The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell

by Brian Evenson

  “That’s no way to get color,” said Haver. “Do you need color?”

  “Red,” said Festus. “I have red.”

  “But wouldn’t you like an easier way? Chalk maybe? Pastels? Not only red, but blue, green?”

  Festus thought for a moment. “Yes,” he finally said.

  “I can buy some,” said Haver.

  “No need,” said Festus.

  “No need?”

  “I have some.”

  “You do?”

  “In my studio,” said Festus. “They are waiting for you in my studio.”

  Which was why, a few days later, Haver found himself, during his day off, knocking on Festus’s landlord’s door. The door opened and revealed the landlord, toadlike and inscrutable. Once Haver explained what he wanted, the landlord, without saying a word, turned and padded deeper into the gloom of his apartment, returning a moment later with a key.

  “Apartment’s on the third floor,” said the landlord. “Studio’s the floor above it.”

  Haver trudged up, step by step, until he finally gained the top floor. It was musty there, the air close. There was a single door, exactly his height. He inserted the key, jiggled it until tumblers turned and the door opened.

  Inside, the room was just as Festus had depicted it. Exactly. Not an object out of place. If he stood right there in the doorway and held one of the drawings in front of his eyes, and then lowered it, Haver would see the exact same thing.

  Where were they? There, on the drafting table, a box of pastels, lid off—just like in the drawings. Where was the lid? It had fallen there, on the floor, just behind one of the legs of the table, which explained why it was not depicted in the drawings. Lid on now, box tucked into his coat pocket, time to go back out the door, lock it, and leave.

  Only he didn’t leave, not yet. Instead, he approached the stack of papers. Yes, he saw, there were drawings on all of them, and these drawings were all identical. But they were not drawings of the studio. Instead, they depicted a simple room containing an empty bed. An ordinary room, he thought, standard design, plain, could be anywhere, part of any hospital, any institution. But it was, he suspected, not any room but one particular room: the room in the hospital that Festus now occupied. As he flipped further back through the drawings he became sure, for now the bed wasn’t empty but occupied: a figure within it that he recognized as the patient who had occupied the room before Festus.

  He was at the door without quite understanding how he had gotten there. The stack of papers had collapsed, was more of a heap now, drawings spilling everywhere. He hesitated, his sense of order encouraging him to go back and pick them up, to rearrange the room to be just as he had found it. But he couldn’t bring himself to reenter the room.

  And then, as he watched, the stool before the table slid slowly to one side. Or not slid exactly, since it was both where it had been before and where it was now, and every place in between. Where there had been a chair there was now a smear. He was looking at something that was no longer an object, but what it was exactly he would have been hard-pressed to say. He couldn’t move. He found he couldn’t move. Then the drafting table slid too, and the whole room took on that smeared and insubstantial quality, and Haver, afraid he was beginning to take it on as well, suddenly found he could move again and fled.

  By the time he returned to the institution the next day, he had gathered himself. What he had experienced, he told himself, was a momentary lapse, a hallucination, brought on by fatigue. He was working too hard. It all could be explained away.

  He gave Festus the pastels, just as he had promised. Festus did not thank him, his work on a drawing continuing at the same pace.

  Will he draw the same room? Haver wondered. Will color change anything?

  Waiting for Festus to finish the current drawing, Haver leafed through the latest ones Festus had added to the stack. Same, same, same, he thought, and then, suddenly stunned, didn’t think anything at all, just looked.

  It was a drawing that was, in a sense, like all the others, though in another sense not like any of them. It was the studio, still the studio, true, but this time a human figure was in it. He could tell, even though the figure was facing away, that it was meant to be him, Haver, standing just where he had stood.

  But Festus knew he was there in the studio, he reassured himself, there were only a few places in the room he’d be likely to stand, so it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

  Except that the stack of drawings in the corner, usually so tidy, had collapsed into a heap, just as it had in the room itself after Haver had looked at the drawings. But still, Haver told himself, it meant nothing. It could have been a guess on Festus’s part, just a guess.

  He took a deep breath and turned to the next drawing. When he saw it, he thought, Dear God, help me.

  This too was a drawing that was, in a sense, like all the others, though also not. It was still the studio, but here everything was smeared, the drafting table a smear, the stool a smear. It was just as he, Haver, had seen it from the doorway. He was not depicted in it, since he was standing in the doorway. It was as if Festus had seen the scene through his eyes.

  He had the orderlies take the stack of drawings away. Festus protested, screamed, shouted, but Haver ignored him. He had the charcoal taken away too, as well as the barely used pastels.

  “Letting you draw wasn’t helping you,” he told Festus once he was straitjacketed. “It was only making things worse.” Though inside he knew that what mattered to him was not Festus’s health but his own. He needed to believe the world was a stable, solid place, not a place that could be manipulated by a gnarled, blackened hand grasping a nub of charcoal.

