Plantation of Chrome

by R. J. Coulson

“You won’t have to do anything different than you’re used to,” said Vodeni. His machine gun was resting by the side of the chair. “This really isn’t an obligation, it’s a privilege.”

  Noah looked out the window, into the alley. It was very dark, only the faintest kiss from a faraway streetlight shining on it.

  “If I say yes, and you let us go,” said Stone as he turned his look towards Vodeni’s gray eyes, “then what’s stopping me from calling the cops on you. You can’t afford an investigation.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Stone.” said Vodeni. He stood up and leaned against the table. “I know that you and your lackeys killed Bishop, that you killed all those… kids.”

  Grundy’s eyes welled up.

  “And now your basement is filled with guns, your many workers running like shades throughout the city, visiting the docks, walking around the church, visiting a certain T.J. Eckleburg’s grave, a man who casually took his own and his family’s life?” So you see; It’s you who can’t afford an investigation. One drop of a hat, and all will come crumbling down around you.”

  Stone casually looked back out the window, but a shadow caught his eye; a shadow that was not custom to the usual darkness of the alley. It moved between the dumpsters like a polar fox between snowy hills.

  “Of course,” said Vodeni, “I can make it all come down much faster than the police ever could. That is, if you say no. If you say no, then--”

  “If I say no, then what?” said Stone, the corner of his eye periodically scanning the dark alley. “Then what?”

  Vodeni seemed taken aback by Stone’s sudden comment, but he continued. “If you say no, then I’ll start by shooting the two of you. I’ll steal your weapons, then set fire to this glorified warehouse. And lastly, I’ll find Frank De Gracy and kill him, too, tying up the last knot of the Stone dynasty. However, if you say yes, then your days will be the same as they always have.”

  Stone kept watching the alley, but he couldn’t see the shadow anymore. Vodeni continued. “You arrange boxing matches, make a few bucks off of them, sell some weapons on the side, and so on. The only thing we want is a cut of the action, really. So? What do you say--”

  A gunshot roared from outside the window, splintering it into thousands of pieces. Stone dived to the floor, pulling Grundy down with him. A thin line of blood ran down the chin of the man that was sitting by the window. His eyes were without expression as he slowly collapsed off the chair. Vodeni and the other man crouched and covered their ears as Stone and Grundy made their slow escape towards the office door. Grundy barely made it out, but just as Stone was about to follow, a searing pain ran across his left shin. He looked down and saw Vodeni’s maniacal expression as he held the shaft of the letter opener, its blunt blade deeply imbedded into Stone’s flesh. Stone kicked him in the face and crawled out the door. Grundy helped him up, and together they hurried through the corridor and out into the main hall. As Grundy helped Stone across the hall, a window near the far corner was smashed. De Gracy jumped inside, calling them over.

  “What the hell's going on?!” he muttered.

  Stone looked down at the smoking gun in De Gracy's hand. “They came here to take over the Pit,” he said. “They’ll come in here any minute, two of them.”

  “No problem then,” said De Gracy. “Grundy? Go down the hatch, quickly, and get us anything with a trigger, you hear?”

  “No, let me do it,” said Stone.

  “Your leg is no good,” said De Gracy. “I’ll guard us with the gun, cover the hallway, he’ll come back, and we’ll outgun them, three to two.”

  “Yes, but still. They could…”

  De Gracy ignored Stone. “Grundy, do you understand?”

  Grundy nodded and hurried over to the hatch, which he quickly opened. The sound of shuffling feet could be heard from down the east hall, near the office, followed by the flicker of an oddly warm glow of light. The metal ladder was rustling as Grundy crawled down it.

  “Why are you here?” whispered Stone. De Gracy was looking at the door that led to the east hall, pointing his gun at the crack of light.

  “You shouldn’t have left the door open,” he muttered. “God damn it!”

  The sound of shuffling feet grew stronger, the warm light flaring even brighter. Vodeni shouted, “Throw it!” and a burning flask flew in through the crack of the open door, landing next to Stone and De Gracy, a flash of infernal fire engulfing the floor beside them. De Gracy pulled Stone away from the blazes. He was quick to realign his gun towards the door, but Vodeni and the other man had already entered the room, both pointing their guns at them.

