Limbus, Inc.

by Anne C. Petty

  The session had not gone as Ryan expected. Sure, there were the obligatory introductions, the stories, the heartbreak. In a way, everything about that hour had made Ryan feel worse. At least his problems didn’t include lost limbs and shattered bodies. But he couldn’t brood on it, because he barely noticed it. He had something to distract him. Those eyes and their flashes of green were always upon him.

  She didn’t make it obvious. She nodded at the right times during the others’ stories. She said the right things, and some of it probably even helped the poor souls that surrounded him. But he was the only one she really saw.

  *

  “So,” she said, leaning over the table, swirling with her straw the last remnants of cracked ice cubes around the bottom of an empty glass, “why did you come tonight?”

  She had found him, after the meeting. He had pondered, as the last of the men’s stories drew to a close, how he would approach her. For that had been the one conclusion he had reached during that interminable sixty minutes—that approach her, he would. But in the end, he didn’t have to figure out an angle; she found him leaning against the refreshments table, pondering his next move, half-eaten stale cookie in one hand, watered-down Coke in the other.

  What had followed had almost been too easy, one thing leading to another, tumblers falling into place in a lock. There was an Asian bistro down the road. Sushi place. He had never eaten there and he didn’t care for raw fish. But the local scuttlebutt had been that it was good, and he judged, unfairly no doubt, that it was the kind of place someone like her would like. She just seemed the type.

  Things were cautious at first. They made small talk over drinks and edamame. The alcohol helped to smooth the introductions. Asahi for him. Something more tropical, a Mai Tai to be exact, was her preference. When the drinks were drained and there was nothing left but the clinking of ice, she had finally broached the question.

  “So, why did you come tonight?”

  It had been one, in all honesty, that he had not expected. “You heard my story,” he said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

  “Oh, I heard your story. It’s just, it’s never the story, you know? Not the story by itself, at least. Everybody who comes to my meetings has a problem, but it’s a problem they keep to themselves. Problems they don’t deal with until something happens. Something bad. Guys like you, they come back damaged, but still unbroken. Usually it takes something that goes wrong here, in the States, to finally break them. PTSD is a lot like addiction. You can’t even start to cure it until you admit that you have a problem, and most people can’t admit that they have a problem until they hit rock bottom. What was rock bottom for you?”

  Ryan leaned back in his chair until it creaked beneath him. Nervous laughter had never been his style, but it was the only thing he felt like doing in that moment. He rubbed his hand across his mouth and stared at the ceiling. Now he remembered why he never went to a shrink.

  “I think it was the loneliness,” he said finally. “Day after day, sitting in my apartment. No job, no family, no one to talk to. My parents died a few years ago. Car wreck. I always meant to settle down but I never quite made it. My buddies, such that they are, they’re either still in or dealing with the same thing. Either way, I don’t want to bother them with it.”

  “So you kept it in,” she said, “simmering, just below the surface?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “And what else?”

  Ryan frowned and looked down at his empty plate. It didn’t matter. Suddenly, he wasn’t very hungry. “Well, the dreams. You know what I mean? I guess you hear that a lot,” he said with a sigh. “It was fine, and then I started having them. I don’t know. Dreams, nightmares, memories. Like I was there. Again. Like it was happening all over.”

  “And you had those every night?”

  “Not every night. But more and more. And then …“ Ryan trailed off. How to explain what he didn’t quite understand himself? “I don’t know. It’s just …” He could feel the sweat beading around his forehead. He wished she would speak. He wished she would say anything that would let him off the hook. Instead, she just stared. “It’s just, they seemed to reach a crescendo, I guess.”

  “They got worse?”

  “No. It’s hard to say. They got different.”

  At some point in the conversation, her friendly, almost flirty, demeanor had dropped away and the clinician had taken over. Now he was very much a patient with a doctor, and as she sat there, fixing him with her eyes, staring across that distance, he felt uneasy. Almost frightened for the first time in years, like she was peeling away the layers that he hid beneath, one by one. Uncovering something below the surface, and maybe even deeper, that he had tried to hide. But when she smiled, the magic was broken.

  “I don’t normally say this,” she said, “’cause there are too many guys trying not to deal with it, trying to just cover up the problem. But you, I think your issue is a little different. I think maybe you focus on it too much. You don’t bury it deep; you dwell on it. So what you might need,” she said, “is a distraction. A diversion. Something to change things up.”

  He grinned. “And what exactly do you suggest, doctor?”

  “Well,” she said, blushing ever so slightly, “I was thinking maybe you should get a job.”

  “Ah, a job.” He was disappointed, and he didn’t do much to hide it.

  “But,” she added, “I can think of a few other things that might take the edge off.”

  This time when she smiled, it was with a touch of the forbidden.

