Friggin’ asshole, he thinks, about the old Chinese man. Sold out? Friggin’ asshole. Wonder what his problem is.
He nudges the second row seat and it’s stiff, so he moves up to the third row and makes his way to the middle as well. He sits down and lets the smooth rocking motion of the chair take him into its comforting embrace.
He swings the arm rest down, sets the soda in the cup holder, grabs a handful of popcorn and stuffs his mouth. Closing his eyes, he thinks of Daisy. Why the hell do they do this to each other? So inane. They make so much sense together, except for these ridiculous diversions. He has a thought that it might be her period— once in a while she gets overly sensitive when it’s kicking in— but knows better. It’s more as if he is on his period, a sensation he gets every couple months when he is the overly sensitive one. He wonders if men get that kind of thing, too. Harrumphing to himself, he is already anxious to get home. He really loves this woman.
That’s when it strikes him there is no music, no nothing. The place is dimly lit, as expected, but there is no pre-movie bullshit.
The lights dim. The movie commences. No trailers; no nothing. Par for the strange course, he thinks, as he settles in.
The screen is completely black. So black it seems to be draining any excess light from the theater. The title vacillates in the blackness, much as it had done outside. That is it for opening credits as he is taken into a car with some teenagers heading out to the woods. After a few minutes of dull dialogue, they spot a cabin. He almost groans out loud, catching himself before making his displeasure so obvious. Sure, he might be one of only two people in the theater, but he doesn’t want to annoy the other patron, that isn’t his nature. Not like those giggling teenage girls from the last movie. He understands movie etiquette. As if there is such a thing nowadays, he thinks, before his thoughts weave back to his heart, and Daisy. Man, this would be so much better with her here.
The movie moseys along. All the cliché pieces slot into place as if by rote. He finishes his soda and most of the popcorn in the first half hour. At that point, the seat behind him squeaks. Yeah, big guy, he thinks, it is that bad. Maybe he’s getting more food— no way!
Another seat squeaks closer behind him. Derek turns. The big guy has moved up about halfway. He does a weird, beauty-pageant-winner-in-a-parade stiff fingered wave, quite unnerving— Mr. American Asswipe, circa two-thousand… whenever.
Derek turns back to the movie. The big guy in the back makes him feel more uneasy than anything from this dud of a flick.
After another half hour or so, the movie gets a little creepier. The characters are all trapped in a small cellar— standard Stephen King protocol— and something supernatural is messing with their minds, creating hallucinations of hideous design.
A seat squeaks behind Derek. The sound makes him jump. It feels as though a fingernail of dread click, click, clicks down his vertebrae. He also senses the cold breeze again, a beached whale’s death exhalation. The combination of the movie amping up and the trepidation from the seat creaking makes him clench his jaw.
Heavy footsteps pad toward him from his right. The fingernail of dread becomes a full handful and plays a macabre drum solo up and down his spine.
The big guy slowly lumbers down aisle four and sits directly behind him.
Derek doesn’t even turn around to check. His nostrils are assailed by the smell of the rarely showered poorly concealed by stale cologne. The smell of something else, too, something fishy underneath, which makes sense, what with the initial smells upon entering the theater reminding him of a pier. The big guy must work at the boardwalk.
Derek scrunches down a bit, then thinks, what the hell am I doing? He sits up tall. Screw this! Screw all of this. This big guy might be a mountain, but there’s a whole goddamned theater here and he’s decided the best seat in the house is right behind me?
Derek’s ready to turn and give the big guy an earful, but his fragile confidence is never this brash. Instead, he finds himself sinking down into the seat again; his composure frayed as cat-scratched curtains.
He tries to focus on the movie and not think about the guy behind him. After a couple minutes tamping down his agitation, he coughs and hears a tiny snicker echo in response. He catches his breath and again tries to focus on the movie.
On the screen, the guy with the professionally tousled, brown hair and the too perfectly trimmed twenty-four hour shadow is reading with a flashlight the last lines from something scribbled on the wall in too-runny movie blood. The plucky blonde who has uncharacteristically— for a horror flick of this meager ilk— not removed her skimpy baby doll tee hangs on his arm and every word.
