by Zach Adams
Isaac made a detour at the kitchen and found a large piece of raspberry cheesecake wrapped in tinfoil, and the treat accompanied him to his bedroom along with a tall glass of ice water. He stopped himself one last time to fetch two of his pills from the bathroom.
Gamora and Nikola found him and circled his feet. They nuzzled their little cat heads into his shins for attention, though when he offered his hand, they stepped out of the way. The pair then wandered to opposite shadowy corners of the living room, almost invisible but clearly staring at the human.
“Fine, didn’t feel like petting y’all anyway,” Isaac grunted as he returned to the swamp-like comfort of his bedroom.
Isaac dropped his backpack on the nearest pile of debris, put his cake and water on the side table, and crumbled into his bed.
Now that everything had ended, his head was spinning out of control. His hands trembled violently, his chest became tighter by the second, and cold sweat began to drip down his face. He tried to swallow three times to smooth out the sandpaper in his throat, and then attacked it with a large gulp of ice water accompanied by a pair of pills.
After kicking off his shoes and burrowing further into bed, the events of the night washed over him. Isaac tried to close his eyes, and he saw the feral creatures spitting blood at him. His eyes snapped back open, and he looked up at the Avengers on the wall.
“Some help you guys are,” Isaac sighed. They offered the same response any blanket might.
Isaac threw himself shoulder-first back at his pillow. When he closed his eyes again, he saw the pale man who called himself L’æon. The man who had arrived from nowhere, performed incredible magic, had met the Beatles despite looking no older than forty-two, and swore he hadn’t been a hallucination, just eccentric.
Exactly what a hallucination would say, dolt, Rage chuckled mockingly. Isaac flopped onto his right side, trying to coax himself into unconsciousness.
It’s something a non-hallucination could say too, though, Panic added in a wide-eyed whisper. Isaac tossed back over to his left side.
You clearly did some damage when you fell earlier. You wouldn’t be seeing things if Beige had let you go to the hospital. Isaac rolled onto his back, eyes wide open and burning a hole through the darkened ceiling.
Yeah, it’s all Beige’s fault! Rage howled. Let’s find more of those hollows and send them right at his house and -
We don’t know how to control them! Panic squeaked while Rage howled.
The melee continued, with Isaac unable to keep any of himself quiet. Eventually Panic convinced Isaac that he had to know if he had been dreaming or not, and he could find out by looking in his backpack. He dragged himself out of bed and tore open the bag.
Among the assortment of other hoarded possessions was the library book Isaac had found the strange pages in, which he realized with a pang of guilt he had accidentally stolen from work. The pages were still sticking out from the back cover.
Slowly, as if delaying the act would give the pages enough time to jump out of reality, he pried open the book, and the pages fell on his lap. The painting of Næ’zätæmém peered up at him, locked in a mischievous glare of a predator who enjoys playing with his food.
Isaac stared at the impossible sheets of paper. Every synapse in his brain was screaming as he re-examined the haunting, musical language on them. He paced around his room.
A mental brick wall appeared in front of the information on the pages, and Isaac began to furiously drill through it with his eyes. He stared at them as if willing the text to burst into flames, only to find that the brick wall had been put up in front of a metaphorical bank vault door, built with hyperbolically thick steel, and shut with a hypothetical time-sensitive lock which may possibly prevent entry until 8:30 AM precisely on any given business day.
Isaac began to feel drained, with a spear of heat down the center of his head from the scalp. He looked away from the pages, sifting through his room to find a fake leather zip-up folder. It still had the resume he had brought to his job interview at the library. He discarded the outdated document and replaced it with his new treasures.
Isaac burrowed his face into his pillow, hoping to strong-arm his brain into kindly shutting the hell up. It refused. He spent the remainder of his night on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Chapter Eight: One Who Shouldn’t Be
2013
Isaac woke up two and a half hours before his alarm typically told him to, one of several unfortunate habits he had developed in the two years since he and his sister were adopted by Uncle Vic. During that time, Tobias moved to Seattle on his own. Chloe, now in middle school, spent the majority of her time either with Sarah or studying, often both. That left Isaac the sole recipient of his uncle’s parenting methods, which he felt could be heavy-handed no matter how well-meant. The habits Isaac had developed in his new home such as nocturnal behavior, hiding in one’s bedroom for days on end, and rarely talking to anyone face to face was unhealthy, apparently, and silly things like anxiety could be knocked out with a visit to a priest.
