Autumn in the Abyss

by John Claude Smith

  The cold down here was subterranean, cave-like; of the grave.

  For the guards already averting hard eyes and deaf ears from the lone camera watching Krell, the other senses curled up and hid within whenever they took him out for his one hour each day, or whenever food was delivered, or the pail for defecation was removed for cleaning, which had been useless for a few months now—

  —“He’s eating his own feces, drinking his urine,” Warden Decker said, a half hour earlier, the nonchalant look on his face, a lie he liked to brandish.

  That might explain the stench, thought Vera.

  “He’s also eating the walls.”

  “What?”

  “This sick piece of shit is eating the walls,” Decker said. The thin, always dark skin beneath his right eye twitched.

  “How can he eat the walls?” The statement was the definition of surreal. Vera felt his heartbeat ratchet up a notch.

  “You know how it goes in The Pit. He gets one hour in the yard per day, manacled and left to roam like a dog, that’s it. While he’s out, we spray down the walls of The Pit. That’s when we noticed a large indentation on one side, little divots throughout. Sure, we got one camera in the corner, that’s how we know of his other dietary habits. He must eat the walls when it’s night, lights out, though…”

  “Though what?” Vera’s impatience simmered; Decker had always been one to meander when it came to relaying information.

  “We only really see him well when he’s on his walk in the yard. His mouth, his teeth, they’re… different. His fingers, too. Then there’s his constant monologue about what he’s becoming. Or not becoming. His wish to be nothing. You know all that. He’s a fucking cipher.”

  Of course he is, thought Vera. That was the gist of his aspirations. Vera knew it by heart, as did the alien standing silently next to him. This philosophy beyond good and evil, beyond reason and even madness haunted Vera’s every thought. That’s why Krell didn’t qualify as simply a madman, as Decker believed, though Vera considered the possibility, especially with the developments since Krell had turned himself in. But for now, Krell remained something else, something more, and, apparently, changing—

  —The heavy steel door opened. The light was again dim, purposefully so. Vera and the alien watched as two figures entered and moved to each side of the door. Krell followed, hunching down, his frame even more massive than Vera had remembered from only a month ago. Another guard followed, shutting the door.

  “You know the drill,” one of the guards said— hard to distinguish which one, the direction of the voice unclear amidst the mutating shadows.

  Krell sat down. The manacles on his legs fastened to locks jutting from the floor below him. On the table, he set his hands apart and the chain snapped into place on the iron table between them.

  One of the guards coughed.

  Vera’s eyes burned. His nose hairs twitched in protest.

  Krell’s body stench and abhorrent breath reached out and touched him, slithered in and gnawed. He felt as if he would never be able to scrub it off.

  Vera glanced at the alien. There was no sign it was disgusted by Krell’s foul smell. There was sense in this, Vera knew, but he did not want to think on it. He had only one reason to be here again.

  “Leave,” Vera said to the guards.

  “Excuse me, sir—”

  “Decker knows. Just… leave.”

  The guards looked at each other and took Vera’s word as law. It wouldn’t take much to get them to ditch this loathsome creature’s presence.

  The cowl of shadows around Krell’s head and torso remained thick, as if drawn to him. Vera was thankful for this. He could sense movement, heard the slight clink of metal as Krell got comfortable, or as comfortable as a man in his position could be. His huge, scarred hands rested as sleeping pythons on the table in clear view, the fingernails splintered, calluses thick along the tips, down to the first joint.

  “Evil was such a feeble aspiration,” Krell said, starting in as always. “Deeper into the well of anti-self. To be nothing, such a blissful existence. Or would that be anti-existence, friend Vera?” The shadows shifted around Krell’s head, a suggestion of a smile.

  “Never call me friend. We are not friends.”

