A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales

by John McIlveen

  “Leaving already?” Randy repeated, as if she hadn’t heard him the first time.

  “Yes. I’m not a fan of crowds or loud parties,” she said, knowing it sounded like the bullshit it was, and that he saw right through it. She remained composed. What she truly wanted to do was embed the pointy toe of her Franco Sarto pumps into his grapes.

  “I’ve rented a top-floor suite. We could go there if you’d like to be someplace quieter.”

  Bingo!

  “No. I really have to go…somewhere.”

  “Are you okay to drive? I can give you a lift.”

  “I’m fine,” Kat said. “I didn’t drink anything.” She clutched her evening bag tightly between her arm and ribs and headed for the door. As expected, Randy fell into step beside her.

  You fucking fatheaded snake, she thought, and realized that was exactly what he reminded her of, with his large forehead that tapered down to sunken cheeks, and those beady black eyes. He was a dangerous, cold-blooded serpent. He was a cobra.

  Shaking inside and out with fear and anger, Kat stopped abruptly, her eyes locked on the floor before her. “Stop—following—me!” she said, assertively enough that a few heads turned toward them.

  Randy noticed, too. He held his hands up and took a step away from her in a show of harmless submission, but his hostile eyes promised she would pay for her defiance.

  Kat rushed forward, through the ballroom doorway, and away from him. She claimed her coat from the check, walked past a bank of elevators, and shoved open the heavy steel door that opened into the parking facility. She was taken aback by the rigid winds that sliced through the garage, unhindered, it seemed, from the Charles River. With her notoriously poor sense of direction, she was disoriented. By the time she found her car, her face and fingers were in agony, and she cursed herself for not having brought gloves and a hat…mussed hair be damned.

  The blow that caught her on the back of the head was sharp and unexpected. She had not heard anyone approaching, and her single thought before she lost consciousness was Randy.

  

  A rattling sound brought her around. When she tried to move her head, the pain defined her and owned her, radiating from the back of her neck, over the top of her head and across her shoulders. A woman cried despondently from nearby, her sobs repetitive and shrill, piercing. Kat wanted her to shut the fuck up before the sound split her skull. She thought she might be in the hospital and tried raising her left arm to feel the small but reassuring swell of her belly, but something metal and unforgiving restrained her movement. She yanked and there was a tightening around the front of her legs and her other arm was tugged downward.

  She opened her eyes to nearly complete darkness, except for a small red light that blinked every five seconds. Although bright, it seemed distant and offered little help. She couldn’t see what was binding her arms, but it rattled like heavy, steel chains. She panicked and yanked, ignoring the nauseating pain that flared up her neck and into her skull, driving her to tears. She was seated, her hands tethered together by a chain strung beneath her chair. Any movement of one arm was countered by a pulling on the other and pressure on the front of her legs.

  “Ain’t no use,” came a man’s voice, originating from a few feet to her right. “Just going to fuck your wrists up, is all.”

  Kat tensed. Her nerves buzzed with anxiety and she expected to be touched—or worse—at any moment and from any direction. This is bad, she thought.

  “Randy?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she demanded, with a fear-fueled bravado she wasn’t feeling.

  “I’m Shep. I’m not the one who did this to you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said. “Or I wouldn’t be sitting here chained to a fucking chair, either.”

  “Who did this? What do they want? Why…”

  “Whoa there, cupcake. I don’t know any more than you do,” he said. “I woke up like this a couple hours ago, I guess…hard to tell. Head’s splitting. Last thing I remember was closing up my office. Fucker said, ‘excuse me,’ and when I turned to him, he popped me good on the head. Sounded like Richard Simmons, the twisted little prick who did this.”

  Shep didn’t sound scared, which had Kat suspicious despite his words. She was terrified, her breathing elevated, and she teetered on the edge of hysterics, though not like the woman still blubbering miserably somewhere to her left. She was incoherent, but her deep, hoarse cries made her seem a mature woman of fifty or more.

  “Hey,” Kat called to her, “can you give it a rest?”