He says, “The dread is in knowing you will have to forever live where the light won’t find you.” The flashlight goes out.
The screen goes dark. Too dark.
After twenty seconds or so— twenty seconds that feel like twenty minutes to Derek— there’s a thump on the back of his seat. His heartbeat picks up its pace, attaining a strong gallop.
Another ten, perhaps fifteen seconds pass before the big guy sitting behind Derek, that mountain of a jerk, makes some hacking, gurgling sounds, as if he is pulling up a mouthful and is planning to decorate the back of Derek’s head with the green slime.
The silence heightens these strange, throaty sounds.
Seconds tick by; soldiers on a mission.
Then, the friggin’ jerk kicks the back of Derek’s seat. Tap, tap, tapping, as if those soldiers have picked up the pace to a jog, trying to catch up to Derek’s rapid fire, double-bass drum heartbeat.
Derek shoots straight up from his seat, turns to say something, anything, to this major fuckwad, no matter he is big as Godzilla, when he sees what is really responsible for the sounds.
Perched on the big man’s chest is a glimmering creature with a proboscis jammed into the top of his head and dozens of spindly, multi-jointed limbs still thwacking Derek’s seat. Shock flushes adrenaline through his whole system. Any vocal reaction is traffic jammed in his throat. His brain reels as he shuffles back the few inches he can.
This creature that might be an insect but isn’t, though the mechanics scream insect, looks to be feeding on the big guy.
The man’s eyes are wide open and despite the darkness, the mottled, off-white skin of the thing— it is more skin than exoskeleton, alien, obscene— is luminous.
On the back of the creature, or what he presumes is the back— there are no certainties here— bulbous, jelly-like surfaces quiver. Images flash on the membrane. Murder, torture, rape. This is a horror movie to obliterate all other horror movies. Since the scenes star the big man, Derek interprets them as snippets of the horrors he has doled out in his life. He clenches his fists, wanting to batter the big man and stop the torments and alleviate the broken masks of pain distorting the faces of the victims, but the action would be superfluous, as they’ve already transpired. There is nothing to alleviate anymore. And this is no time to be rubbernecking.
He tries to turn. His legs won’t move — paralyzed.
The big man gurgles, his plea made concrete, “Help me.” The words are sloppy, wet as a slaughtered cow still shuddering on a concrete killing floor.
“I warned you away from this movie, Mr. Jenner.”
Startled, Derek follows the voice to the figure standing directly to his right, already stepping into the row, approaching him. The old Chinese man.
“What the hell is going on? How do you know my name?”
“My name is Mr. Liu.” He extends his hand.
Derek shrinks away, his feet stutter-sliding along the sticky theater floor, finally able to move. He hasn’t made a new friend. He isn’t going to agree on a deal. He wants nothing to do with any of this.
“Fine, Mr. Jenner.” Mr. Liu pats down his exquisite midnight blue pinstripe suit. The light from the creature sparkles on the radiant fabric. “You were warned away from this movie for a reason. Mr. Blaylock here has exceeded his usefulness on this planet. H
e misused his power, his purpose.”
“Purpose?” The polished glimmer of one of those big knifes used at the piers for gutting fish plunges repeatedly into an old man’s chest, his throat, an eye. Blood geysers as the big man continues to thrust and thrust and thrust, his expression one of bliss. “This is his life playing out, right? These are his murders and shit playing out, right? He’s a damned murderer, right?”
“Correct, Mr. Jenner. You are perceptive, but not smart. You should have—”
“What line has he crossed besides murder? What godforsaken purpose did he have that would be deemed useful?”
“Yes, he is a murderer.” Mr. Liu steps closer to Derek. Derek instinctively steps away. “But there’s more to him than that.”
“What usefulness, then?” Derek is again surprised he’s asking questions, but he’s buying time. He senses his survival instinct flailing. What the hell has he gotten himself into?
