Destroy All Monsters

by Jeff Jackson

  —That’s my soda, the boy mumbles.

  —Like shit, the guard says. You’re another one of those psychopaths.

  The guard is marveling over the Molotov cocktail when the venue’s doors burst open. Masses of bodies stampede for the exits. People knock past one another, elbows maneuvering, voices strafing. The guard briefly maintains a grip on the boy’s shoulder, then he wades into the swarm of seething bodies.

  The boy in the baggy windbreaker looks perplexed. The show should have just begun. He shoves through the pandemonium into the darkened hall. A deafening maelstrom of feedback fills the air, gales of distortion gust from the speaker stacks, but the musicians aren’t playing. The spotlit stage is a gory frieze: the long-haired drummer slumped over his kit, the robe-wearing bassist contorted with a head wound, the leather-clad singer draped across one of the screeching amps.

  The room is shrouded in tendrils of mist from a smoke machine. It takes the boy a few seconds to register the teenager in the black overcoat who stands near the stage, cradling a semiautomatic weapon, surveying his handiwork with a stately sense of detachment. The shooter turns to the boy, and the pair lock eyes. A moment of recognition. The muscles around the shooter’s mouth spasm into what might be described as a smile.

  You lock yourself in the bathroom and tune out the off-key song your mother is warbling to herself in the hallway. Staring into the mirror, you admire the pair of headphones that resemble the ear protectors worn at shooting ranges. Your hands form the shape of a gun and you aim your fingers at the mirror. Your reflection still seems incomplete. You rustle through the supplies in the medicine cabinet until the razor gives you an idea. You soap your forehead and meticulously etch away your eyebrows. Soon they’re both obliterated. This blurs your features, leaving only a foggy familiarity, but it’s not quite enough. Before you leave the bathroom, you reach over to the mirror and wipe your face clean off the glass.

  DAY 63

  NEVADA • THE DREADLOCKED BOY IS CLEARED. The bouncers trace the contours of his body with a metal wand. They pat down his shirt, investigate the inseams of his crotch, make him remove his shoes. They rifle through his backpack and discover only a bottle of water that they empty onto the ground. The routine is exhaustive everywhere, even on the edge of the desert, and there’s nothing to find on the boy. He walks up the concrete ramp into the cavernous darkness of the warehouse.

  The dance floor ahead is a sea of massed shadows, strobing explosions of white light, rumbling bass frequencies, but the dreadlocked boy veers away from the music. He traces a path along the edge of the venue toward the bathroom. He pushes open the door with unexpected urgency. Inside, the fluorescent lights are wrapped in purple gels, lending the lavatory a sickly glow. He walks past the empty urinals to the row of stalls. Two are open, but the farthest one is occupied.

  The dreadlocked boy retreats to the sink and washes his hands. The throbbing dance music is recalibrated by the insulated walls into a thrum of hushed rhythms, and he taps his feet in time to the woozy beat. He maintains his station at the sink for several minutes. In the haze of violet light, it’s difficult to make out his expression. He continues to wash his hands, over and over, his eyes locked on the farthest stall.

  Finally, the door swings open. The boy almost collides with the bald man vacating the stall. He slips inside, slides the metal latch shut, double-checks that it’s secure. Blackened scum is frescoed into the tiles, and kidney-shaped islands of urine pool on the floor. He sits on the toilet without removing his pants.

  He swivels behind him and carefully removes the toilet lid from the water tank. He flips it over. The underside of the lid is crisscrossed with silver duct tape, encasing an object wrapped in newspaper. A thick lump of gray material stuck with strands of multicolored wires. He carefully places it in his lap, attaches the two red wires, and presses the plastic display. The numbers begin to race in reverse.

  The dreadlocked boy slides the bomb into his backpack. He lowers his head between his legs and takes several raspy breaths, as if he’s about to hyperventilate. His fingernails dig deep into his kneecaps. Then he replaces the lid, flushes the toilet, and exits the stall. He doesn’t bother to wash his hands.

