps his fingers at one of the white suits. The guy finds a remote and thumbs it. A screen lights up from a nearby wall, thirty-four inches of LED truth.

  • • •

  And the truth on the wall is a big black man in a straightjacket, staring into oblivion, smiling and frowning, crying and laughing, all at the same time. Thick ropes of drool dangling from his lips. Bloody cracks through the whites of his eyes. You can make out all those details really clearly, all in perfect HD.

  The wall behind him is made of clay and a set of handcuffs hangs from it.

  She sees it and steels herself, choking back the fear.

  • • •

  “He’s quite happy, Jollie. He will be until the day he dies. He’ll never know cruelty or horror or anything bad. It’s all good, from here on out.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do to me?”

  “Isn’t that what everybody wants? To be free of the fear of death?”

  “You’ve . . . turned him into a vegetable.”

  “Vegetables need love too. And he has all the love he needs, right in that little room.”

  The angle on the screen widens, and she sees a TV in there with him, flickering images that are almost familiar. And then very familiar. It’s a movie starring Charlize Theron that she can’t remember the name of because she’s never seen the whole thing.

  Eddie Darling smiles at the images, made love to by phantoms.

  • • •

  Jollie gets a grip.

  “Not everyone is lobotomized by bad movies,” she says.

  “Like who exactly, Jollie? You? I can break your will with a simple injection. Just like I can break the world.”

  “The world is full of good people. Strong people.”

  “You said that. And I know you believe that.”

  Darian backs away and smiles at her. Reaches for his gum. Peels a fresh stick. Clears his throat and pops it in. His terrible sweet breath slimes the air as he chews slowly. “I have to admit, Jollie . . . I admire your perceptive nature. You could go far in the company, if allowed to. Most of our soldiers work for years and go to their graves never knowing they could have murdered a higher-up and gotten promoted in the field. If I were to allow you to live and work for us, you would have that edge going in. But imagine how many other smart soldiers would surround you, Jollie. Imagine the world, laid out in chess squares, all stained in blood.”

  “That’s the world I’ve always lived in.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Then you don’t know nearly as much about me as you think you do.”

  “I know enough not to underestimate you, or lose my temper under your very skilled tongue. All that needling about my brother. The political jabs. It’s an admirable attempt, and I do admire it. But you’ll have to be much smarter to survive this game.”

  “So that I can kill you and rise in rank?”

  “Maybe you could. You have the edge, after all, of knowing the secret rules. Jake Mudd never knew anything. But he was
in the company for just a few years, really. A man like him is doomed to be a flunky for whatever life is left to him. He once wore a white suit and stood in this room with me, in his spare time—just like the three men that surround you now.”

  “Just like the other men who guard this place and do your dirty work when you need them to.”

  “Of course. Jake stood in the hall with all the children and we looked in the face of true enlightenment so many times. But he never could have been a dictator. I was made for it, Jollie. We call it ‘whacking our way to the top.’ Would you like to know something really funny?”

  “Thrill me.”

  “You’re so calm under fire now. I like that. I really do.”

  “What’s funny, Darian? Tell me. I want to know.”

  “Okay. Dictators are usually women. Do you know why?”

  “Can’t imagine.”

  “Sure you can. But I’ll tell you anyway. It’s because they cheat. They use their sex to get ahead. But in the Monster Squad, there are no women. We’re all men who hate women. You could never rise among us, Jollie. You can only work for us. So I’m giving you that chance. I’m recruiting you now. Talk to me and tell the truth. If you don’t, I’ll do worse than scrape away pretty Andrew’s infections and scoop out his eyes. I’ll make you watch while I cut everything he has left on his body right off. And he’ll never die. He’ll be a hunk of raw living meat by the time I’m through. I’ll show you the true face of love and freedom in every imaginable shade of red and pulp. Because I love you, Jollie. Even though you are a woman. There are so many sinners who must be redeemed, Jollie. You are a sinner now. But you can repent.”

  His calm voice fills the room. She cannot escape it.

  He smiles at her serenely. “Oh . . . and one other thing. I almost forgot.”

  He reaches over to his instrument tray and finds something very small.

  “You had this in your pocket also. It was broken, but I fixed it. Would you like to have it back?”

  He comes over, much closer now. She sees the object in his hand. Mark’s promise-me ring. Cheap plastic expertly repaired with superglue. Darian gently places it on her right middle finger. It fits perfectly.

  And she remembers The Kingdom.

  It all floods back in a glorious rush The sights she will never see again. The smells she will never smell again. Music and dope and bad monster movies. Mark. Mark, my love.

  And in that moment, she finally remembers the most important thing as Darian turns back to Andy to finish his work.

