Factory Town

by Jon Bassoff

  Cautiously, I approached the old woman. I placed the skinned fish in front of her face. She raised her head, regarded it for a few moments, then lay her head back on the cement. C’mon, ma’am, I said. You gotta eat. Otherwise you’ll die.

  I tore off a piece of flesh and tried pushing it into her mouth, but she shook her head and closed her mouth tightly.

  Goddamn it! C’mon!

  But it was no use. The woman had given up, her eyes full of pain and resignation. So I sat with her as the sky turned from gray to black and the snow fell on the living and the dead. I sang old Irish folk songs I had learned from my grandmother, and Mrs. Gardner listened, her weary head resting on my lap. I was consumed by an overwhelming sadness. I prayed to a God that never existed that she would die quickly; such pain is unbearable. And then, as the soft snow covered our bodies, Mrs. Gardner closed her eyes, her body relaxed, and she was gone.

  With trembling hands, I reached into my pockets and pulled out a couple of Indian Head pennies. I placed the pennies on the woman’s eyes, a fare for Charon.

  I sat there for a long time, holding the still-warm body to my chest. I started crying, and it was for all of the things I’d lost and all of the things I’d never had. This place, Factory Town, was filled with such misery and grief, and I feared that I was stuck here for eternity, a punishment for sins that were preordained.

  And then I heard footsteps, loud and monotonous, and a light shone down from the top of the staircase. I shielded my eyes with my hand. Cory Packer stood there, the light behind him, his face in the shadows, his body as still as an effigy.

  CHAPTER 18

  And then I was in the darkness, lying on my back, birth naked, my ears filled with the sounds of tortured screams and dripping water. I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to forget. Charlie’s mother was dead and my hands were trembling.

  I rose to my feet, waiting for my eyes to adjust, but the blackness remained. I felt around with my hands. Four walls of cement, cold. No door, no opening. Nothing left for me to do but shout. So I shouted. I shouted with all my might, shouted until I thought my chest would explode. But no sounds came from my mouth. Suddenly I was a mute…

  …and an asylum patient. I ran back and forth across the enclosure, pounding my fists against the wall, yanking out my hair by the clumps, biting chunks of my own flesh.

  Still darkness, only darkness.

  I was alone. Completely and utterly alone. But no, that can never be the case. My own mind, my own thoughts haunted me. In a strange car, driving down an endless dirt road overtaken by weeds and fallen trees and dead animals (coyotes and raccoons and owls and cattle), going farther and farther down that road and further and further away from sanity. Soon the road disappears and the windshield starts moving. It’s covered with moths, thousands of them, crawling, flapping their wings spastically. And then up ahead appears a brilliant light and it is a bush all lit on fire, but there is no angel, there is no God of Abraham. The moths are attracted to the light and fly away from the car, flutter into the fire, all of them, a holocaust of choice. I step out of the car, away from the fire, and I hear the moaning of a thousand voices or more, a purgatory choir. I stumble through the woods, branches and brambles tearing my skin, fires all around me, trees and mining cabins and animals engulfed, alarms ringing like the devil screaming from his throne. Then my right hand is gripping a shovel, and I’m digging, digging, digging, a grave for somebody. I toss the shovel aside and keep walking and come upon a hatch all covered with branches and brambles. I pull open the hatch and am staring at my own face covered with leeches and ants and flies…

  I screamed, and now I could no longer tell the difference between fantasy and reality, between nightmares and wakefulness. How long had I been here? In this darkness? In Factory Town? I stuck my hands in my pockets. The flowers that I’d picked so long ago were still there. I pulled out a handful, stuck them to my nose, and breathed deeply. There was still some beauty left, even here in this wretchedness. And then I thought of Alana. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried remembering her face, but I couldn’t. She’d vanished…

  Time passed, time passed. I heard voices but they sounded strange, otherworldly. I jumped to my feet and, voice returning, shouted out with new vigor: Hey! Hey! I’m in here! Help me! I’m in here! The voices got louder and louder, although still muted, blurry. And then the sound of footsteps. I shouted some more, my heart pounding in my ribcage. Then the footsteps stopped and the voices faded away. I was heartbroken and terrified. What if I were in this blackness forever? What if I were buried alive?