  As he steps onto the dance floor, the music fades and the lights cut, immersing the crowd in blackness. Knew they’d be on time, a voice says. Almost on time, someone corrects. Maybe it’s the same voice. Maybe it’s even the voice of the dreadlocked boy.

  A spotlight snaps on. The audience applauds as a musician in a silver tracksuit tips his visor and takes his place behind a bank of keyboards and computers. A large man in a seersucker suit picks up an electric bass and plucks the strings. Beneath the scrim of glitchy electronic textures, the stirrings of a soulful ballad emerge. The musicians initiate a loping groove that signals a woman in the wings to make her way to the microphone. She wears a red satin dress that sets off her radiant coffee skin.

  As the boy presses toward the front of the stage, he studies the singer’s movements. She shakes her metal braids in time to the sultry rhythm. She repeats a single phrase, shifting the stress of the syllables, steadily transforming it into an incantation. Her hand guides the microphone toward her mouth in fixed increments. Each intonation, each gesture, entwined.

  The boy stands enraptured, backpack clutched to his chest. The singer’s movements seem perfectly synched to his own internal clock. The crowd appears equally in thrall to the performance, to the seductive pulsations of the song, to the shimmer of fitted red satin. They’re all clasped in the same moment, unknowingly held together by the boy’s beguiled lips, moving in silent countdown.

  You kneel in the basement, under the only functioning light fixture, and take apart the weapon. The carpet is mildewed from past flooding, so you work over a flattened sheet of newspaper. You’re determined to ignore the rusted frame of your mother’s first wheelchair and the moldy plastic bedpans tucked into the surrounding shadows. You won’t let them shame you. Your attention is focused on your tools. You’ve lined up an assortment of toothbrushes, rods, oils, solvents. You disassemble the guts of the handgun while softly chanting the names of the mechanical parts. The frame, the slide, the barrel, the chamber. You remove the buildup of caked carbon and unburned powder, then wipe down the components. The smell of ammonia stings your nostrils, but you like it. The sharper the burn, the better. You slot a fresh round of ammunition into the magazine, but there’s no satisfying click. The parts grind against one another. Even this doesn’t work. You hurl the weapon across the room, where it’s promptly swallowed by the shadows. You stand up to retrieve it, but you’re halted by an earsplitting shriek—your own—though you don’t recognize the voice.

  DAY 81

  MISSOURI • THE THREE BOYS REMAIN SILENT AS the freight elevator rises with a slow rumble. They each remove large handkerchiefs from the pockets of their jeans. Or rather these are white ski masks. They stretch the masks over their heads and watch the dingy lights for each floor blink to life, one by one. The lift finally sighs to a halt, and the metal doors slide open. They’re greeted by an enormous poster featuring a bloody panda lying in a pile of bamboo leaves, but the three boys move past it before any of the names listed below can come into focus. They march swiftly into the sprawling loft.

  They each grab a plastic cup of red wine from a serving tray that’s been left atop a wooden crate. In front of them, a variety of performances are under way, a cacophony ricocheting from different rooms. The hyped-up rockabilly duo, the couple whose electronically wired bodies generate humming frequencies, the troupe of pajama-clad dancers fucking teddy bears in time to a frisky beat. For a moment, the three boys stall before these colliding spectacles, then walk straight ahead, following the dotted yellow line painted on the concrete floor.

  As the three boys weave their way through the swarming crowd, nobody acts surprised by their appearance. They trail the yellow line around the corner, entering a sparsely lit space where the music is so loud it rattles their teeth
. People twitch their limbs in time to stammering jackhammer beats. The sound bumps a cluster of silver helium balloons across the ceiling.

  A slim man in a tailored pinstripe suit struts across the modest stage, whooping into the microphone. The edge of the singer’s frizzy hair is haloed in the stage lights. Behind him, the other musicians hunch over banks of keyboards and vintage electronics. They’re all wearing white ski masks.

  As the three boys move closer, they let their cups drop to the floor. The wine splatters across the concrete and splashes their sneakers. They step over the quivering red pool, leaving behind an intricately shaped stain, the dark liquid shimmering in the dim light, uncongealed.