  “Don’t worry,” said Vodeni. “That wasn’t a big one. It’ll probably just sear the floor a bit, but this one,” he said, pulling out another flask from the inside of his coat, “is quite the firestarter.”

  “You do anything, and I’ll shoot,” said De Gracy.

  “The both of us?” said Vodeni. “No matter how you play this, you end up with the shorter straw.” Vodeni’s lighter clicked open in his hand, the flame spewing out like the devil's tongue. “Because, if you do anything, I’ll light this second bottle and throw it down the hatch, and with all that gunpowder down there, there’s no saying what’ll happen.”

  De Gracy moved a bit closer to Stone, still pointing the gun at the two men.

  “Stone, we’re far enough from the hatch,” he whispered. “As far away as they are. Even if he drops it, we can make it out before the fire spreads. If there's an explosion, they'd have to run away, too!”

  “Are you insane?! Grundy’s down there.”

  De Gracy’s face didn’t pull a single muscle.

  “Stone!” called Vodeni. “The offer still stands. We can put all weapons down right now, if you agree on one simple thing.”

  “We don’t want to collaborate with you,” said De Gracy.

  “It doesn’t matter what you think, Frank. This is Stone’s call.” Vodeni put his lighter closer to the rag of the bottle.

  “Just don’t do anything, and we’re in,” said Stone.

  “Stone, don’t,” whispered De Gracy. “

  “Our entire inventory is down there,” said Stone. “We burn that, and we’ve lost everything.”

  “We can restart, together, like old times,” said De Gracy. “Anything but be crippled by someone else. We let him drop the flask and we’re out, don't you understand? The fire'll flush them out, too. We can take the fight to him later. We’ll be buying time… time to finally win it all, to end this!”

  Stone looked at the open hatch, then at Vodeni, then at the gun in De Gracy’s hand.

  “Last call,” said Vodeni.

  Stone’s hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding fast, the wound on his shin bleeding and pumping. He imagined how terrified Grundy felt, isolated and unheard, the threat of a fiery apocalypse hanging over his head.

  “Stone, this is the last threat! One more sacrifice, and we--”

  Stone punched De Gracy across the face, grabbed the handgun, and slid it across the floor, towards Vodeni.

  “Very smart decision, Stone. Very smart. Go tie him up.”

  The man took out some rope and went over to the consciousless De Gracy. He started tying him up.

  “What’s that about?” asked Stone.

  “You think I can trust him after this stunt? He killed Mike back there. I know where you stand when it comes to words between men, Stone. Bishop taught me that much, but I know that Frank is a lying sack of shit, and for now, I’ll keep him where I know he won’t budge, is that understood?”

  The fire beside him had almost burned out, and Stone looked at De Gracy. He looked back up at Vodeni and nodded slowly.

  Messenger threw a punch into the Bull’s kidney. The man wailed in pain, but managed to throw two punches into Messenger’s ribs. There was crushed glass on the floor between them, and some of the furniture had tumbled down. Many of Messenger’s wounds had reopened, and most of his bandages had slid off, now litteri
ng the room. The man had a few gashes across his face, and his shirt’s buttons were all torn out, making it look more like a rag tied around his chest and arms than a piece of clothing. Both men were breathing heavily as they paced around one another.

  “Is… is this what you wanted?” panted the man. “Is this what you wanted from me?”

  Messenger continued walking in a circle around the man.

  “So, now you don’t answer. All these fancy words, always with the fancy words… and now nothing.”

  Messenger lashed out at the man, but he dodged it, sidestepped and punched Messenger in the lower back.

  “I taught you boxing, lad. I taught you all this. Don’t you think I know what you’re going to do? We can fight all day, and you still aren’t…”

  Messenger threw another punch, but the Bull dodged without using another breath. Messenger looked the man deep into the eyes. He felt the wounds and bruises all over his body, and even though he doubted himself and his strength, his ability to defeat the man in front of him, he refused to let his resolve waver. He pulled a red monkey wrench from inside his pants. Messenger took another step, but slid in a puddle of rain; he slipped, his knee banging on the ground with a soft crack, the wrench falling out of his hand. The man immediately saw his chance; he tackled Messenger to the floor, took the red wrench, and raised it high into the air above his son’s head.