  “Then what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting so soon after the previous one, friend Vera?” He was smiling now, for sure. Vera detested the cruel delight this monster got in torturing him, confirmed by his next statement: “We know I already occupy the dark spaces in your skull. I live in you, friend—”

  “Stop!” This was too much. Krell’s intentions siphoned the strength from Vera, his control whittled to nil. Krell might live in his head, might frolic there, but twisting the knife was not something Vera could handle. They both knew their connection; Vera simply wanted it cut off, amputated as a gangrenous limb.

  “Allow me,” the alien said, its tone akin to tenderness, and so out of place here.

  “Who’s your friend, friend Vera?”

  Vera went to speak when the alien placed its hand on his wrist.

  “No. You should probably go now, Detective Vera. There’s nothing more for you here. Ever again. You need not… wonder…” The alien turned its head toward him, the transparent eyes letting him know it knew more than would seem possible: “You need not let his words harm you any longer.”

  “Who is this little fuck?” Krell said, leaning forward, his seething smile a distortion culled from torn lips and jagged teeth. Scabs filled the lower half of his face, some crusty, some oozing.

  He was crazy and there was no denying it. His aspirations for evil were molded in the mind of a madman. Something about that smile, that horrid leer, signified to Vera that no matter the magnitude and undeniable focus— first toward evil, then toward not being— he simply was mad.

  Vera pushed his chair back; the sound scratched harsh as rats in a barrel at his eardrums.

  “What’s going on, friend Vera? Who is this little fuck?” A sliver of unease tarnished Krell’s features.

  Waves undulated off the alien with violent force.

  Vera stood and staggered backward; the chair toppled.

  Krell pushed himself as far away from the table as possible, straining the chain, his fists clenched with the effort.

  The alien discarded his tiny façade for the massive shell that was Krell; shell, within there was a being with more humanity than Krell had ever had.

  At least Vera hoped so…

  The transformative process relegated the clothing Vera had loaned the alien to an unraveled pile of thread awaiting the tailor’s sewing needle.

  “I am Krell… Father,” the alien said, his voice calm. Not Krell’s voice, his.

  “How can…” Krell’s resolute self-discipline, the concentrated menace he flaunted with glee, was haphazardly swept under the rug, lumped there as a dead body in his shape. “How…? Detective Vera, what the fuck is going on?”

  He almost welcomed Krell’s desperation after all these years. Vera would ordinarily bat thoughts of this nature away, but right now, in this room adjacent to a cell in The Pit, normal expectations were null and void, because a more profound awareness of the inconceivable held the reins.

  “I am Krell, Father. Your fondest follower.”

  The chains kissed and clanked with enthusiasm as Krell struggled in vain to break free.

  “Detective Vera—”

  “I am going to give you what you want, Father Krell.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Then, again: “Vera…”

  “You want to be nothing. My friend has the means to fulfill your heinous philosophical desires,” Vera said, backing toward the door.

  The alien turned to gaze at Vera. Buried in that horrible face, that nightmare façade— the face that had awakened Vera hundreds of times in a fevered mental agony— the gentle eyes revealed a peaceful elation.

  “Thank you for what you have taught me, Detective Vera. Now, go.” It turned back toward
Krell.

  Vera thought Krell might actually break the chains as the metal tore into the flesh of his wrists and backs of his hands.

  “Your struggles are useless, Father Krell. I am here to grant you your one wish.”

  Vera knocked hard on the door. The guard opened it.

  “I will make you nothing. I will… uncreate you.”

  Uncreate, thought Vera. Uncreate.

  “Vera. Vera,” Krell wailed, his voice wrapped snug in fear’s vice-like embrace.

  The guard said, “Oh, my god,” and crossed himself as Vera pushed him away and glanced back.

  The alien leaned forward, arm extended toward Krell, palm outstretched. There was an instant when the shadows evacuated Krell’s head, as if wary of what was to follow.

  Vera’s eyes met Krell’s for the final time

  No, Krell was not evil incarnate. He was a madman, evil at heart, but there were many of those prowling the dark corners and solitary hubs of this earth. He may have affected Vera deeply, but no more.