  You’re not sure what you’re doing at the concert. You barely remember driving here and now you’re standing in the middle of the crowd, watching an unfamiliar band perform. Their music is deafeningly loud but it feels inert, a gauzy hive of sound that’s not unlike the noise in your head. It makes you feel queasy. The audience around you also seems half dazed, listlessly watching the musicians move between their effects pedals. People keep bumping into you as they cut a path toward the bathrooms. Nobody apologizes. You look around the cramped club, not recognizing the fishing nets dangling from the ceiling, the ship’s wheel tacked above the door, the flag with the skull and crossbones draped behind the band. Behind you, the translucent shelves of the bar are lit from below, suffusing the rows of liquor bottles with a murky glow. You decide you need a drink, then discover you’re already holding a beer. The band lets the song slowly wind down, leaving the singer alone to croon the final ethereal phrases. She thanks the crowd, kissing her fingertips and planting the kiss on the tip of the microphone. The audience wakes up and starts to offer their applause. This is your cue to reach under your shirt and grab the cold metal tucked in the small of your back. But instead you find yourself sitting alone in the parking lot, sobbing in the front seat of your car, staring at your hands where a bright gun barrel shines with your tears.

  DAY 100

  FLORIDA • THE MUSIC IS A GHOSTLY ECHO. A faint hint of instruments being tuned, amps turned on, levels adjusted, but these sounds are lost in the crowd. The pulse and push of tightly packed bodies. The tanned teenagers, sunburned parents, elderly couples in matching wide-brimmed hats. The street is closed to traffic, and people amble past the metal hot-dog carts, the stand of homemade necklaces, the Realtors hawking vacation rentals, the tarot-card reader offering discounts so low they’re supernatural. Banners strung from streetlamps announce the beach town’s annual fair.

  People shuffle by food trucks selling fish tacos and falafel sandwiches. They admire the larval dough of funnel cakes taking shape in bubbling oil. Flocks of pigeons swoop onto the sidewalk to choke down stray popcorn kernels. The ring-toss operator bellows a list of prizes into his megaphone and shakes a stuffed giraffe at passersby. Pyramids of trash rise in the metal trash cans. As everyone flows toward the end of the street, heads swivel to take in each fresh sight.

  In front of the entrance to the beach, musicians in flower-print shirts, shorts, and sandals stand on a raised platform. These middle-aged men adjust their mirrored sunglasses while they test microphone levels. They observe the exodus of tanned bodies, the sand-flecked families carrying folding chairs, wet hair plastered to scalps, eyes marked by white ovals in the shape of sunglasses. Seagulls drift in placid circles overhead. The sun is setting and the clouds turn shades of pale pink, crimson rose, plasma red.

  The band announces their first number, a song promising an endless summer. The singer strums a few chords on his acoustic guitar, then launches into a winsome melody. The rest of the group adds amiable doo-wop harmonies. A few people sing along, but most are distracted by phone screens and scampering children. They’re busy knocking sand from the folds of clothes and congealed tar off the soles of shoes. Someone here in the crowd is awaiting his moment, weighing the timing against the tang of salt in the breeze and the vibrations of the unseen surf.

  You find yourself following a sound that might be music. You shuffle along the sidewalk like a sleepwalker, weaving through the evening crowd, locked into the dim throb repeating from somewhere down the street. You have no idea who’s creating this echoing sound. You don’t stop to ask the college kids who are pasting up concert flyers featuring the photo of a bloody panda. The posters stapled to the telephone poles are too old to offer any clues. You keep walking, past the rows of coffee shops, tapas restaurants, thrift stores. With each step, the pulse of the music grows louder. As you approach the veterans hall, you realize this must be your destination. Three girls stand outside the entrance and squint in your direction like they’re having trouble bringing your features into focus. Maybe it’s your shaved head and missing eyebrows. They talk about you as if you’re not there, probably hoping that you’ll leave, but you’re no quitter. One of them presents you with a sheet of paper about the concert, which turns out to be a battle of the bands. There are so many names printed on the page that your head starts to swim. You watch as your fingers make the words disappear, patiently folding the announcement into a perfect square and tossing it onto the ground. The old man behind the table mumbles the ticket price and you start to get the money, but your hands hesitate. They go numb in your pockets like they’ve got a mind of their own. You wait to see what will happen and soon your hands reappear with a few crinkled dollar bills. As you enter the building, you stumble into a foyer stacked with folding chairs and collapsed tables. You stand in the center of the darkened space. The nearby music is a rumble in your chest. The distorted sounds beat around the room like a trapped bird. You’re unsure if this is really the place you should be, then you spot a banner strung across the ceiling. Reading the phrase printed on the plastic, the cold metal tucked in the small of your back feels lighter. You move your lips, soundlessly forming and re-forming those two words, feeling the warm tingle of their syllables on your tongue: WELCOME HOME.