  It was too terrible to think about.

  I began shouting again, but the footsteps and voices didn’t return. So I began wishing for death.

  And then the lights switched on. I was now inside some sort of a small interrogation room. And standing in the corner, leaning against the wall, was a man dressed all in camouflage. He had a gray goatee and his head was shaved bald. His face was pale, his eyes those of a lunatic. Had he been standing there this whole time?

  I shook my head in fright. What the hell is going on? I said. Who are you? Where am I? What am I doing here?

  The man took a few steps forward and stuck out his hand, a gesture which went unreciprocated. Mr. Carver, he said. My name is Timothy Kaladi. I’m sorry to have startled you in that way.

  What do you want? Why am I trapped here?

  I’m here to help, he said. I’m here to provide answers.

  Answers? To what questions?

  He smiled. About Alana. Naturally.

  My head was spinning, and I feared for my own sanity. I worried that this man, Timothy Kaladi, was a figment of my diseased mind. And then I decided that it didn’t matter, that this world was nothing more than an overturned piss-pot.

  I sat down in the corner and started rocking back and forth. Kaladi remained leaning against the wall, studying me the way a psychiatrist would study a patient. And perhaps that’s what I was.

  You should know, he said, that we believe she is alive and well. Although certainly in great danger.

  Where is she? I said, voice cracking badly.

  That I can’t tell you. But we have some leads. And as soon as we find her we will put her in a secure location and you won’t have to worry about a thing…

  I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything.

  You met the Cowboy’s secretary, I understand? Mr. Fennington?

  Yes.

  And he wanted your help in finding her?

  Yes. He paid me. And he said there’d be more once I found her.

  Yes. Of course. And he will pay you. He’s a man of his word.

  He kept talking about something called the Book of Edicts.

  Kaladi nodded his head. Of course he did. He’s a fundamentalist. A true believer.

  Well? What’s it all about?

  The Holy Book for Factory Town. The new vision, as seen by the Cowboy.

  A new vision? I still don’t understand. How does this relate to Alana?

  Not just Alana. All children.

  All children? But what…

  I should come clean, Mr. Carver. About myself. About my past. You see, I’ve done some terrible things. Things I’m not proud of. He grinned quickly, but then his face took on a pained expression, his lower lip trembling, as if he were going to break down and sob. And yet, when he spoke his voice was seemingly void of emotion. It all started, I guess, with a girl in Cheyenne. Name of Rosa. Absolutely gorgeous. I saw her a few times working at a diner. I never talked to her even though I wanted to. This one night, I followed her home along the railroad track. The moon was full, Mr. Carver, and I was good and wild! I waited until the train whistle blew, and then I came up from behind and grabbed her, and she screamed, and I dragged her into a ditch. I raped her there. I might have killed her, but I can’t say for certain. She was breathing when I left…

  There was another girl in Denver. Terrible flirt. She sat on my lap before I’d even said a word to her. I charmed her and
took her to a rundown hotel with broken mirrors and a broken bedframe. I raped her, too. I can’t even tell you why. I was full of rage in those days. When I got done with her, her face was all bruised and bloody and swollen, and she was crying. She was a flirt, but she didn’t deserve that. I see that now.

  There were other girls, he said. One in Topeka, one in Des Moines, one outside of Dallas. And then I got reckless. Got into a little jam. Ended up killing a man in Jackson. Not entirely accidental. Sliced his neck with a Bowie knife. Terrible mess. And that’s why, that’s how, I ended up here.

  Here?

  In Factory Town. It’s where all of us are sent. One way or another.

  Why are you telling me this? About your past?

  Because I’m no angel. I want you to know that. I’m a sinner just like everybody else. I’m not trying to be sanctimonious. I can’t afford to be.

  I was getting frustrated. Kaladi talked about answers, but he was only providing more questions, more confusion. The Book of Edicts, I said. You were talking about the Book of Edicts.