The small office that had been converted into a bedroom, with only a two-by-six feet space left once Isaac’s bed had been moved in, was dimly illuminated by David Tennant-era Doctor Who on a twenty-inch TV. It had been on when Isaac fell asleep and played several episodes on a loop until the end of time (or, at least until the technology required stops working). He fished the remote from under his blanket and turned the TV off and noticed another dim light at the bottom of his bedroom door.
Guess we’re not the only ones up early, Panic chimed in. A glance at his phone told him it was 5:30AM, and Sunday. Meaning it’s probably Uncle Vic. Do we run to the bathroom and risk getting dragged along to church, or do we go back to sleep?
The decision was made for Isaac. He didn’t hear Uncle Vic’s footsteps, but he did hear the knock on his bedroom door. Isaac hastily ducked back under the covers and hoped the old man would think he was still asleep.
“Isaac, you up? You shouldn’t be leaving your TV on all night, you know,” Uncle Vic’s muffled voice came from beyond the door. Isaac said nothing. Victor persisted.
“I’m heading to church soon. Chloe is still over at her friend Sarah’s house, but it’d be nice if you came along. I think it’d be good for you.”
Uncle Vic waited several seconds while Isaac hoped to actually fall back asleep before his uncle decided to open the door. He did exactly that. The hallway light flooded in, smacking Isaac in the eyelids. His involuntary wince made it difficult to maintain his ruse.
“Uncle Vic? What time is it?” Isaac said through an exaggerated yawn.
“Good, you’re up,” Victor said. “Get dressed, it’s Sunday. Coffee’s on.” With that, he returned to the kitchen and left Isaac’s door wide open.
We’ve asked about a trillion and several times that he not do that, Rage said.
Isaac turned the light on. On his headboard were his plugged-in cellphone, a ceramic urn with a dog’s collar around it labelled “Marlon”, and three orange plastic bottles, each the same except for the differently colored tablets inside.
Isaac dry-swallowed a blue tablet for anxiety, looked down at the bottle and then to the hallway, and took a second one. As he was still wearing the old jeans and Beatles tee-shirt from the day before, Isaac didn’t bother to change before following his uncle to the kitchen.
“Hey Uncle Vic, I appreciate the invite, but I don’t think I’m going to make it to church today, unfortunately,” Isaac said. He did his best to seem regretful, but it wasn’t easy for him to feign unhappiness about getting out of such a situation. Uncle Vic sighed in disappointment.
“How come? The folks there have been asking about you and your sister, y’know.”
Crap, follow-up questions. Think, writer boy, think! Panic and Rage both told him. He stuttered through the best half-assed excuse he could muster. As he spoke, he poured himself a cup of coffee, so he would have something other than the old man’s face to look at
.
“I, uh, well, um…” Isaac added a few scoops of sugar and a heavy dose of cream to his cup. No eye contact was made. He stirred his beverage six times to the left and once to the right.
“I’ve got a job interview later this morning!” Isaac finally blurted. Uncle Vic looked pleasantly surprised, with a shade of suspicion. Isaac continued to fill in blanks.
“I must have forgotten to tell you, I got a call back from the gas station up the road yesterday, but they want me to come in while you’ll still be in church.” Isaac finished his tale. Victor got up from his seat at the large oak dining table and patted his nephew on the back.
“Well, maybe next week then. Good luck with your interview!” Victor said. While Isaac sipped on his fresh beverage, his uncle drained the rest of his own.
With a wave and a smile Vic went outside into the snowy darkness and got into his bulky gray pickup truck. Isaac watched him drive away before returning to his bedroom, placed the steaming cup next to his miniature pharmacy, fully intending to drink it, and promptly fell back asleep.