A row of what Derek takes to be eyes rotates within the malleable flesh to the back of what he thinks of as the creature’s head and settles on him. They are not exactly eye-shaped, more like stars with blunted points. The glossy white centers dilate as they take him in. A spasm ripples over the creature’s body, as if it has just realized Derek is watching it. A stentorian rumble emanating from who knows where makes the hairs on Derek’s arms not only stand at attention, but brace for the worst.
The desire to back away fizzles to ash in the hearth of his hope: there is nowhere to move. To his right, Mr. Liu blocks his escape. He could shove him aside with ease, but what of the consequences? To his left, huddled in the shadows more strangely shaped figures fill the darkness. An unknown light source trims their abysmal silhouettes like stained auras, treating Derek to their warped presence. Acid stirs in the cauldron of his stomach.
Something hisses and sizzles.
An utterance, like what melting wax would sound like if it had a voice, hovers above him. No, there is no escaping this predicament.
“You warned me, okay. I… I understand this much. But what now? Can I go?” His survival instinct ratchets up, though it is tenuous at best, greased and slipping through his fingers with every passing second. “I need to leave, man. I don’t belong here—”
Another strange sound, like feverishly flapping moth wings made from tinfoil draws his head to the side. The joints in his neck crack. He tries to shake the sound from his ears but it burrows deeper inside…
Then at the end of the row, a kaleidoscopic array of brilliant colors pulses from within a floating square-shaped thing about the size of a basketball.
It moves slowly toward him.
Mr. Liu turns to it. The thing’s pulsing intensifies. The sounds prickle spastically, playing a disjointed jazzy rhythm. Derek hates jazz.
Mr. Liu turns to him and says, “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, Mr. Jenner. You were warned to avoid this movie.” Mr. Liu peers over his shoulder for seconds that slosh through mud, the slow trek a Chinese Water Torture to his hope. “There was business to attend to that no human should witness. My employers deal in keeping balance amidst the chaos of the universe.”
“Balance? How does this relate to… him?” Derek says. The creature pulls its sword-like proboscis from the big man’s head. With twitchy movements the pointed tips of its many limbs pluck pieces of fabric and flesh. Apparently, it is still hungry, still eating.
“We are a volatile race, Mr. Jenner.” He opens his palms in an all-inclusive manner— the universal “we”—as if Derek feels any kinship to this strange man. “When humanity is in danger of becoming lost, my employers must make adjustments to keep the balance. Mr. Blaylock’s penchant for killing was in its way part of a justified balance.”
Derek cringes at the thought that murder could be essential for “justified balance.”
“But recently he has undertaken deeds of a more dire malevolence, rendering his usefulness obsolete. He had a purpose, but now, as you’ve put it, he has crossed the line.”
The square-shaped thing chatters ever louder at Mr. Liu, perhaps tired of waiting for its meal: Derek. Or perhaps it has something else in mind, something he hasn’t the imagination to summon. This situation annihilates the boundaries of anything he has ever experienced.
“I made a mistake. I entered the wrong movie. It was a mistake, I admit that,” Derek says, as much to the square-shaped thing, whose colors have congealed into a singular hot pink accentuated by wisps of smoke that shimmy off its body, as to Mr. Liu. “I don’t deserve this, any of this—”
“Mr. Jenner.” Mr. Liu exhales sharply. “It’s out of my hands.” He steps back to let the square-shaped thing pass.
The smell of burning flowers, boiling lemons and foreign odors he cannot categorize clogs Derek’s nostrils.
“Wait,” he says, holding up his hand. The heat from the square-shaped thing makes his fingers bend backward in ways impossible for bones to bend, yet it does not hurt. He yanks his hand back. The fingers bend back to normal, but at least the action has caused the creature to stop its approach.
Unsettling sounds ricochet off the walls.
“Wait!”
What words to say? What words to wield?
“I made a mistake. I’m not part of this situation as it was supposed to play out. Don’t you think letting me go makes more sense… in keeping the balance of the earth, the universe. Won’t taking my life tip things?” Derek punches through his fright with reason.
Mr. Liu swats away the reason. “No, your death would not mean anything to the balance of the world.”
