Ex-Purgatory

by Peter Clines

  The website had contact information. A set of e-mail addresses and a pair of phone numbers. The lab was open—or answered the phones, at least—during regular business hours. He unplugged his cell phone from the charger and tapped in the number. New Mexico was an hour ahead, which meant it was …

  Seven-thirty in the morning there. They probably had a George of their own who was just showing up to empty the trash. No one else would be there for hours. If they were, they’d ignore the phone.

  He felt silly.

  Madelyn’s story had struck a nerve. Some idealistic dream from childhood about helping people, great power and great responsibility, or some such thing. Part of him almost wished her story was real. Minus the killing-millions-of-people part. He put his phone back on the desk and closed the magazine.

  George threw his arms over his head, locked his fingers, and stretched. A good night’s sleep would get everything right in his head. That’s all he needed.

  The alarm went off behind him. He banged his knee on the desk when he jumped. It was time to get ready for work.

  Once again, pedestrians made the drive in a headache. Every intersection was packed with people, all of them taking their time. George sat through the whole green light at Fairfax as men and women shuffled across the street. On the plus side, everyone could see the crowd, so nobody started honking their horns. The only thing more frustrating than traffic delays was a jerk behind you who didn’t acknowledge them.

  It also didn’t help that the brake on his car seemed to be slipping. He’d get to an intersection and the Hyundai would try to lunge forward at the figures in the crosswalk. He could feel it fighting his foot as he pushed down. With the constant cries on the radio extolling different religious figures for aid, it gave the drive in a surreal tone he didn’t enjoy.

  There seemed to be a lot of homeless people out that morning. At least half the people crossing each intersection wore stained, ragged clothes. George knew Los Angeles had a huge homeless population, but they weren’t always so visible. Or maybe he’d just become more aware of them somehow.

  He made it most of the way to campus before the car sputtered and died again. George swore and guided the vehicle to the edge of the road before it lost all momentum. He turned the key again and again. The dash lights didn’t come on. Not even one click from the starter. The radio was silent. He glanced at the street to get a sense of how far he was from campus.

  His car had come to rest in front of the recruitment office again.

  Something moved in his peripheral vision and a huge figure lumbered out of the early morning haze. It was the bald officer he’d seen last week, the man with arms the size of George’s waist. He was wearing a tan T-shirt and breathing deep, the kind of measured breathing people did after exercise. He pulled some keys from his pocket and headed to the office door.

  In the back of George’s mind, he realized the car must have died just as it passed the big man, half a block or so back.

  He stepped out of his car. “Excuse me,” he called to the man.

  The giant turned. Confusion flashed across his face, but he clamped down on it. “Yes, sir,” he said. “How can I help you?” Only some of the confusion slipped into his voice.

  George gestured at his Hyundai. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “I stopped here last week. I’ve been having car trouble. It just died again.”

  “I remember. Do you need another jump?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t figure out what’s going on with it, to be honest.”

  A sound echoed down the street. A foot slapping against the pavement. There was a faint scraping sound, then another slap a few seconds later. George looked down the street. A handful of homeless people were shambling up Wilshire toward them.

  Something about them gave him a chill.

  “We should go inside,” said the soldier with a nod at the approaching group. “I’ve been generous in the past and now they can get a bit demanding. I’ve found it best to avoid them.” He unlocked the door and waved George inside.

  The giant flipped the dead bolt and tapped out a quick code on a keypad near the door. His fingers were very nimble for their size. He flipped on the lights and walked across to his desk.

  “Thanks,” said George.

  “Not a problem,” said the soldier.

  “I’m George.”

  “Lieutenant Freedom,” said the giant. He held out a broad hand.

  George’s fingers barely reached across the palm. He smiled as they shook. “Freedom? Is that some recruitment tool or something?”

  The officer’s face tightened. “It’s a family name, sir.” He turned away and headed toward a door in the back corner. “Sergeant Harrison’s not in for another half hour or so, but we might have some jumper cables in the back. There’s a junk closet with a lot of odd supplies in it.”

  A thump came from the front of the office. One of the homeless people was pressed against the window. His teeth were a rotted mess and his eyes were filled with cataracts. He was muttering, but George couldn’t hear him through the glass.

  His eyes swept back around and Freedom had a pistol out and pointed at him. The muzzle was enormous. George stumbled back with his hands up, tripped, and fell on his ass.

  Freedom blinked. “Are you all right, sir?” He held out an empty hand. Both his hands were empty.

  George looked at the huge man, then back over his shoulder. The homeless people were shuffling away. The one with bad teeth had left a smudge on the glass. “You had a gun,” he said.

  “Sir?” Freedom looked at his bare hip. “I’m not armed.”

  George climbed back to his feet as the pieces fell together. “You shot me,” he said. He gestured back at the window. “Those things were all around and you shot me with some big-ass pistol.”

  The soldier’s gaze didn’t waver, but his face shifted.

  George stared back. He sounded crazy. He knew that. He tried to ignore the endless pen-clicking and focus his thoughts. “I think I know you,” he told the other man. “I think we’ve known each other for a while.”