Isaac woke up a few hours later to two text messages.
Uncle Vic: Going across town after service to help Paul with a project, be back this evening sometime. Good luck with interview! 10:13 AM
Genghis Don: AY d00d, party 2nite. Adrian driving. Meet @ the Dunjun 4 pregame whenever u revive. #PhoenixDown lmao 10:42 AM
Isaac took another pill before he threw his medications, device chargers, and a water bottle from the refrigerator into his backpack. It seemed most prudent in his opinion to catch the nearest bus to Donny’s house, in case Uncle Vic decided to stop at home on his way to Paul’s house. According to Google Maps, there was a stop across from the gas station he wasn’t interviewing at with a bus scheduled in twenty minutes.
Isaac threw on a jacket, jammed headphones from his iPod into his ears, and stomped out into the cold. Alice in Chains kept him company while he pretended not to notice strangers trying to talk to him on the street.
The gray and white city blurred by as the bus rumbled over chunks of ice and heavy snow drifts. Once the bus reached his next stop, Isaac had a five-minute walk up a hill to find Donny’s house. It was much larger and better-maintained than his uncle’s - Donny’s parents were a doctor and a lawyer. Their son, adorned in a bright orange hooded sweatshirt, black jeans, and hot pink sunglasses, greeted his friend at the front door.
“Ivy! Welcome! Got a pungent baggie of joy downstairs from Mr. V, follow follow!” Donny said with both hands in the air. Isaac smacked one of them down and told him not to call him ‘Ivy’.
They both descended into Genghis Don’s “dunjun”, as labelled by the hand-painted sign above his bedroom door. The place was covered wall to wall in comic books, video games, and empty food containers, the air thick and gray from the same thing Donny invited Isaac to join him for. He handed his guest a lighter and a small glass contraption shaped like a coffin.
“So, what’s this party tonight?” Isaac asked.
“Dunno, some warehouse shindig in midtown, Dante has the address,” Donny said as he twirl-flopped into a bean bag chair. “They’ve got a punk or metal or whatever band, 3 something or other, playing. Lots of drinks and noise and wild things. You’ll hate it.”
Both of them chuckled. Isaac picked up an acoustic guitar with the lightest string missing and a crack in the body from the floor and attempted to tune it, to no avail. For ten minutes he fought with the abused instrument before placing it back on a stand right next to where Donny had left it.
“Sounds like a nightmare, I’m in.” Isaac told his friend.
“As if you have a choice,” Donny replied. “Your uncle okay with you staying out all night again?”
“He’s across town for the day, I won’t have to deal with him until tomorrow,” Isaac handed the glass casket back to his friend.
The conversation only became shallower from there as the boys got themselves stoned and played a viciously competitive marathon of Mario Kart, until their friends arrived in a purple minivan several hours later.
Adrian sat in the driver’s seat, having “dressed down”, in his opinion, with a cheap button down and black jeans. Dante and Alana, in red and blue flannel respectively, cuddled in the middle seat behind him. Isaac took the seat behind the couple and Donny sat to Adrian’s right.
“So, is this another one of, y’know, that guy’s parties?” Isaac asked sarcastically. No one answered for a bit.
“You know we’re not supposed to talk about it, that’s the rule. Speaking of rules, seat belts on or I’m not pulling out,” Adrian told him.
“Maybe someone should have, in your case,” Donny said. The comment earned him a kick to the back of his seat from the unintended secondary target of his joke. Alana put her palm on Dante’s chest, and he grudgingly simmered down.
“The benefactor of these events prefers to stay anonymous,” Dante said. “But yeah, it’s one of that guy’s parties. Just don’t say shit about him while you’re there or we’re all in trouble.” Isaac chuckled.
“Whatever, V-Man knows me. I’m not afraid of him.” Isaac said. The other passengers all looked uncomfortable as they pulled into the packed parking lot of a two-story warehouse complex. People had been forcibly removed from these events for disregarding the rules before.