  “Yeah, don’t bother. She’s zoned out,” he said. “And if she doesn’t stop carrying on that way, I’ll be going over the fucking edge, too. By the way, if he strung you up the same way he did me, you should be able to free a foot or more play for your arms by lifting your legs over the chain. It’s work, but it’s worth it.”

  It took Kat a couple minutes, but Shep was right: the small freedom was nearly blissful.

  “Christ, I have to go to the bathroom,” said a young woman at Kat’s near right. Or maybe it was a teen or a younger boy.

  “That there’s Gwen,” said Shep. “Name’s about all I could get out of her; I think she’s in shock.”

  A man to Kat’s right released a contemptuous chuff, startling her. He sounded near enough to touch.

  “Who’s that…is that him?” Kat sputtered, leaning away from where the sound had come.

  “No. He’s been fading in and out for a while, but that snort sounded like derision. It’s dark as unholy fuck in here, but there are five of us, maybe six,” said Shep. “I tried centering in on the breathing.”

  The man near Kat moaned in agony. “Mierda,” he mumbled, a word she was familiar with. Chains rattled softly, and then more determinedly. “What the fuck? What’s with the chains, man? This some kind of joke or something?”

  “No joke, hombre. Asshole’s got a bunch of us penned up here in the dark,” said Shep. “Took my phone. Reckon he took all of yours, too.”

  “What does he want?” asked the man.

  “Fuck if I know,” said Shep. “You Mexican or something? What’s your name?”

  “Miguel. I’m Dominican, but why the fuck does that matter?” he answered, and then said, “Come on, lady, shit’s bad enough without you squealing like that, you know?”

  “Please?” Kat said. It was getting on her nerves, too. The woman kept at it.

  “How about you? What’s your name,” asked Shep, and it took a while before Kat realized the question was directed at her.

  “Kat,” she said. “Katrina.”

  “You got an accent, too,” said Shep. “Fucked if I can tell where from, though.”

  “Philippines,” said Kat. “You like that word, don’t you?”

  “What word?”

  “The F word,” said Kat.

  “Fucking right I do.”

  She actually smiled, not that anyone benefited from it.

  “Seems we got us an ethnic smorgasbord… a Filipino, a Dominican, a Texan, a Gwen, and by the sounds of it, a banshee,” Shep said. “Maybe he’s putting together some kind of collection. A set. Any of it make sense to y’all?”

  “I’m black,” said a nervous voice to Kat’s right, somewhere between Shep and Gwen. “If he’s collecting…”

  “That you, Gwen?”

  “No. I’m Delanna.”

  “That’s a new one on me. Well, howdy, Delanna. I’d shake your hand, but that ain’t in the cards right now. How long you been eavesdropping?” asked Shep.

  “Fifteen minutes or so.” She said. “Trying to evaluate the situation.”

  “Any luck?” asked Shep.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “HOLY FUCKING CHRIST, LADY, SHUT UP!”

  The room fell into a dead hush; even the keening woman became silent. What was more unexpected than the sudden shriek was that it had come from the one named Gwen.

  “Amen,” Miguel whispered.
<
br />   They sat for an immeasurable amount of time, appreciating the quiet, when the room burst into blinding light. They all cowered, lowering their heads and covering their eyes as much as their fastened hands would allow. Although it seemed to Kat as if a bank of stadium lights were turned directly on them, by the time her eyes adjusted, it was difficult to believe that only six standard incandescent light bulbs on a wagon wheel chandelier, and two or three strands of Christmas lighting, could provide that brilliance.

  They sat in matching chairs around a large, round, distressed-wood table. Each of them was equally distant from each other and the table, but all beyond reach due to their manacles and chains. The room was rectangular, with double windows on either side. An opaque material covered the glass, making it impossible to determine whether it was day or night. Kitschy Christmas decorations festooned the place, hiding a Southwest décor. Kat wondered how far they were from Boston and if Shep, Southern accent and all, was as innocent as he professed.

  At the far end of the room was a door, but no windows. To the left of the door—behind Shep—was a sideboard with a lamp and a nativity scene, complete with baby Jesus and the full cast of characters. Beside the manger was the source of the blinking red light—a small desktop cam, the likes of which you could purchase from Best Buy for fifty bucks.