  For a time all went well. Festus, sedated, stopped protesting. He shuffled around the ward slowly, as if in his own world. Haver deliberately spent less time with the man, saw him hardly more than his other patients. Everything is okay, Haver told himself, everything is back to normal. Though what constituted normal he would have been hard-pressed to say. He did his rounds, updated the patient records, went home, slept. He awoke, showered, breakfasted, drove to the hospital, did his rounds, updated records, and so on. He knew who he was: Haver. The world held no surprises for him. That was how he liked it.

  “Doctor Haver,” said an orderly from the hall behind him. “Doctor Haver, please wait.”

  His shift was done. He was heading toward the outer door, ready to go home, but he waited. The orderly hustled up to him, still panting, then took his arm and began to drag him back the other way.

  “What is it?” asked Haver.

  “Festus,” said the orderly.

  “What’s happened? Has he hurt himself?”

  The orderly shook his head. “Better if you just see,” he said.

  …

  From the doorway, he saw Festus, straitjacketed, immobile on his bed. But other than that and a general disorder in the room, no doubt caused when the orderlies restrained him, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “What is it?” asked Haver of the orderly. “What am I supposed to see?”

  “Go in,” said the orderly.

  And so he did. He took two steps in, but even then, didn’t see anything. It was only when he took another step and turned slightly that he caught it out of the corner of his eye, and then he turned and stared back at the wall behind him. Even knowing there would be something, that something had rattled the orderly, he was not prepared for what he saw.

  Festus had used the entire wall to one side of the door. He had drawn there, life-size or a little larger, a picture of his studio, the condition just as Haver had left it. What was it drawn in? Charcoal, it seemed.

  “Where did he get charcoal?” asked Haver, not looking away from the drawing.

  “He burned something,” said the orderly. “He made his own.”

  “What did he burn?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Where did he get matches?”

  The orderly shrugged. “We don�
�t know that either,” he said.

  The drawing was not finished, Haver realized. And there was one variation to the charcoal depiction of the studio: from a light fixture was suspended a rope. The space directly below it was untouched, the only part of the wall not drawn on. If he looked at it closely, he could see that the untouched space was the size and shape of a human being, though if a human being was actually there, he would be suspended in midair, his feet not touching the ground.

  Haver stared. “Why haven’t you finished it?” he heard his voice asking. He had to ask a second time before Festus responded.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you haven’t gone back yet.”

  Haver stared. When Festus put it that way, he could see that the drawing seemed to be inviting him in. The unfinished space was just his size. He couldn’t take his eyes away from it.

  He would, whether he wanted to or not, he somehow knew, go back. It was just a matter of time, he feared. Just a matter of time. And then Festus’s drawing would be complete.

  The Extrication

  In the early days of this world, lifeforms were not as distinct as they are today. There were no separate species but only a single fecund mire of creatures indiscriminately breeding, changing and striating with each new generation. With every blind coupling, new forms of creature came into existence.

  Mere speculation, you might say, were you free to speak. Yes, speculation. Perhaps the truth, perhaps not. And yet the idea struck me as offering a compelling map for the future.

  Which is why you are here.

  How are you? Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything? A cup of water perhaps? A crust of bread?

  No, I shouldn’t needle you. We both know your needs are being provided for, being dripped slowly into your body by way of a central venous catheter. To allow you to feed yourself I would have to undo the straps that keep you immobilized. I am not sure that is such a good idea. Not until I have convinced you of the necessity of what we are trying to accomplish.

  But don’t worry. I am a patient man. I will not give up on you. I will convince you.

  As the world sickens further, as the air grows poisonous, as the oceans die, so too must we shift and change if we care to survive. We must extricate ourselves from humanity and become something other than ourselves. Something that can adapt to the harshness of this new world. We must loosen the strands that differentiate us from other creatures, unravel our coding—loosen it just enough that our bodies are free to become more than what they are.

  By us, I mean of course you.

  You see these suspended bags? If you tip your head back and crane your neck and look behind you, there they are. These ones to the left, the ones bloated with clear fluid, need not concern us; they are simply meant to keep you nourished and hydrated, to keep you alive. They contain, as well, a painkiller. Nothing too addictive. Or, rather, yes, quite addictive, but the treatment plan I have developed for you allows me to taper you off slowly. Withdrawal will not be pleasant, but you will survive it. I have learned from past mistakes.

  It is this other bag that matters, the one to the right, the one filled with an absinthe-colored fluid. This will enter your body much more slowly. In the time it takes for the entire bag to enter your system, we will go through a dozen bags of clear fluid. But this, my friend, is the bag that matters.

  I claimed these bags of clear fluid need not concern us, but of course they do. Think of them as a sort of clock. By the time the first bag is empty, you will sense something beginning to happen to you. By the time you reach the fourth, your skin will feel as if it is on fire, despite the painkillers. By the sixth, you will begin to transform.

  How you will change exactly, I cannot predict. It is different for everyone and depends on what sort of choices your body makes. Some—most, if I am being honest—dissolve into a kind of muck. They writhe and fold inward and expire sometime in the course of the seventh bag. I hose what remains of them off the table. A few, a very select few, have made it all the way to the final bag, the twelfth. By that time, they have become something else. Something at least theoretically more suited to live in this new world. They are more resistant to cold or heat, their skin becomes scaled or slimy or photosensitive, they lose or gain a limb or two or three.

