by Jamie Nash
The final Polaroid captures the old woman on the surgical table again. But this time, she’s unnaturally pale, her mouth hangs open, and her eyes stare lifelessly into nowhere.
I spy the bones and organs around me. They’re hers.
I’m standing in a crypt.
I drop the folder and photos on the floor. My throat swells. I choke back the emotions. Maybe one day I can eulogize this poor soul who went before me. But right now, I have to keep from ending up as her locker neighbor.
I scramble out. I assume the other lockers have more of the same. My search is for computer servers. I turn back to the exit toward the hall.
A monster stares back at me. A chill paralyzes my legs and arms.
It’s a head with no body. A skull. It’s not human. It’s human-like—two eyes and a mouth, a space for a nose. The similarities end there. It’s twice as big as your average Joe’s head. The top of its skull is elongated, enough space for a watermelon-sized brain. Its eyes are deep recessed oval pits. I touch it just to be sure it’s real. It’s sturdier than bone. But more organic than metal. It’s an alien, I’m sure of it. I scuttle back into the hall, slam the door, and hold it shut.
A hand grabs my shoulder. “Hey!”
I scream, spin, and almost punch a shocked Crazytown in the face.
“Whoa. It’s just me.” His eyes narrow. I’m still shaking. He nods to the door. “What's in there? I take it it’s not servers.” He reaches for the doorknob.
“No.” I shake my head, “I … uh … it’s … I’m not sure what … body parts … blood … like a morgue.”
“Oh.” He raises a brow. “Cool.”
“Where were you?” I ask, a bit more scolding mom in my voice than I intend.
He grins, clearly hoping I’d ask. “You're not going to believe what I found.” His arms are curled behind his back. He’s hiding something. “Guess.”
“I’m not gonna—“
His hands whip up. He’s holding two open boxes of Frosted Flakes. “Badang! The good stuff!” He pours a waterfall of cereal right into his mouth.
“Maybe you shouldn't. There might be a prize.” There also might be an expiration date. I doubt Frosted Flakes have a century-long shelf life.
But that doesn’t stop Crazytown. He crunches down. His jaws flex, then suddenly, his face wrinkles. He tries to grind harder, but it looks painful. He grimaces and finally spits the stuff out. “Might be past the sell date. They taste like pebbles. And I don’t mean Fruity Pebbles.” He studies the side of the box. “Maybe if it had milk.”
“Yeah, that’s what you need. Two-hundred-year-old milk.” I stifle a laugh. “I hope at least you found the prize.”
“I hope I didn’t swallow it.” He shakes his head. “Oh, get this. I remember my name.” He holds up the box with the cartoon tiger emblazoned on it.
“Tiger?” I ask.
“No.” His eyes gloss over the box. “It’s Anthony. Tony for short. I’m Tony.” He pokes the front of the box for emphasis.
I give him a once over. He doesn’t look like a Tony, more like Bart or Rob. But I don’t want to rain on his parade. “Tony.” I give my best Godfather accent.
“Tony,” he echoes back, beaming.
“Tony,” I repeat. But c’mon, he’ll always be Crazytown. Always. I glance at the door with the flickering light. “Back to finding the servers. I’m going to check out this room.”
“Looks like someone left the TV on.” We both stare down at it, a certain quiet dread settling among us. He offers me a sly smile. “Maybe you’ll remember your name too.”
“A girl can hope. Maybe I’m Little Debbie or Aunt Jemima.”
“Yeah, right.” He nods, not getting the joke. “There’s a ton of stuff in there. There must be something that can help.” He trots off in the opposite direction mumbling “Tony” in a mob boss accent.
“Wait,” I call, but he doesn’t stop, too excited about finding more cereal or some nonsense. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense splitting up. He’s already disappeared into the shadows. I guess I’m on my own.
I turn back toward the door rimmed with the flickering blue glow. I can’t hear any sounds coming from inside, the loud hum from the freezer room still fills the air. I step toward it. A whip cracks above me. A harsh light blindingly blares down. It’s one of those automatic lights. I guess they’re not all burnt out up here. I don’t know whether to feel comforted or exposed.