  Kat looked at the five people who sat around the table and saw that they were all just as screwed as she was. Facing her, Shep was easy to recognize with his blue denim shirt and thick moustache on a weathered face that might have been handsome if he hadn’t been so gaunt. Wholesome Delanna sat directly to his left, staring back at Kat with frightened, intelligent eyes. She looked barely old enough for college.

  Miguel, directly to Kat’s left and across from Delanna, leaned forward, only his wavy black hair visible as he searched beneath his chair, trying to decipher the mechanics of his confinement.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Chains trapped by the support rails. No slipping out of this, man.”

  He had intense black eyes, a rugged body, and thick arms, both of them sleeved with intricate tattoos. He intimidated Kat. Although she hated to admit it, he was the kind of man she would not meet eyes with in public, and completely avoid in a dark alleyway.

  The familiar high keening emanated from the woman to Miguel’s left. She lowered her head and managed to fan herself with one hand, a generous hammock of fat swinging loosely from her upper arm. Probably in her late sixties and easily two-fifty, Kat would have wagered a week’s pay that the woman had twin teacup poodles named Mitzy and Fitzy that yipped incessantly at nothing in particular. Her eyes were red and swollen above bloated cheeks covered with a patina of tears and snot.

  “Oh, don’t fucking start that shit again,” said the petite woman to Kat’s right.

  It was intriguing, such aggression coming from such a tiny woman with so adolescent a voice. If Gwen broke ninety pounds, Kat would have been surprised. Alabaster skin, hair dyed coal-black, with matching black fingernail polish and lipstick, she was a teen Goth dream come true. Yet on closer inspection, Kat detected lines near her mouth and eyes that gave evidence of someone years older.

  “Agreed,” said Shep. “How about telling us your name there, Buttercup?”

  The keening woman didn’t answer, only carried on sniveling.

  Fear dominated the table, but Kat saw something underneath the others’ terror that kept her from dissolving into a hopeless, blubbing mess like…well, like “Buttercup.”

  Shep looked like a doer, constantly scanning the room for answers and a means to escape, as did Miguel, but Miguel also was a mover, pulling at the chair arms, trying to manipulate the chains. If they were to get free, Kat figured she would follow his lead. Delanna looked as confounded as Kat felt, though sentient, and Gwen just looked utterly pissed off.

  Kat turned in her chair as far as the restraints would allow and looked behind her. A large Christmas tree, heavily swathed with lights and ornaments as generic and tacky as she had ever seen, stood to the right of another door. Beneath the tree, presents of various sizes lay strewn across the floor in a haphazard offering. Farther to the right, cornered with the windowed wall, was a small side table on which was set a landline phone and another camera that winked ominously.

  “We’re being watched,” Kat said.

  The far door slammed open, crashing heavily into the sideboard. A figure leapt into the room and flung its arms skyward. “Correctamundo!” he blurted, and then took a moment to look at each one of them. “Oh, look at you all…so adorable!”

  He wore a red mid-length jacket with a white fur collar, green tights, and a wide black belt that cinched his middle. On his head was a pointed red cap that bent to the left a third of the way down. The Santa’s helper get-up might have been cute and even disarming, if not for a hideous rubber goblin mask, which made the whole display terrifying. Buttercup crescendoed into a completely new level of wailing.

  “What the fuck?” Shep said upon seeing this display.

  “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun!” The masked oddity skipped closer to them. “I’m Flea…get it? Backwards it’s A-E-L-F, a elf.” He sounded proud of himself.

  His voice was high and did have a Richard Simmons intonation to it, but Kat thought it sounded contrived.

  “An elf,” Gwen corrected, her lip slightly lifted in a sneer.

  Flea’s grotesque face snapped in Gwen’s direction and he scuttled behind her.

  “Oh, are we an English teacher?” Through unseen eyes, he watched her intently, swaying slightly. “No, honey, you’re a tattoo artist and I’m still Flea, because I said so…so there.”