Derek sags, sensing defeat.
“You are a minor player. Some would mourn. But you are not crossing lines, as was Mr. Blaylock.”
Derek considers his insignificance. His loss really won’t matter too much to anybody. His mom and two sisters, a few friends— Daisy.
Daisy and their love. How much does that matter? It does matter. Together they matter. In spite of the outrageous situation he has gotten himself into, they do matter.
“Since my life doesn’t make a difference either way, let me go and I promise I will never speak of this, never tell a soul of what I have witnessed.” Derek feels as if he is bargaining against the house, a stacked deck, fixed dice.
Mr. Liu raises an eyebrow, a white crescent as the moon winking. He turns to the square-shaped thing. A cacophony arises. The tinfoil moth wings flap wildly.
Derek experiences it not only aurally, but in his bones, his muscles, his thoughts; in every quivering molecule, in every atavistic aspiration or futile delusion of being. The sound fully engulfs him as neurotransmitters frantically crackle and spark within him, yet he stands his ground, watching as Mr. Liu, making no sounds, somehow converses with this thing.
A minute passes, two, three. Much longer and sounds will break Derek into tiny pieces, much as a baseball shatters a window.
The sound is abruptly clipped off. The sudden vacuum of silence, like a jolt of electricity, forces him to stand tall, regain his posture of faux courage.
Mr. Liu wipes his hands on his slacks, and then rubs them together, not with mad scientist glee, but with a sense of satisfaction. “They never have been subjected to an intrusion before. They find your desperation fascinating. Not all creatures in the universe understand the restrictions of life and death as we humans do; not all creatures cater to the limitations we believe we are ruled by. I’ve elucidated these facts to my employers, and negotiated with them on your behalf, Mr. Jenner.”
He has a chance. He might get out of this alive.
“They will grant you your freedom, but you must promise you will never speak of what you have witnessed, of any of this. Ever.” Mr. Liu swipes the empty space with his hand, as if shoving away the possibility of failure. “At the first hint of this, they will take you, Mr. Jenner. They may seem monstrous to our human understanding, but they are not. They are simply caretakers of the universe.”
Derek thinks of the big man, and his grim fate. The monster draining him
of every essence of his being.
“You should celebrate the magnitude of what they are risking by granting you your freedom. But since you were never supposed to be a part of this, they are showing restraint and even faith that you will keep your word.” Mr. Liu approaches Derek. This time, Derek stands firm. “They need balance, certainty. As I’ve said, in your case the balance involves you remaining silent about what you have seen, what you have experienced, forever. It may seem a simple task, but you know how we humans can be, don’t you?”
Without reservation Derek knows— to his core, to his soul— he will never speak of this to anybody. This is his burden to carry. It seems simple, but he even with his often fractured emotional base understand the pitfalls of being human.
Mr. Liu raises his small, aged hands toward Derek’s face.
Derek is inclined to flinch, but knows Mr. Liu means no harm.
Mr. Liu pulls Derek’s face down to his lips and kisses him on the cheek.
An icy chill burns Derek’s cheek and he brings his fingers up to rub it. The sensation fades, though he senses it still lives there, whatever it is.
Whatever it is, it is now a part of him.
“When you are getting too close, the frozen fire will burn your cheek. That will be a warning, Mr. Jenner. Heed it without reservations. I hope you will succeed.” Mr. Liu squeezes Derek’s bicep, his voice a heart-to-heart murmur. “Believe me when I say, you do not want to fail.”
Derek stares into Mr. Liu’s intense, yet now somber eyes, acknowledging the inflexible truth of the statement. He must never cross the line, never think it safe. Never speak of them.
“Please, Mr. Jenner. I don’t ever want to meet you again. The circumstances would be… less than cordial.” He falls silent and turns away, walking briskly down the row.
The square-shaped thing is gone. Derek hadn’t noticed it leaving. The big man and the monster that fed on him, the hunched over, spindly-topped figures in the shadows, are also gone. He glances right and left and back to where Mr. Liu should be walking down the stairs and he is gone as well.
Autumn in the Abyss Page 11