  Freedom straightened up. He was almost a foot taller than George. “I’m pretty sure we just met for the first time last week.”

  The sound of his voice freed up something else in George’s mind. It came rushing out so hard and fast it made his head ache. “You were a captain,” he said. “Harrison said you’d been demoted and I didn’t make the connection. You’re Captain Freedom. John Carter Freedom.” The words spewed out, as much of a surprise to him as they were to the lieutenant.

  The officer pressed his lips together. George wasn’t sure what kind of expression the man was biting back. He also wasn’t sure where he’d pulled the name from. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty office and then back to the giant.

  “Sir,” said Freedom, “I think you should leave now.” He crossed his arms across his chest. He wasn’t making a request or suggestion.

  George wandered outside. A few of the homeless people saw him and switched direction, but he was back in his car before they came anywhere close. He checked his pockets and the dish under the emergency brake, but he didn’t have any change to offer them.

  He flopped back in the driver’s seat and pressed his hands over his eyes. He couldn’t believe he’d babbled on like that. He’d accused an Army officer of trying to kill him! His lack of sleep was now officially making him act like a maniac. He wondered if he should take a sick day or two and just try to get caught up on rest.

  A thump made him look up. A filth-covered woman pressed herself against his window. She had pale blue eyes, almost gray. She would’ve been pretty if not for her stained shirt and all the dirt on her face.

  George glanced at the time. He was going to be late for work. He started his car and pulled back out into traffic. If the lights were in his favor, he could still make it on time.

  He was parking on campus when he realized his dead car had started back up with no problem.

  GEORGE S
PENT THE morning cleaning windows. It was a mindless job, and on a normal day he’d have been glad for it and let himself sink into the Zen of window washing. Today, though, he didn’t want any extra time to think.

  His eyes kept drifting over to one of the other buildings. It bothered him for some reason. He had a nagging sensation he’d forgotten something about it. There were lecture halls in there, a bunch of biochem labs, and two or three of the larger storerooms. He couldn’t shake the feeling there’d been a fire there at some point, or maybe some kind of explosion.

  Something in the back of his mind insisted he’d been in a fire in one of the buildings.

  It was almost noon when he heard two kids chattering away as they passed his ladder. What they were saying didn’t make sense to him, so he pulled out his phone and shot a quick text to Nick. The answer came back a minute later.

  Hugh Laurie is not dead, either. Y U on such a morbid streak?

  George sighed. Nick was right. He was getting morbid. Madelyn’s talk of doom and destruction mixed well with the weight of sleeplessness.

  He flipped the phone in his hand and his fingers brushed the screen. It jumped to the default phone keypad and he paused. A string of numbers stretched across the screen. He didn’t recognize them, not even the area code. It took a moment for him to remember tapping them into the phone that morning. It felt like ages ago.

  He knew he should just erase the number to Sandia. It was tempting fate. He didn’t want to call and ask a bunch of stupid questions that would make him sound like an idiot. An idiot if he was lucky. It was a national lab. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he felt pretty sure if they told the FBI about weird phone calls, their complaint would end up a little higher on the list than most.

  And calling would just feed this whole delusion the girl had shared with him. Her fictional dreamworld where everyone was dead and he was some kind of superhero. He didn’t need to get mixed up in that sort of thing, especially with a student.

  Then again, if he was a superhero, shouldn’t he be brave enough to make the call?

  His thumb hovered over the keypad for a moment. Then, without any real thought from him, the thumb dropped down. The little handset icon flashed once and the screen changed under his fingertip.

  Dialing.

  There was still time to hang up, he told himself. Even when the call connected and he heard the first ring, he knew he could hit the red End button. It wasn’t like they’d call back on a hang-up.

  The phone picked up just after the second ring. “Sandia National Labs,” recited a male voice. “How can I direct your call?”

  “Ummmm …” said George. “Hi. I’m looking for, that is, I’m trying to reach …”

  “Sorry?”

  The name leaped to his tongue. “Barry. I think his name’s Barry … Burke.”

  “Oh,” said the voice. “Sure thing. One second.”

  The phone clicked and a Muzak version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Radio Nowhere” echoed over the lines. His heart raced. He hadn’t felt this way about a phone call since he was fourteen.

  A minute passed before the phone clicked again. “This is Barry,” said a new voice.

  “Hi,” he said. “Barry Burke?”

  “The one and only. I’ll be appearing in Las Vegas next month from the fifteenth ’til the sixteenth. And this is …?”

  “I’m …”

  Stupid. George suddenly felt very stupid. The girl, Madelyn, had played him. She’d looked up the Pulsed Power machine, found some names online, and convinced him to make the call. Reverse psychology or something like that. It was some sorority prank or something.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I’ve got the wrong number.”

  The man on the other end laughed. He sounded like a guy who laughed a lot. “I’m the only Barry here,” he said. “If there’s another Z Machine somewhere with another Barry Burke, he’d better have a goatee and a sash.”

  George chuckled. “No, it’s just … I’m sorry. I think this is just a big mistake. Sorry for wasting your time.”

  “Ummm … okay. You sure?”