  He touched Gwen lightly on the head with his index finger and hurriedly moved around the table to Buttercup’s side. He leaned close to her, their faces inches apart. His circus-clown theatrics gave him unsettling stop-motion intensity.

  “What’s wrong, my blubbery, blubbering butterball?” he asked, his tone syrupy sweet.

  Buttercup stared at the grotesque mask, quivering and sniffling, her fingers fumbling nervously.

  “BOO!” Flea screamed in her face and then pranced off, giggling manically.

  Buttercup squealed childishly and managed to squeeze her girth deeper into the chair.

  “Why are you doing this?” Kat asked.

  “Oh, isn’t that obvious? ’Tis the season, sweetheart.” Flea spun, raised his arms in a less than impressive pirouette, and sang, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

  “Pardon me there, amigo, but what the fuck are you talking about?” asked Shep.

  Flea stopped spinning and faced him. “Christmas, silly! It’s the season for giving, and I’ve got gifts for all of you to open!”

  He clasped his hands together and dashed to the Christmas tree, squatted, lifted three of the presents, and carried them to the table. He set them neatly at the center and repeated the process.

  “There! Isn’t this fun! We’re going to have a Yankee swap!”

  He patted Miguel atop the head. Miguel recoiled, and Flea, unperturbed, skittered around the table. He situated himself behind Gwen, grabbed ahold of her chair, and pushed her closer to the table. He repeated the process with the five remaining chairs and their occupants. To Kat, it seemed he moved Shep’s, Miguel’s, and Buttercup’s chairs just as easily as Gwen’s.

  Stationing himself behind Delanna, he merrily clapped his hands together. “So…does everyone know the rules for a Yankee swap?” he asked, and waited. “Come on, people, somebody answer me!”

  “Fuck you,” Shep muttered.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  Flea quickly maneuvered behind Shep and ran a hand affectionately over his head. The Texan’s eyes widened and his entire body began convulsing as a rivulet of drool ran over his bottom lip and fell onto his shirt, forming a dark blue Rorschach pattern.

  Buttercup amped up her squealing and Miguel let out a dismayed “fuck,” trying to scoot backward in his chair. They all stared at Shep
in dismay, and then at Flea, when he proudly displayed a black device to them.

  “Nothing inspires cooperation like one of these…they’re stunning, if you’ll pardon the pun. Whether you want to or not, you’re all going to cooperate.” He put the stun gun in his coat pocket—his left one, Kat noted.

  “Okay, sunshine, time to come back. You need to hear the rules,” Flea said cheerily, as if speaking to a toddler. He slapped Shep’s cheeks lightly. Shep groaned and glared at him. Flea cocked his head disturbingly to one side and then righted himself.

  “Good!” he said dismissively. “So the rules are…the participants – that means all of you – draw numbers.” Flea drew a handful of papers from a pocket on his jacket, removed his cap, and pushed them inside. “I love this! Okay! Whoever draws number one goes first and opens a gift from the pile. Number two then opens a gift. If he or she prefers the gift number one opened, he or she can trade for that one instead.” He paused thoughtfully. “You know what? Fuck it, I’ll tell you the rules as we go.”

  His masked face regarded each person seated around the table, moving from one to the next with a jerking motion that reminded Kat of a bird, especially with the black hollows of the mask’s eyeholes that betrayed nothing of the man inside. The goblin face abruptly jolted and faced Kat, and with a flourish of the wrist, he pointed at her.

  “You first!” he said. He bounced to her side and held the opened cap toward her.

  Kat looked at the faces of the others seated around the table. In their eyes, she encountered terror, hatred, anger, and hopelessness, but not the salvation or inspiration she thought she’d seen earlier. That he had chosen her to go first was a terrible omen that seemed to validate her fear of not leaving there alive.

  “Ka-at, pick a number,” Flea said in a singsong voice, bisecting her name into two syllables.

  She was frozen. She couldn’t move or speak, but only stared at the collection of gifts centered on the table and Delanna’s countenance in the hazy background, slowly shaking her head in fearful denial. Seeing no alternative, Kat slowly reached a shaky hand into the hat and pulled out a square of paper. The rest of them followed suit as Flea moved clockwise around the table.