  I have chosen you very carefully. I have faith that you will be one of those select few.

  Perhaps if I were to remove your gag you would have questions for me. Perhaps, instead, you would just shriek and scream. Those who came before you have done sometimes one, sometimes the other. There have even been those who, gag removed, remained stubbornly silent. I am, I admit, tempted to remove your gag, if only to see if my guess about what you in particular would do is correct.

  But the screams in the past have been too shrill to be anything but a distraction, and the questions asked are always the wrong ones. The silence I find even worse. Whatever you choose to do, it will only make me think less of you.

  No, it is a waste of time. Better never to loosen the gag.

  Have I been clear enough? The world is dying, is in fact already well on its way to being dead. Were it not, you would never have wandered in here. You never would have had occasion to think, What is this? An unoccupied bunker in which I can shelter myself? What luck! and then have fallen into my trap. You would, instead, have a job in a small town as an accountant, say, or a data entry specialist. But there are no real towns anymore, small or otherwise. And that I am alive here, in this bunker, is due only to my foresight. I could see the collapse coming, and I said to myself I needed to prepare. The world was changing. We had ruined it. Things had gone too far to change them back. And so, I told myself, it is we who must change to meet the world.

  Or you, rather. By we, I meant and still mean you.

  Don’t worry, friend. We’re in this together. I want humanity to survive. I have done my best to calibrate the formula exactly right this time. I will stay beside you. I will observe the change.

  True enough, I couldn’t save the others, but that is no reason to think I won’t be able to save you. The one just before you made it through all twelve bags and still lived, gasping, for thirty-eight minutes after that. His skin had begun to extrude a slick, mucosal layer, and I suspect he no longer belonged in air but in water. I learned so much from him, and I will use all I learned to save you.

  Even if I do not succeed, perhaps we will learn enough so that the individual who comes after you will survive. Or perhaps the individual after him. And, once the procedure has been perfected, it will be ready for me.

  When will we begin? your eyes seem to be asking.

  But can’t you see we have already begun? Look at how much less clear fluid there is in the first bag than in the bags that will succeed it. Yes, we have already begun.

  I will do what I can for you. I am rooting for you. Whether you survive the change or perish, I will be here with you, I swear, until the bitter end.

  A Bad Patch

  In January, I began to have difficulties with my stomach and intestines. I could hardly keep any food down, but despite this my belly began to bloat and swell. It was sore, tender to the touch, and soon I could no longer wear any of my pants; the pressure of the waistline against my belly caused cramps and acute pain and made it impossible for me to walk. Instead, I began to wear the housedresses my wife left behind when she died. These were billowing and voluminous and put no pressure on my belly at all.

  The first week, unsure of what was happening, I called in sick to work. In retrospect, I should have gone to see a doctor, but I kept thinking it would pass. As the second week began, I found my thoughts sufficiently muddled and confused that I somehow no longer even thought of a doctor as a possibility. I was not, in a manner of speaking, myself. I didn’t leave the house, did very little beyond sit on the couch, staring down, watching my stomach ripple gently beneath my wife’s housedress.

  I still had enough presence of mind to call in each m
orning and report myself ill to the Corporation. But as the third week began, I was told by the Corporation’s health auditor that I needed a certification from a medical professional if this was to continue. If I did not submit one in four days, he regretted to inform me, I would be terminated.

  And so, the morning of the fourth day, I put on my favorite of my wife’s housedresses—which, by now, I had begun to think of as my housedresses—and put a trench coat over it. I found a pair of my wife’s leggings and snipped the legs off midthigh with a pair of shears. These snipped-off leggings I slid over my own legs, affixing the top of them to the inside of the dress with safety pins to keep them in place. I pinned up the hem of the dress too so it wouldn’t show below the trench coat. When I regarded myself in the mirror, forcibly holding the trench coat closed with my hands since my belly was too distended for me to belt it, I approved of what I saw. From a distance, it looked like I was wearing pants, like there was nothing wrong with me beyond the fact that I was wearing a trench coat in summer. With my protruding belly I looked a little strange, perhaps, but I did not judge myself to be alarming.

  My wife’s brother was a pathologist. He was, technically speaking, a medical professional, though he was currently employed as a coroner by the police. Since the Corporation had not specified that I must see a particular kind of medical professional, I decided he would do.

  My belly roiled as I walked. Several times my stomach clenched hard, and I had to hold to a light pole or lean against a building wall or a parked car until the pain passed, sweat beading on my forehead. Something, I realized briefly, was very wrong with me, but almost as soon as I thought this, the thought swirled away and was gone. As long as I had stayed at home, in my wife’s housedresses, moving little, I could pretend I was experiencing a transient illness, that it would soon pass, but now, out and walking, there was no denying how ill I was. I was almost tempted to see an actual doctor, but since I had nearly reached the police station, I simply continued as planned.