  Lights flashed as swords during battle.

  Vera shoved the door shut as Krell let out a yell of such deep, inconsolable shock, a depth never conceived. After all, Krell was only human, and being uncreated was not something any human had experienced before. As the alien had said, from nothing to something takes time. Vera expected from something to nothing would take time as well…

  ~

  Hours later, his clothes discarded after a long, scorching shower to cleanse off what he’d been a participant in, and the years he’d been soiled by it, Roberto “Bobby” Vera sat at the kitchen table in the small apartment he did not call home, and poured two fingers of whiskey into the shot glass in front of him. He stared at it for a long time, and then nudged it away. He picked up his cell phone and scrolled to Marina’s number. Tears welled and he did not fight them. Her name and number filled the screen, and his heart. His hands shook and he said, “No,” to the memory of Krell forevermore.

  “Why are you not with the one you love?”

  Because I am a weak man. Because I am a pathetic man touched by evil. Because of Krell, the one who has destroyed what mattered most to me.

  Not anymore.

  He dropped his badge into the garbage can next to the table, without fanfare.

  He wiped his eyes and held the phone in his now steady fingers. He stared at her name and number, the one who mattered more than all the others. The one whose connection ran deepest, to his soul. The one who, amidst the chaos of life in this often grim world, always reminded him what it meant to be human.

  He stared, overwhelmed with joy and relief that the weight had been lifted, and pressed SEND.

  Where the Light Won’t Find You

  Derek Jenner stomps toward the glass doors of the multiplex theater, though distinction as glass is negligible as they are adorned with posters for the movies playing as well as upcoming attractions. He pulls on one of the doors with a little more gusto than necessary; it swings out and almost hits a young woman wearing the ugliest pea green and black plaid jacket he’s ever seen. She gives him a hard stare but says nothing. He smiles meekly— excuse me— as he holds the door open for her, but she chooses a less treacherous route and walks around him, entering through another door. As he steps into the massive lobby, he bumps into the lone cardboard standee floating in an ocean of green carpet. Iron Man tumbles to the ground, Robert Downey Jr.’s smirking face staring up at him as he leans over to pick it up and a wandering employee gives him the evil eye, as if he needs anymore bad luck today.

  What he’d thought was anger is more so frustration and, after the thirty minute drive to the theater, it has pretty much dissipated as mist would beneath a rising sun. He can’t even remember what petty, niggling event inspired it. He thinks about turning around and getting back to the apartment ASAP, to Daisy, to make up and perhaps get some afternoon delight, but knows how she is and how she’ll carry the brunt of whatever they had argued about a little longer than she should, so since he is here, he might as well take in a flick.

  Scanning the electronic movie board, nothing stands out. Though there is that new Arnold Schwarzenegger action flick, sure to be totally mindless nonsense, but right now that might not be a bad thing. Turning his brain off seems appropriate. Or turning around and heading to the studio for guitar practice— why waste the money here? But then, a title at the end flickers on and off before stabilizing, something called, Where the Light Won’t Find You, and he’s intrigued.

  Walking to the ticket counter, Derek takes in the young woman adjusting her dark brown vest over her darker green uniform, adjusting her nametag as well— Emily— her long, straight, black hair shiny as pools of oil; shimmering colors mingle with the inherent sheen. Her lashes flutter, as she raises her eyes from her busywork. She breaks into a too large smile. This is obviously her first job. She’s probably fresh out of high school.

  Derek says, “Is Where the Light Won’t Find You a horror flick?”

  Emily’s smile sinks as she skims over the register where, he assumes, the titles for the movies are listed, and she’s about to say something when a small Asian man, Chinese, Derek thinks, slinks next to her and says, “That movie is sold out, sir.” His voice is mellifluous, the accent light, though the statement is firm.