The winter night was lit only by a few streetlights at the edge of the lot, and indoor lights peering through the few high windows on the building. Before getting out of the van they could already hear the band playing inside, and several small groups of people had stepped out into the chilly evening air to smoke or drink.
A mountain of unhappy-looking bald man in sunglasses and a leather jacket with a V-shaped tattoo on the side of his neck stood in front of the door, taking tolls from those wishing to enter. A narrow rectangular badge on his chest read “Luka”. A line of ten people made it through before Isaac and the others reached him. They each handed him a $5 bill and satisfied with the tribute, the doorman granted them passage to the festivities within.
The concrete-floored room inside was disorienting with the scent of sweat, pot, and tobacco. A four-piece band with spikes decorating most of their clothes rattled the building from roof to foundation on a wooden stage.
Dozens of guests, most drunk or stoned or both, jumped and head-banged around them. A mini bar had been assembled at the back of the room, opposite the stage and entrance. Donny joined the crowd while Isaac made a beeline for the bar, and the others huddled against the back wall to watch the performance in peace.
The bartender was clad in a plain black tee-shirt and a long apron, with a name badge which read “Dimitri”, and a V tattoo identical to Luka’s. His neatly combed dark hair would have made Adrian jealous. Isaac flashed a less-than-legal ID bearing the name “Zach Adams” at him.
Dimitri spotted the tiny V logo in the bottom right corner of the card and, with a smirk, poured Isaac a pair of free shots of whiskey. He downed them both back-to-back and paid for two more, then a bottle of beer to rejoin the party with.
A piece of musical gear screamed with feedback, threatening to rupture Isaac’s eardrums.
“Sorry about that!” The singer said into her microphone. “Thank you all for coming out tonight! This next song is…”
She was drowned out as the rest of the band kicked into whatever song she was about to name. It was fast and loud, and the crowd went wild for it. Isaac wandered through the smoky, pungent horde of bodies, searching for a familiar face. An orange sweater sleeve shot out from the chaos and latched onto him. He turned with a jolt to see a sweat-drenched Donny, curly hair plastered to his forehead.
“Get over here!” Donny yelled over the music. He dragged Isaac up to the front of the stage with him.
“Don, wait, I’ve got a - Sorry!” Isaac lost his argument when Donny accidentally pushed him directly into a girl with blue hair and matching lipstick, scowling at the intrusion. Her eyes were so glazed over and unfocused, Isaac noted, she reall
y could have been scowling at Donny just as easily. Isaac dodged the conflict and chugged the remainder of his drink, looked around for a trash can that didn’t appear to exist, and stuffed the empty bottle in his jacket pocket.
Isaac’s skin was already starting to go numb, but he told himself that was just crowd anxiety, rather than alcohol. His blood pressure agreed. He attempted to look around for a quick way out but only ended up bumping into the person behind him.
Defeated, Isaac did his best to interpret the music through the cacophony blasting him directly in the face from the speakers and did an awkward little motion in time with them in an effort to look enthusiastic (which, of course, he didn’t look at all).
When the song ended, chunks of the crowd funneled outside while the band took a short break, including Alana and the Luthers. Isaac and Donny returned to the beverage cart and got themselves each a shot. After having their drinks and allowing a few seconds for the burning liquid to work through their bodies, they stepped off to the rear wall where their friends had been standing to wait for their return.
From an unlit office above the stage, a barely discernible figure wrapped in flowing dark clothing glided down the stairs to the microphone. They gave some sort of quick speech thanking everyone, but it was lost among the ringing in Isaac’s ears. Wherever he went in the room, Isaac had the sensation of eyes on him.
“H-hic-hey, who’s that… there… talking, uh, person?” Isaac asked his companion.
“The host, I guess,” Donny said. “Someone’s gotta look like they’re running the show, right? The real fella has to stay hidden.”
The host - or, as they would learn in a sentence or two, hostess - finished speaking and returned to their dark room. As they walked, they gracefully slid their flowing coat and wide hood off. A pale woman with sharp features and dark hair, wearing leather pants and a corset, emerged from them and ascended the stairs with a few fluid motions.