  In the second that the wrench was still overhead, those few moments of linger, Messenger was looking out the window and out towards the city. He saw into the far vista of the black columns of smoke that spewed from the docks, the way the wind made them crookedly sway on their way towards the faraway sky above, towards heaven.

  “Where’s mommie?”

  “Mom’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes, but not like that.”

  …

  “Will you go too?”

  “No, John. No, I won’t.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The sun was soaring high that day. The late autumn had brought with it an unusual warmth, coarsing through the entire town. Along the streets of suburban Plissbury, fathers sat on the porches with newspapers and cigars, mothers tended the last shreds of garden left by the autumn winds, and the many children roamed the streets, running in and between the hedges, picket fences and trees, and they coughed from the smoke of the passing cars, chuckled at each other’s jokes and ball tricks, and made fun of some of the passersby. Among these were two men, slowly shuffling down the street. The one was much smaller than the other, his steps tainted by the presence of a slight limp.

  “You sure that went and healed all right?” asked Grundy.

  Stone looked up at him.

  “Yeah, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t hurt much anymore.”

  “You’re still limping.”

  “It’s on my leg, I can’t help it. It’s been a month now, it’ll pass soon.”

  Grundy could feel that Stone was irritated, an acidic bitterness showing in all his answers, and he didn’t feel for asking anymore questions. He instead looked at the children playing in and around the gardens, pushing each other and laughing.

  “I’m sorry, Grundy,” said Stone.

  “There's no reason to be sorry, Mr. Stone,” said Grundy. He hesitated at first, but then he asked, “What are we going to do now?”

  “Keep playing by his pipe,” said Stone. “Nothing else we can do. It’s worked so far. But now there’s all this.”

  “We’re not sure that Messenger is dead.”

  Stone didn’t answer.

  They were getting closer to the towers of the church, and just as they walked in through the gates of the cemetery, the bells chimed. Grundy noticed an older woman standing by one of the graves in the distance, her head bent and slowly rising up and down. He then scouted the rest of the graveyard.

  “It’s hard to see all the graves from here,” said Grundy. “You sure you can find it?”

  “He told me where it was. It shouldn’t be too hard. You just stay here,” said Stone and started walking towards the far wall of the cemetery. Grundy looked after him, hesitating once more. “Mr. Stone?” he called.

  Stone turned around.

  “Are you sure you want to do this? We’re not sure that Messenger’s dead. For all we know, he could just have left the--”

  “And what’s the difference?!” roared Stone.

  Grundy looked down, ashamed.

  “He’s gone,” said Stone. “That’s what happens when you die. You go away to where no one can follow you. No matter how, it was Messenger’s choice.”

  “It wasn’t necessarily the choice he made.”

  “Yes, it was. Doesn’t matter if it was by his father’s hand or not. There’s no proof, no body…”

  “And no grave,” said Grundy.

  Stone turned around and walked away.

  Stone reached the far wall. It had a fine layer of white across its surface, almost like a plane of chalk, cracked some places to reveal the foundation of red, dusty bricks. Stone walked all along the wall, down towards the farthest corner of the cemetery, and here, true enough, he found a little hole. He wasn’t sure he’d have noticed it if he hadn’t known it was there, because the vines from the forest had crept out to cover it almost entirely. He took a glance down to where Grundy still stood before forcing himself through the hole.

  The sunlight shone in through the upper canopy of the swarm of trees that surrounded the cemetery area. There were many leaves still on the trees. Stone tried looking up at the sky, but the sunlight was too bright to bear. He noticed the little grave that wasn't more than a plank of wood and a little mound of dirt. “MESSENGER,” the plank said. The mound was covered by grass with the exception of a little circle in the middle that it looked like someone had made. Stone rummaged through his coat and from one of the inner pockets, he took out a little figurine of chrome. It shone brightly in the sun, depicted a knight with a broken sword. At first, Stone put it on top of the plank, but then, after looking at it for a while, it seemed wrong to him. He picked up the figurine and put it into the ground of the grave instead, like a seed. He made sure it was well covered with dirt. He then leaned back and sat there for a while, enjoying the unfamiliar quiet around him. His mind couldn’t decide where to wander, and so Noah Stone ended up just sitting there, next to the grave of Messenger, his eyes flickering from green to orange to grave and back again, and he felt that he had somehow reset it all since Eckleburg died by digging deep into the earth, dirtying up his hands, and planting that one small seed of chrome.