  Derek glances around the sparsely filled theater, takes in an old couple haggling about something. The woman wearing the ugly pea green and black plaid jacket is buying popcorn, and a huge guy, football lineman huge, buys a few items from the concession stand, as well.

  Emily says, “I don’t see that one listed,” to the old Chinese man, her complexion shading red as if she’s confused or fearful. It’s the look of a new employee who is worried about her job already.

  The old Chinese man only says again, “That movie is sold out, sir.” The look in his eyes indicates he knows stuff, deep knowledge, so what is he doing behind the counter at a movie theater? He doesn’t fit in here. He’s dressed too spiffy in a fancy midnight blue pinstripe suit, not even in a uniform.

  Derek harrumphs and leans back to peruse the movie board. The Arnie flick starts five minutes after Where the Light Won’t Find You. The title for the latter seems to be disappearing as he squints at it.

  “What the hell. Gimme some Arnie.”

  The old Chinese man feigns approval, though his smile seems more one of relief. He fades back, ambling to a corner where shadows hint at a doorway.

  Emily smiles weakly, her anxiety obvious— she wears it on her sleeve.

  Derek laughs inside; just like his anger, frustration, or sometimes brittle self-confidence. He hopes she can grow out of it quicker than he. At twenty-eight, he still hasn’t grown out of it completely.

  She says, “Ten-fifty.”

  He pulls a ten and a one out of his Pulp Fiction inspired “Bad Mother Fucker” leather wallet and says, “Who was that weird guy?” as he hands it to her.

  Emily leans forward, conspiratorially, and says, “I don’t know. They don’t tell me anything, I’m new here.” Her smile is blinding as she says this, back to her overly cheerful façade. “He showed up today by surprise and Bobby, he’s my boss, said he would just be hanging around and if he makes any requests or anything, do as he says.”

  “Probably some corporate dweeb,” Derek says.

  She covers her mouth as she giggles— dear god, she is young— and he remembers the last time he was in this theater. A whole row of teenage girls sitting behind him giggled and chatted and screamed their heads off at the horror movie he saw that time. As Emily hands him the ticket, change, and receipt, he wonders if she was one of them.

  She says, “Number eleven, on your left.”

  The transaction complete, her glare-on-snow smile washes the previous few minutes’ bewilderment from her recall.

  He meanders over to the concession stand, a rarity for him as the prices are highway robbery, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to grab a burger, fries, and a soda to sneak in under his jacket. S
ince today is winding down the road in a weird way, he figures, what the hell, and takes his place in line behind the mountain of a man, who has gathered enough food to feed a small army. He cups ice and root beer and has an employee get him a large popcorn. He pays and veers left to the hallway.

  Walking swiftly, knowing he is cutting it close time-wise, Derek takes in the numbers and movie titles. Finally he finds number eleven with Bad to the Bone listed over the door, the new Arnie flick— a blatant nod to one of the most memorable scenes from the second Terminator movie. As he heads toward the theater, he notices the big guy entering a theater at the end of the hallway where he thought the men’s restrooms were located. They must have recently remodeled.

  Sold out? No way!

  Let’s see for sure. Derek hopes it isn’t and is fairly sure it won’t be. Screw the old Chinese bloke.

  The sign, just like on the movie board, seems to lack the inspiration to stay lit. An undefined sense of urgency prods him as he practically jogs to the theater, popcorn leaving a bread-crumb trail behind him, a path back to safety. He smirks, not really caring about the mess, and pulls on the door handle. The door opens with a swoosh and he’s met with a chilly breeze, an actual breeze that reminds him of a lonely walk along a harbor, not something whipped up by the movement of the door, and steps inside.

  There is a moment where his head goes light. There is a moment where he thinks this all feels wrong. But both of these impressions are swept as dust under the rug and he strides along the wall to the front and glances up. The theater is empty except for him and the big guy, who already is at the back row, moving to the center, sitting down.