I reach out and touch the doorknob. This one’s room temperature. Good. I’ve had my fill of frozen pancreases and intestines. I dig out the scalpel and push inside. Immediately, I lock in on the source of the flashing light. It’s an arcade game. The tall boxy kind that eats your quarters.
Space Invaders.
Figures.
The game’s soundtrack pounds like a heartbeat. Or a ticking bomb. It’s engineered to make you anxious, to get the adrenaline pumping. Not that my pulse needs a boost. I tap the white, round buttons on its control panel, but nothing happens. No quarters, no play. The high score screen is dominated by some dude named UFO. Cute. I’m more of a Donkey Kong girl.
The rest of the room looks like the rec room at juvenile hall. A bunch of old board games in worn boxes are stacked on the shelves—Sorry, Operation, Risk, Clue, even one of those Dark Tower games with the big computerized tower. A tattered Ouija sits on the bottom. Maybe I can séance with all my dead friends and relatives.
There’s a bunch of computer games too—Bard’s Tale, Leisure Suit Larry, Ultima. And beside them sit a few discarded electronic games—a Simon with its battery compartment exposed and empty and one of those lame handheld football games.
Another shelf holds a bunch of unmade models. There’s a Starship Enterprise, a Corvette, one of those curved wing planes from that World War II show, Baa Baa Black Sheep. There’s also a dozen of those pewter Dungeons & Dragons miniatures, all unpainted, turning green and flaking from age. Beneath that are several Cabbage Patch Kids, still in their boxes. Damn. I could have paid for a car with those babies in 1984.
Space travel is lonely. Sad. You need a Ouija board to break up the long hours. And who better to play Ouija with than a dozen Cabbage Patch Kids?
In the center of the room, a tacky beer light hangs above a pool table. But nobody’s been playing eight ball on it. Instead, it has what looks like a suspect science fair project. Three milk jugs are duct taped together and filled with an orange liquid. No sign of the milk. I guess Crazytown will have to eat his Frosted Rock Flakes dry.
I smell fumes. It’s gasoline or fuel. Something chemically. Affixed to one of the cartons is a small circuit board. It’s a bomb. Not a big one. Not a sophisticated one. I doubt it’s big enough to take out the ship or even this room. But damn, somebody’s building a bomb. That can’t be good. Even worse, it’s not finished.
They could be back any second.
I need to hurry.
Not far from Space Invaders is a bank of televisions stacked in a sort of mishmashed pyramid. One of the sets is still on, another spying security camera. It keeps watch on a chamber of cryopods. These pods are still intact with people floating inside. They’re sleeping or suspended or whatever the technical name for chemically induced limbo is.
From the camera’s view, there are at least a dozen of them. A fluttering inside my chest. There are more of us. Friends.
Allies.
If I can get them out, we’ll have the numbers.
A spaghetti of wires connect the televisions to a clunky control board with color-coded knobs and metal switches. Beside it, a large gooseneck style microphone sits. It reminds me of the one I spoke into that entire summer I worked at the Wendy’s drive-thru. I worked at the one in Columbia Crossing, near the mall, across from Rite Aid. I remember the menu, the red-haired girl on the sign, the smell of the grease, cleaning that gross Frosty machine. I can picture myself in that hideous uniform. The one with the name tag. I close my eyes, concentrate, remember. What’s the name?
I see a “D” … D-I…
Dick Hurtz.
Jesus. What’s wrong with me? I wrote that fake name on top of the attendance sheet of Sister Amata May’s ninth-grade algebra class at Mount de Sales high school. It took her five minutes of asking ‘Who’s Dick Hurtz?’ with the entire class laughing their butts off before she realized she’d been had. Huh. Good to know. I was immature enough to wear a dirty pun on my work uniform. I bet I signed my checks Ben Dover or Amanda Hugginkiss. I’m a real cut-up.
I twist and turn the control panel’s knobs, quickly getting a feel for them. The red knob moves the position of the camera on display. I use it to pan around the medical lab. The green knob controls the zoom. I zoom in and out like the worst MTV video ever.
A chill creeps down my back. This is where he was watching us. Where he took in Hero being disemboweled. Dismantled. He touched these knobs. Sat in this chair.