  Ah, yes. The mythological story of our town. Warm Springs Asylum and William Farley and so on and so on.

  A nun told me the story, I said. How Farley started a factory and needed workers so he pilfered from the asylum. How they rebelled and butchered Farley and damn near everybody in town. How the remaining lunatics stayed back and started Factory Town.

  Kaladi laughed. Yes, that’s the story. The way some create meaning.

  You don’t buy it?

  It doesn’t matter if I buy it or not. What does matter is that a whole lot of people do believe in it, and they are ready to take the next step.

  Which is?

  Haven’t you heard the mantra, Mr. Carver?

  Mantra?

  Certainly. The final conclusion of the Book of Edicts. The town must die with us.

  Yes, I said. I’ve heard it. But I don’t understand.

  Too much misery, the Cowboy says. Too much sin. Hard to argue with him.

  And?

  We can’t escape our fate. We are degenerates, rapists, murderers, pedophiles. And we all live here together in this little town. Eventually we’ll die out, naturally. But there’ll be a new generation. And the Cowboy fears that they will repeat the sins of their fathers, the sins of their mothers. And this can’t happen. So…

  No children, I interrupted. No children at all.

  Precisely. The most important decree: No child shall be born alive in this town.

  Thus the importance of Dr. Byrd.

  Yes. The abortionist.

  But Alana?

  There have been some dissidents. A handful at least. I include myself as one of them. And we started an underground railroad of sorts. Saving a few live born babies. Hiding them from the Cowboy and his followers. Only a handful have survived. Alana is one of them. But she’s missing.

  So the Cowboy, he—

  Yes. Kills them. Disposes of the bodies. Continues his aim of turning Factory Town into a ghost town, thus ending the cycle of sin. He thinks himself noble, of course. Most delusional men do.

  And that’s why I was sent here. To find her.

  Kaladi rubbed his face with his hand. No, he said. That’s wrong.

  What the hell are you talking about?

  And now he spoke in a hushed voice. What you should know, he said, is that we all need a narrative to rely on. Especially when the walls have come crashing down. Especially when we’re nearly out of time…

  Stop! You’re speaking in code! You’re—

  Your temple, he interrupted. It’s bleeding very badly. This much is obvious: you don’t have long to live, my friend.

  It was at that moment that I heard terrible noises, unbearable. High pitch shrieks. Fingernails scraping on cement. Threats whispered in my ears. And then the walls around me started crumbling down, broke apart by graveyard shovels. Frantic screaming, most likely from me. Moments passed, terrible moments, and I was surrounded by a group of men, brandishing shovels and knives and hammers, all wearing black suits and gas masks.

  CHAPTER 19

  I thought I was a goner for sure, with the way the blood was pouring down my face, with the way these menacing men surrounded me. These were the Cowboy’s men, I was certain about that, and they moved forward en mass, a frightening sight. Fearing for my life, I fell to the floor and closed my eyes and shielded my head. I could hear their voices, muffled beneath their gasmasks, chanting the same phrase over and over again: The town must die with us. The town must die with us. The town must die with us.

  And then I felt one of the men grab a hold of my body and try to flip me to my back, but I resisted, kicking and flailing and spitting. Soon more of the men came to his aid. It took several of them, and it took a good long while, but eventually they got me immobilized, arms and legs spread-eagle. My ligaments were being stretched, my tendons ruptured, and I shrieked in pain. One of the men—they all looked identical in their suits and masks—stood over me, his eyes nothing but slits, and removed several long silver nails from his suit pocket. His breathing became heavier and heavier, and he got down to his knees and proceeded to place one of the nails on the palm of my hand, drawing blood. I knew what would come next and I screamed in panic. The masked man raised the hammer high in the air and I squeezed my eyes shut…

  Then I heard a voice boom behind me: Gentlemen, I command you to cease! Stop this brutality at once! This man is not an enemy. He is a trusted employee.