  *

  That night was the first in many that he had slept till the morning, with neither the dreams nor the fear of them disturbing his rest. He awoke to the light of a risen sun shining through his uncurtained window, the soft feeling of her skin beneath his hands. Her breathing was deep, and it took all his concentration to remove himself from beneath her arm without waking her. He sat on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself about what had happened and what it might portend. He almost didn’t notice the piece of white cardboard that was sitting on the side table, right next to his wallet and her cell phone. He saw it, and then looked away. But it took his brain only a second to process what the black lettering said. And when it did, he felt the sweat bead on his forehead, cold and foreboding. Beneath a globe sprinkled with sparkling flecks was the word, “Limbus” and then, “We Employ.” He jumped when she put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Whoa, there,” she said, giggling. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Where’d you get this?” he asked, letting it pass.

  “Oh, that’s this employment agency I heard about from one of the guys down at the college.” She wrapped one arm around his chest and kissed his neck. “I thought you might want to look into it. Why?”

  Suddenly, he felt very foolish. “It’s nothing. I just thought I saw this before somewhere.”

  “So, you’ll look into it?”

  “Actually, I’m thinking of going back in.” He felt her body tense.

  “The Marines? But why would you do that?”

  Ryan shrugged. “I’ve just been thinking about it for a while. I really belong there, you know? Maybe the best thing for me is to go back to what I’m good at.”

  He turned to her, and in the brightening morning he watched her smile weakly.

  “Yeah,” she said, “maybe that’s a good idea.”

  Her heart wasn’t in it though, and he could tell. But he didn’t think long on it. If he’d had any doubts about his future, something about picking up that business card had removed them.

  *

  Ryan met Katya the next evening at The Cliff’s Edge. He’d never been before; she clearly had. He’d heard of it, and he knew it was one of the trendiest places in New Orleans. The formidable rope line proved no obstacle, though. What must have been only a few words from Katya to the well-constructed man in the short-sleeve shirt resulted in a quick nod and a wave of his hand. Perhaps it was that she
was wearing a slinky piece of black nothing that revealed almost as much as he’d seen the night before.

  The music was thick and pulsating. He let it surround him as he walked in, and each step seemed to be a little more difficult than the last, as if the sound and the air formed a solid mass. Katya said something to him, but the noise ruled over all, and he couldn’t make it out. She repeated it again, and this time he watched her lips. Does he want a drink. Yes, he does. He said so, but his voice was lost somewhere in the reverberations.

  Katya left, and as she disappeared into the herd of people, Ryan turned to face the dance floor. It too was filled with bodies moving to the music that surrounded them. He supposed they were dancing, but it seemed more like a case of spiritual possession. Like the music was inside them. Like they were an instrument unto themselves. Or one of those crazy, psychedelic displays that changes based on the song played.

  He felt Katya’s arm slip around his waist, her other hand holding a drink to his lips. Then she smiled and pulled him into the mass. The beat took them. Ryan felt himself become one with the tribe, and with every hit of the thumping bass he heard words in the rumble. Katya lowered her eyes, and between the beat and her dress and the words and her stare Ryan lost himself. The song morphed into another and then another, but Katya’s body always matched it, her knees bent and her hips swaying. Her hands traveled down Ryan’s neck and his body. Her hair flowed and swirled around her face.

  It was the third song, or the first depending on one’s measure, before the feeling truly set in. A tingle in his hands and his toes, a fire in his stomach. Something unaccountable, as if he had ten drinks instead of half of one. A smile crept up Katya’s face, and he thought he saw something sinister in it. Then the music seemed to grow quieter, but he felt it in his chest, more intense than ever.

  Ryan fell backwards, the room starting to shift if not quite to spin. Katya stood at the edge, the crowd behind her and around her all at once. The music played on, and Katya swayed with her eyes ever on Ryan. Her hands moved up her body until they were at her head. Until they ran up her face and through her hair. And then they were higher. Climbing and climbing. And then it was the same with them all, each person that surrounded her. They swayed to the sound of the beat. Pagan penitents at prayer. For what did they pray? For what did they reach? What did they seek? Ryan never got the chance to find out.

  There was a commotion behind the crowd. Shouting, pushing. Katya disappeared into the melee, while Ryan was caught up in it. The roiling mass carried him from one darkness to another. It was then he felt the sharp pain in his side, the one that opened a hole and spilled his blood upon the dirty asphalt, the one that nearly killed him. The stab wound that left him lying in a hospital bed, answering the questions of a police officer.

  *

  The detective flipped his notebook closed and looked up at Ryan. “So that’s it then?”

  “The next thing I remember, I was here.”

  The detective frowned. “That’s not a whole lot to go on.” Ryan didn’t know what else to add, so he said nothing. “Oh well,” the detective said, pushing himself up and straightening his coat, “I’ll keep you informed, and I’ll call you if we need anything else. Oh, and by the way,” he said, turning as he reached the door and then walking back to where Ryan was lying. “I meant to give you this. Whoever stuck you took your wallet, and this was the only thing left in your pocket.”

  Ryan shivered as the detective removed the thin piece of white cardboard from his pocket and dropped it on the table beside the hospital bed. He could really only read one word, but that’s all he needed: Limbus.

  *

  Ryan stood outside 453 South Rampart Street in New Orleans, only a couple blocks away from the Mississippi River. He removed the thin sliver of cardboard and studied it. This was the right address; the business card confirmed that much. But somehow Ryan had expected more than the nondescript and somewhat run down warehouse of which Limbus was one of the tenants. He checked the address one last time, and seeing that nothing had changed, stepped inside the front door.