  • • •

  She’s back in the living room of the Kingdom with Mark, only now it’s on the day he comes home from work, waving a piece of paper from the mailbox and screaming that he’s just sold his first novel—Countdown to Extinction, the one about zombie truck drivers in outer space who go after revenge on the planet of slime people. A small publisher just bought the thing and it’s not much money, but Jollie, I’m gonna be published! She lights up when she sees him, her eyes and her face doing fireworks when he tells her the news. Andy is off slinging fried green tomatoes at the grease pit, but she says it’s party time when he gets home and Mark says Hell fucking yeah, and she throws herself into his arms and she kisses his cheek and says she is So, SO proud of him. Because she loves him so much and thinks he’s such a genius and her heart breaks so often when she thinks about him scraping away at his art and never getting anywhere—Scraping away at it, Jollie, SCRAPING AWAY—and she shakes her head and stays in the moment, and it’s such a joyous moment, and she loves Mark and she loves her life, and just today she talked to Peanut Williams and Peanut said to her that the website is getting more than three million hits a week, and soon the number will be even greater and the fat cats will have to deal with us face to face because everything is changing and the bloggers are real money now, us dangerous dudes who have our ears to the ground—ears, Jollie, our EARS TO THE GROUND—and she winces again, and she smells blood and senses something horrible happening, but she has to stay in the memory, because this is an important memory—has to stay here stay here STAY HERE—and Mark says they both have so much to celebrate and he thinks there’s still a bottle of champagne in the pantry. And she says Hell yeah, go get that shit, and he runs to the rear of the house, down the long hallway—the corridor of love and freedom, corridor of betrayal and DEATH—and she smiles after him and yells Holy shit yes, baby, and Mark is clunking around in the kitchen and she smiles again and—AND—she sees the open letter from Eibon Press on the coffee table and it’s lit up in the dull cheap glow of their old-school Zenith TV set. The letter glows because it’s important, she thinks. She picks it up and reads it. It says Congratulations, Mark, we love your book and want to publish it. And she notices that the letter was sitting on a pile of other mail from the box just outside the front door, and on top of the pile is a thin envelope from something called Southside Storage—and yes, that’s it, Andy, I’ve figured it out, just hang in there don’t hurt him DON’T HURT HIM—and the address is just off Ben White, near the I-35 freeway intersection, where Ben White becomes Highway 71 and stretches all the way to Columbus, then Houston, where she was born—and this is strange, because none of them have anything in storage, do they? And she memorizes the address because that’s what Jollie does—she memorizes names and dates and faces and numbers. And then she sets the envelope down and never thinks about it again, even after Mark comes back to the living room and swipes it up casually and jams it in his back pocket as he pours the champagne. She never thinks about it again. Just junk mail, probably. Doesn’t matter at all. Storage. Mark. Andy. So proud of you, baby. Hugs and kisses and love all around—LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH—

  • • •

  And that’s what she says to Darian that finally makes him stop.

  The address of Mark’s secret storage facility, where the package is located.

  He asks her for the number of the locker unit, but she doesn’t know and he believes her. Says the address will be enough for now. Darian puts down the surgical scraper and smiles. Pulls a thick rubber mask attached to a hose from a compartment under the rack of tools.

  “You’ve done well, Jollie. Sleep now.”

  The mask hisses like a snake. The smell of strawberry slime is smothered by a high-pitched needle of cold sweet air up her nose, and she goes under, calling Mark’s name again from the living room, so proud of him, so in love with her life . . .

  • • •

  Still strapped in the chair.

  Still facing Darian Stanwell, just beyond a thick black curtain.

  Still hearing his voice, just on the other side of forced unconsciousness.

  It’s time to wrap this up. You’ve given me exactly what I’ve asked for and I thank you. But that also means you are no longer of any use to us. And neither is your friend. I won’t make you watch his death, however. You’ve earned that. You’ll go first, and you won’t feel that either. I’ll make it quick and painless. You’ve earned that as well. I’m sorry that I lied to you, Jollie. But you’re just too dangerous.

  She smells the scalpel, coming in close. Clean, hard-edged metal, razor sharp.

  It comes gently, delicately, to her throat.

  It’s just past one in the morning, Jollie. Still a perfect time to die.

  And she goes away from everything, thinking about Mark.

  Thinking about the laughter in their living room.

  Thinking that it was all worth it, in the end.

  13

  rewind and fast-forward

  Mark Jones is standing exactly six inches away from the engine block when it cannonballs through the floor and pulverizes Texarkana Smith.

  He’s only viscerally aware in the blowback of what’s actually happening, because one second earlier, he was locked in the guy’s gunsight, about to take a slug to the head, and his own finger was squeezing the trigger. He was pretty
sure they were about to zilch each other. But now the whole world reshuffles and blasts through him as a huge invisible wave punches his body in a bitch-slap of hot-electric holy-shit thunder.

  And he’s flying.

  He sees the exploding house under his feet and he feels the cold brutal snap of damp whistling wind as it cuts into his face in a diamond spray of glass, and something kicks him sideways in midair and he’s suddenly in a bizarre lucid dream where he can push away from the real world and float among the angels.

  And then the real world comes up fast.

  He feels the cracking impact of the water for a quarter-second just before it knocks him cold.

  • • •

  Wakes up, floating in an ice cold pool of blood.

  He laughs at that, somehow lucid as hell behind it all, even laughing somewhere in the mix, goading himself on, screaming Jollie’s name over and over, inside his head. Hearing Dictator Ken’s voice, deep and punishing, as he passes out again:

  I don’t believe in true love . . . and I don’t think I trust you anymore . . .

  • • •

  “Take it easy there, son. You’re in fairly rough shape.”

  The old man has one tooth in his mouth. You can see it in the awful black spot set into the center of a greasy-gray beard. He’s wearing a straw hat. He has on overalls and nothing else. Hair all over his body, like a sweater. The rocking chair squeaks back and forth. The man is a giant, with huge arms and a fat stomach. The room around them is featureless, made from old lumber. Looks like a woodshed without anything in it.

  Mark does a double take, and finds that it gives him a headache. Rubs his head, which is smeared with mud, half-dry.

  He thinks he asks the man where he is.

  And it must work, because the old man says: “Looks like you’re up the creek, son.”

  Mark realizes he’s cold—very cold.