  part two

  THE DEVOTED

  “I’ve been reading about the different ways to reach the dead,” Xenie said. “Mediums, séances, Ouija boards, fire rituals.”

  “Any of them work?” Shaun asked.

  “Hard to tell,” Xenie said. “I wonder if the dead ever feel like they’re being haunted by the living?”

  HE ASKS THEM TO OPEN THE CASKET. Standing in the funeral parlor in his borrowed black suit, face roughly shaven, long hair combed into a ponytail, Shaun hopes to appear more authoritative than his twenty-one years. He hides his trembling hands behind his back, embarrassed by how badly he needs this. Neither the funeral director nor the aunt replies, so he asks again. His words barely float above a whisper. Please, Shaun says, struggling to keep his voice from shattering. Please.

  * * *

  Shaun tugs at the cuffs of his suit that’s at least a size too small. He feels swallowed by the pastel hues of this private reception room with its plush carpet and overstuffed furniture. He offers the elderly funeral director a solicitous smile and speaks in his most confidential voice, hoping his usual charm won’t abandon him.

  —Listen, Shaun says. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. This isn’t for the service, it’s just for me.

  —I’m sorry, the funeral director says.

  Shaun loosens his suffocating tie while he speaks. His nose twitches from the sharp smell of antiseptic. Come on, man, he says. I’m her boyfriend. We were together for three years.

  —I’m sorry, the funeral director repeats.

  —You don’t understand, Shaun says. She’s going to be cremated.

  He tries to maintain eye contact with the funeral director, but he keeps being distracted by the casket and the sight of his own warped and wavy reflection bobbing inside the black lacquer polish.

  —I haven’t seen her since that night, he says. I want to see her one last time.

  He feels the pitch of his voice rising and his control slipping away.

  —I just need to share the same space with her, he says. A few moments t
o see her body lying there.

  Maybe if I see you, it’ll finally feel real.

  Shaun keeps waking in the middle of the night and nothing’s changed. Then his outstretched hand encounters the empty side of the bed. His fingers furrow under her pillow and find his oversize black T-shirt that she slept in. Bunched up exactly as she left it. And everything comes back, not in a flood of memories, but as a searing knot in his stomach. He somehow resists the urge to smell the shirt, but her scent is smeared all over the sheets, so he starts to choke anyway.

  * * *

  Shaun focuses his beseeching gaze on the aunt, the matronly woman in the black pantsuit who served as his girlfriend’s longtime guardian. Her red-rimmed eyes blink incessantly, too sensitive for even the room’s diffuse lighting. She stares at the powder-blue carpet, as if expecting some revelation to emerge from the woven pattern.

  —Mary, he says, we’ve always gotten along. Help me out here. Say something to this man.

  Aunt Mary stirs from her trance. She tenderly strokes the top of the coffin, as if smoothing her niece’s unruly hair.

  —We’re doing you a favor, she says.

  Her voice sounds like a kitchen drain that’s partially clogged.

  —You don’t want to see her like this. Nobody should ever see her like this.

  * * *

  The funeral director places a large bouquet atop the casket. Pink carnations wrenched into the shape of a heart and encircled by a sash that reads FARE FORWARD, VOYAGER. Summoning his most officious tone, he announces: The casket of Jennifer Marx remains shut.