I shake my head like I’m trying to erase an Etch A Sketch, hoping to get rid of my dark train of thoughts. I can’t keep freaking myself out. This is good news. Someone else besides Taylor was watching. It puts her in the clear. Maybe the servers are actually up here like she said.
I twist the dial in front of the control board. It’s a channel selector. I hop around various cameras. Most of the channels broadcast a wall of pulsing white noise. Those cameras must be offline like the one I smashed in the control room and all the others I’ve been kicking around on the lower levels. Occasionally, I stumble on ones still in commission—an empty corridor, the freezer I walked through. A rerun of The Brady Bunch is too much to ask.
I settle on a bird’s eye view of a warehouse-sized room packed with large containers. The containers remind me of the kind I used to see on the big transport ships near the harbor. They’re metal trail-home sized rectangles arranged into a maze.
I spot something weaving between them. I spin the zoom knob to get a closer look. It’s Crazytown. He’s stuffing his face with something cakey and cream-filled and judging from his near-orgasmic face, it’s good stuff. Twinkies. Century-old Twinkies. I guess they really don’t go bad.
I yank the microphone toward my lips, press the red button on its base, and in my best Linda Blair Exorcist voice, I growl, “Don’t touch my Twinkies!”
Crazytown jolts at my voice, spitting golden cake. He’s screaming, not that I can hear it—these monitors don’t have sound. His wide eyes scan the ceiling.
At least the sound system works from my end. “It’s me, you idiot!” I lean closer to the mic. “Stop stuffing your face, and get back to work.”
He shoots me the middle finger and goes back about his business.
Above the desk that houses the monitors, a collage of schematics are tacked to the wall. They’re boring official type stuff, technical and dry. Best I can tell, they lay out some electrical device or something. In the top right corner of the schematics, I find a detailed sketch of one of the contraptions I woke up in. Its various sections are called out in Spanish. The only word I understand on the schematic points to a small location on the back: “Emergencia.”
Emergencia is the understatement of the century.
My eyes skip to another diagram that doesn’t require a PhD in Rocket Science. It’s a professionally done map that lays out the entire ship. Centered at the top of the large printout is the label “THE NOMAD.” That must be the name of this nightmare. Based on the poster, this ship is massive. Hundreds of rooms. Dozens of floors. It’s crowded with spots related to engineering, or electrical systems, or fuel reserves. I don’t see any swimming pools, or wine cellars, or movie rooms.
Unfortunately, there’s also no ‘You Are Here’ star highlighting my current location, and my only experience with maps are those cartoony kinds they have at Disney Land. From my quick scan, I don’t see any Space Mountains, or Princess Castles, or log flumes. Instead, there’s Docking Assemblies, Emergency Gangways, Aft Thruster Cores, and Environmental Systems. They might as well be in Spanish.
CAC.
The letters are in bold. I run my fingers over them trying to pick up some vibes. Apparently, I’m no psychic. Zero vibes. But I recognize the letters. They’re the ones I saw earlier above the Red Door in the control room. I trace my finger to an adjacent room. Sick Bay.
A charge ripples through me. That’s it. I’ve got a frame of reference. Those years of watching Scooby and Scrappy are finally paying off. My finger traces through the map, pushing past the door where we escaped from the robot and into a long stretch of tunnels labeled “Life-Systems Engineering Gangway.” I zigzag through the maze as I try to recall Taylor’s frantic path through the dark and drippy tunnels.
A tower connects to the upper floor. It’s labeled “Tower 7”—which means there are at least six more of these things. But based on the geography, it must be the one we climbed. It’s the only tower even close to this side of Nomad. It leads to a single floor. This floor. The Supply Container Section. There are only three indicated spots up here—the Refrigerated Section, the General Purpose Room, and Storage and Supplies. Storage and Supplies is huge. It’s ten times bigger than the room I’m currently in. Maybe twenty. It must be where Crazytown is currently hunting snack cakes. Which makes this the General Purpose Room. I probably would have called it the Arcade Room or the Pool Hall, but nobody asked.
There's one thing I don't see—a server room. It’s definitely not on this floor. But my quick scan of the map doesn’t see anything labeled “Computers” or “Servers.” It’s either unlabeled or nonexistent.