  P A R T III

  THE MASK

  [ NOVEMBER 25th – DECEMBER 12th ]

  [1928]

  The boy washed the mud from his mouth, spitting it out. It left a grainy sting in his mouth, and no matter how much he spat, he couldn't flush the last feeling of it. He could see his own reflection in the slow creek, knowing why the other kids had done what they did.

  “If you think getting it out of your mouth is bad, just wait 'till you have to rinse it outta your clothes.”

  The boy turned around and saw the farmhand coming down the hill. He sat down next to the boy, watching him clean himself.

  “They were whipping the horse,” said the boy. “I tried saving it.”

  “I know you did,” said the farmhand, a piece of wheat hanging from his mouth. “Don't know who had it worse off, though... you or the horse.”

  The boy dried his face with his dirty sleeve, a streak of mud staining his face like a scar.

  “I once read about a horse,” said the farmhand, “listen: He's the color of nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger... he is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.”

  The boys eyes flickered with excitement. “What's that from?”

  “A play,” said the farmhand. “It's from a play.”

  CHAPTER
21

  Grundy was sweating through his many layers of clothing. He looked up and down the rows of graves, waiting for Stone to come back. T.J. Eckleburg's gravestone next to him looked cracked and brittle in the bright light.

  Grundy looked at the grass by his feet and when he looked back up he no longer saw the frames of the cemetery wall nor the towering trees, but the undisrupted infinity of the stretching horizon. He looked from side to side, as far as his head could turn, and there was nothing but fields and patches of small groups of trees, but the horizon was always there, intact and completely straight. When he looked back, he could see the blocks of buildings that made the farm from which he had come. The structures were so far away that he couldn’t distinguish the brown bricks from the white, the stables and barns from the smooth lines of residency. However, he knew that he had to return, and the feeling had grown inside of him like a tumor, like a bad taste that filled his stomach with acid, his mouth with bile. So he turned his head instead, looking out at the sun that was neither setting nor rising, but instead hanging perfectly still. He tried looking straight at it, and as he did, his eyes strained to maintain their sight, the vision of the horizon slowly disappeared, and the confines of the cemetery surrounded him once more.

  He looked over at the hole in the wall. Stone had still not come through it. He then looked back at the woman that he had seen earlier. She was standing by the same grave, and instead of putting down her entire bouquet of flowers at once, she laid them down one by one, and Grundy imagined her prayers with each flower.

  “Oh Lord, let he who lies here rest in peace in your realm and be ever calm.” She put down a flower. “Let his reign be but a small part of yours, a single sheep among your flock of many.” She put down another flower. “Oh, Lord, let his soul fly among the many others who deserve your presence. Oh Lord, may he rest in peace.”

  Then, as a rip through his mind, Grundy noticed two younger men. They were boys, really, but the way they strutted through the graveyard showed their apparent disregard of their youth as well as any notion of death. They walked past the woman, and as they did, Grundy noticed that one of them shoved her back, making her drop all her remaining flowers. Grundy stepped forward, but stalled. The young men laughed their way through the graveyard. The woman didn’t give them but a glance before crouching before the grave. Grundy imagined how fast she must be praying, how fast her mouth must be spewing words to hide her hate from God, to shower down a goodness upon herself. “Oh Lord, thou who art in heaven… Oh Lord, Oh God, you almighty God,” and always with capital letters in your head, thought Grundy, and he imagined all the words he would write with capital letters, and the young men left the cemetery, and as they did, he knew he hated them, and he wouldn’t hide his hate from anyone, and he imagined how Eckleburg would hide it, and how Messenger would not, and how Stone…