  George looked over at the lab building. He thought about his dreams and the strange homeless people he’d been seeing. He remembered Madelyn’s story about a best friend he couldn’t remember.

  “Look,” he said, “this is going to sound really stupid, I know, but can I ask you something?”

  Another laugh echoed from New Mexico. “You’re keeping me from a boring staff meeting, stranger on the phone. Ask me anything.”

  “Are you in a wheelchair?”

  The voice on the other end went silent. George realized what a jackass he sounded like. The silence stretched out for ten seconds, and he wondered if the other man had hung up on him.

  “Who is this?” Barry Burke asked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to the phone. “That was really insensitive of me. I didn’t mean to be so—”

  “Is this George?”

  The phone jumped away from his head. Or maybe his hand spasmed. He stared at it for a moment, then pulled it back to his ear.

  “Are you still there?” asked the man in Albuquerque.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m still here. I just … you know me?”

  “Your voice is familiar,” said Barry. “I couldn’t place it and then I realized you sound like the guy in my dreams. Which sounds very different than I intended out loud.”

  George felt light-headed. He slumped against the wall next to his bucket of soapy water. “You have dreams about me?”

  “I guess. You’re six feet tall, blond-brown hair … Ummm, I don’t suppose you’re super-strong, by chance?”

  He thought of the dumpster. “Maybe?”

  Barry whistled. “Who’s the redhead?”

  “Sorry?”

  “There’s a redhead in my dreams, too. Kind of cute. I think she wears …” His voice trailed off. “I think she might be a knight. Like a King Arthur–Excalibur–type knight. Or maybe a Gundam pilot.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know. I haven’t … I don’t think I’ve actually dreamed about you.”

  He sensed the shift, even over the phone. “You haven’t?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So how’d you know to call me?”

  “There’s a girl out here,” explained George. “A young woman. She knows … she claims to know a lot of stuff. She says I’ve forgotten things. That everyone has.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “What? No. She’s just—”

  A set of sounds and images flashed across George’s mind. Meeting Madelyn for the first time on moving day. Meeting her again in the cafeteria.

  “I’m Madelyn Sorensen,” she said. “The Corpse Girl.”

  He glanced up from the magazine and saw a dead girl in a wheelchair.

  His voice trailed off.

  Barry cleared his throat. “Still there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. This is all … this is all a little weird. And overwhelming.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve been thinking I was going nuts or something.”

  George thought of the other thing Madelyn had mentioned. “Is there anyone else in your dreams? Any other people?”

  “A bunch,” said Barry. “There’s you, the redhead, this huge Army officer—”

  “I’ve met him,” George said. “He’s here in LA. Lieutenant Freedom.”

  “Lieutenant? That doesn’t sound right.”

  Something pulsed behind George’s left eye, the faintest hint of an oncoming headache. “I didn’t think so, either, but it seemed to make him upset to talk about it.”

  “But he’s real? You’ve actually seen him.”

  “I shook his hand this morning.”

  “Frak me,” said the other man. “Anyway, there’s all of them, a ninja, the dead girl, and a ghost.”

  Now the pulse was behind both of his eyes. It had grown from a firm hint to a scheduled meeting in no time at all. “Did you sa
y a ghost?”

  “Yeah. I think that may just be a dream thing. I don’t think it means anything.” He paused for a moment. “Can I tell you something else? Or ask you something else, I guess?”

  “Sure.”

  “This one’s going to sound really weird.”

  “Weirder than the whole ‘random strangers hundreds of miles apart sharing dreams’ thing?”

  “Yeah,” said Barry, “I think so. This is like first-season-LOST-level weirdness.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have you ever heard of George Romero?”

  He wrinkled his brow. It took a minute to get his mental footing again. “The film director?”

  “Yes!” The voice on the phone sounded relieved. “Okay, part two. Do you know what kind of movies he makes?”

  “Errrr … horror movies?”

  “Yeah, but what kind of horror movies? Can you be more specific?”

  George rubbed his temple. The headache was swelling inside his skull. “Ummm … monster movies, aren’t they? Gory ones.”

  “But what kind?” insisted Barry. “Vampires? Werewolves? What’s the monster?”

  “I don’t know,” George said. “I’m not really into the whole horror thing.”

  “Well, I am,” said Barry. “I’m a big ol’ geeky fanboy. One of the biggest. And you know what?”

  “What?” George’s headache arrived and settled in. The sun hurt his eyes. The sounds coming from his phone were sharp and grating, like needles in his ear.

  “I don’t know what kind of monsters they are, either,” said the man in Albuquerque. “I’ve checked Google, Netflix, Amazon, a couple fansites. I’ve been trying to figure it out for days and I don’t know.”

  GEORGE’S PHONE SLIPPED from his fingers. His head was pounding. His pulse was pounding in his ears like a car blasting its subwoofer. He’d never had a migraine before, but this had to be worse. Some part of him wondered if a blood vessel or something might’ve burst in his head. Maybe an aneurysm. It wasn’t hard to believe these could be the last seconds of his life.

  He heard a rasping noise in front of him. He lifted his head and forced his eyes open. It took a moment for his vision to focus.