  Cautiously I opened my eyes. The hammer remained high in the air, frozen. Glancing past the masked man’s shoulder, I saw Michael Fennington with his stained white suit, his gray hair slicked back impeccably. Drop the hammer! he shouted. At this very moment! He seemed to have a certain authority with these men, and immediately they released me, the hammer and nails clanging harmlessly to the floor.

  Still unnerved, I pulled myself to all fours and scampered up against the wall. I was having difficulty breathing, screeches sounding with each inhalation. Fennington approached me, a good-natured smile on his face, and shook his head. My dear sir, he said. That must have been a harrowing experience. I must apologize for their behavior. They are an excitable bunch. But they mean no harm. They are only trying to do the will of the Cowboy.

  I regained my breath. They…they were going to kill me. A crucifixion of the innocent.

  Yes, indeed, indeed. A terrible violation. And yet you are still living, thank the good Lord for that! But enough of that. I must ask you: is there any word about the girl, Alana? Any progress in her recovery?

  I sat there for a moment, still stunned, unable to respond. Then, slowly, I nodded my head. Yes, I said. I’m getting close. I’m sure of it.

  That’s wonderful! Thrilling! And have you had a chance to read the decrees? Do you understand why she is so important to the Cowboy?

  Yes, I said. I understand.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, dropped it on my lap. More money, he said. For your hard work.

  I shoved it away. This money is worthless, I said. I know that now.

  Fennington grinned. Worthless? Not at all. We have the power to assign worth. To money. To life. There is great value, I believe, in both. In any case, we’ll be in touch, Mr. Carver.

  And with that he turned and walked away, through the rubble, into the darkness, his masked men following directly behind.

  * * *

  Back outside, back in the town center, there was more pandemonium, another wave of suicides, this time self-immolations, a dozen or more people on fire, faces melting from their skulls.

  I watched from a distance, but with great interest, while the rest of the townsfolk didn’t seem to notice, didn’t seem to care. There were no cries of terror, no attempts to extinguish the fires, no shielding their eyes from the grotesqueness of it all.

  And then Charlie Gardner, my childhood friend, was standing next to me, shaking his head, saying, Terrible things are happening here. Either there is a civil strife in heave
n, or else the world, too saucy with the gods, incenses them to send destruction. It’s a wonder I don’t leave. It’s a wonder everybody doesn’t leave.

  Your mother…

  I know. A shame. But she spent her last moments with you. For that we should be thankful, don’t you think?

  So we walked along, doing our best to ignore the blood curdling screams all around us. Money was falling from my pocket, scattering on the ground. It was night again. It was always night. Crows flew overhead, but they were outmatched. The Vultures stood at the ready. And where was God? Hanging from a noose.

  The factory, I said. They wouldn’t let me in to the factory.

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders, said, There’s nothing to see there. Nothing at all. It’s just a factory.

  No. No, I don’t believe that.

  But your imagination, Russell. It’s becoming your reality. That’s dangerous, good buddy!

  Then take me there. Take me inside the factory. I want to see for myself.

  Charlie shook his head. That would be difficult, I’m afraid. Very difficult indeed.

  Why? What are they trying to hide in there?

  Hide? Nothing. It’s just a matter of clearance. Security reasons and such. You see, the Cowboy, he—

  The Cowboy! He has the answers. Take me to him. I want to meet him. I want to talk to him.

  Charlie laughed a deep guttural laugh. Russell Carver, you really are too much!

  This is madness, I said, and he seems to be in charge of it all. I want to talk to him.

  But that is hardly possible.

  What is it with you? Aren’t you going to help me? Isn’t anybody going to help me? Are you content to just stand by and watch as sin breeds like mosquitoes in a marsh? Are you content to just stand by and watch humanity crumble like your abandoned buildings?

  More laughter. Such poetry, he said. And certainly I am not content. But I am resigned. You want to see the Cowboy? Well then, Russell. You will see him. But nothing will change. Your words will not move him, no matter how poetic they are. And this detour will only distract you from locating the girl, whatever girl you are looking for. It’s a shame about Alana. It’s a shame about my mother.