  There was no receptionist, only a callbox. It seemed as though at some time before there had been a number of tenants who called the warehouse home. But now the only name that remained was the one that he was looking for. He pushed a button, heard a beep, and waited only a couple seconds before a female voice answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, this is Ryan Dixson, I have an appointment with Recruiter Hawthorne.”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Dixson. Please, come in.”

  The buzzing sound announced that he had been admitted, and Ryan opened the inner door of the warehouse, walking up the stairs that lead to a hallway. He had to pause half-way up, clutching his side where still-fresh sutures kept him from bleeding out of a wound that had cost him any shot at going back into the Marines.

  “New beginnings,” he whispered to himself. That’s what Katya had told him when she encouraged him—almost made him, really—seek out Limbus. He started climbing again, and after only a few more steps, he found a sign that directed him down the right corridor. He hadn’t gone far before he stood in front of the Limbus office.

  The waiting room itself was relatively bare. The Limbus company logo hung on one wall, a large globe that seemed to sparkle, and Ryan assumed that each tiny point of light indicated an office of the agency. Beside the globe was the picture of a fresh-faced kid younger than Ryan. “Employee of the Month: Dallas Hamilton” was written beneath it. Otherwise, there were only some chairs and the receptionist desk to fill out the room. He didn’t even see any magazines.

  The brunette, who he assumed was the receptionist, was sitting behind an ancient looking computer screen, filing her nails and talking loudly on the phone. She winked at Ryan as he walked in, but didn’t bother to interrupt her telephone call to give him any further instructions. Down he sat in one of the grubby chairs across from the logo and waited. He’d begun to wonder if this was all a mistake when the door opened and out stepped a man.

  He seemed completely out of place here. Ryan was no expert, but he knew the suit the man was wearing was high-dollar. The lines were too crisp, the shirt too delicate and constantly on the verge of falling into a thousand wrinkles, the tie too bright and the cufflinks too shiny for this ensemble to be a Macy’s special. Apparently, recruiter gigs at Limbus paid well.

  “Ah, you must be Mr. Dixson,” he said extending his hand. He smiled, and Ryan couldn’t help but notice that his brilliantly white teeth lined up perfectly. “Of course, you are.”

  “Please, call me Ryan.”

  “Yes, Ryan. You may follow me.”

  The two men went through the door behind the receptionist. She still didn’t say anything, but she did give Ryan a smile and another wink.

  “So, Mr. Dixson,” Hawthorne said as he led Ryan down a hallway of what seemed like row after row of empty offices, “we were most fortunate that you contacted us. It is quite difficult to find good help these days.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Ryan said, wondering if they would ever reach Hawthorne’s office, “what sort of positions are you looking to fill?”

  “Oh,” Hawthorne said, turning and smiling again at Ryan, “all kinds. You can’t even begin to imagine the jobs I’ve doled out over the years. Everything from dog walking to other, more … how shall we say it … esoteric endeavors.”

  “Ah.”

  “But please, come in and sit down.”

  Hawthorne opened a door and made a sweeping gesture to the seat in front of his desk.

  “So, Mr. Dixson, I believe we have the perfect job for you.”

  “Uh,” Ryan stuttered, shifting in the chair he had only just sat down in, “how would you know that?”

  “Oh Mr. Dixson, we do our research,” Hawthorne said, reaching into a drawer beside him and pulling out a sheet of paper. “It’s so easy these days to find out everything you want to know about a person. I mean, your entire life is on the Internet. Did you know that,
with a simple search, I can find the address of every place you’ve ever lived? Every parking ticket you’ve ever had? It’s amazing really. Of course,” he continued, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head, “I’ve always preferred the more old-fashioned methods. I find the tried and the true to be more reliable, don’t you think?”

  Ryan looked at the strange man sitting across from him and a sense of unease settled uncomfortably on his shoulders. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “Ah, yes, of course not.” Hawthorne put his elbows on the desk and picked up a rather attractive fountain pen. “Do forgive me. I tend to ramble on occasion. A bad habit, no doubt. But in any event,” he said, uncapping the pen and placing it on the piece of paper, “we should get down to business.”

  He slid the document to Ryan, who leaned over in his chair and looked at it. “Employment Contract,” it read in big, bold letters at the top.

  “This is what we have available for you.”

  Ryan picked up the paper and began to read. “Not much to choose from, huh?”

  “Well, you must understand. Our reputation is built upon our ability to provide the perfect candidate for every job.”

  “Wow, Boston? You couldn’t find somebody closer?”

  “As I said, our clients expect the perfect candidate. And in this case, that candidate is you. You will of course be compensated for the inconvenience. And, as you can see, the remuneration is quite significant.”

  “Yes, I see that. Though you are a little short on the details here.”

  In fact, the document Ryan held in his hands was completely devoid of details. The only concrete thing it provided was that the job was in Boston. Under the job description the document read only, “Perform instructions adequately, not failing to see the job through to the end.”

  “Yes, about that. I know this is unusual, but I must request that you sign the document before I tell you what the job entails.”