Another Commodore 64 sits on a small desk against the wall. It’s powered off. The computer doesn’t look special—not like the big brains that control the place. I seriously doubt this is the server Taylor told us about. A stack of floppy disks sit beside it. They’re labeled in black marker with more of those weird hieroglyphics.
There’s another manila file folder. It’s the same kind I found in the locker with the body parts. This one isn’t as stuffed, probably half the size and a little worn and bent at the corners. It’s got some dark smudges on the outside. Maybe chocolaty fingerprints. Maybe blood.
I open it. A glossy headshot is paper-clipped to the inside. It’s a mug shot.
Taylor.
The eyes are different—softer, scared. Not the big pools of black I saw downstairs and surely not the confidence. Her hair is long and ratty. Her lips chapped. Her face gaunt. She looks malnourished. She’s the same age as now, but not the same. More a prisoner than a soldier. A wild animal. Dangerous and desperate. There’s no scar carved into the side of her head.
On the other side of the dossier is a short, printed page of biographical info:
NAME: Jelena Karasik
BIRTHPLACE: Prague
DOB: 12/20/68
Date of Death: 09/23/85
Cause of Death: Suicide by hanging
I freeze.
Date of Death? Cause of Death?
I flip back to the picture to make sure it’s her. It is. There’s no doubt about it. It must be a mistake. They filed the wrong picture with the folder. What other explanations are there? It makes zero sense. Taylor’s not even her name. It’s Jelena. She’s from Prague—wherever the hell that is.
I dig deeper into the file. There are evaluations for everything: psychological assessments, physical exams, an IQ test. There’s even something that resembles SAT scores. Toward the back of the folder is a printed record of arrests. It’s five pages long. Armed robbery, grand thefts, assaults with deadly weapons … homicide.
The girl I met downstairs is weird. Mysterious. A horrible liar. But a hardened stone-cold killer? A dead one? What the hell? This is some Rod Serling shit.
I shut the file and notice something on the back. Wet blotches of blood. It’s his blood. The Phantom. He was here—just here. Taylor knew he was up here. She tricked us. She had the keys. She locked the hatch. She sent us into his lair. This whole damn quest for the server is a trap. She’s serving us up to him on a Swanson’s TV Dinner platter.<
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I hurry back to the monitors. I twist the knobs with shaky hands and zoom, pan, and search for Crazytown on the screen. I find him wandering aimlessly through the maze of steel containers, wrestling with a jar of century-old dill pickles. A blur of movement flits across the right side of the monitor. It’s too far away from the camera to decipher, and it exits the frame before I can focus. I pan and zoom, whipping around the huge warehouse.
I land on a dark hulking figure. It’s him.
The Phantom.
A hood drapes his head like some reaper. His back is to the camera, affording me a good view of his wide frame, which pushes tight against his shoulders and a long black duster. He’s huge, but not Lou Ferrigno huge. He’s the kind of guy you’d find in a Harley bar, or a prison yard, or a low-budget pro-wrestling show. Natural strength. Country strong. I’d put him at three-hundred-plus pounds. His head almost reaches to the height of the containers, so I’m guessing he’s 6′4″ or 6′5″.
He’s holding a club. No … a stick. A pool stick. It’s from this room. He must be in there looking for more parts to his bomb. But he wouldn’t have a weapon for that. He’s hunting.
He knows we’re here.
I move the dial back to Crazytown. He’s ankle deep in a pile of random clothes, trying to wrestle a pair of way too small skinny jeans over his butt. The killer’s coming. He stalks row by row, measuring his steps, keeping his element of surprise. He’s a few feet from turning the corner and spotting his prey. I grab the microphone and hit the button. “Get out!”
Both Crazytown and the Phantom turn to my disembodied voice. The mystery man’s face catches the light. His Charles Manson eyes peer over a chaotic nest of beard that masks the rest of his features. He’s staring past the camera, looking right at me. He knows I’m here. Watching from his monitors. Playing with his Cabbage Patch dolls.
His eyes search the camera. He’s debating whether to keep playing hide-and-seek with Crazytown or to march over here and play piñata with my skull. I could run and get back downstairs with Shaft and Taylor where the odds are more in my favor. But Crazytown is defenseless, clueless to the threat.
