Bad Glass

by Richard E. Gropp

  In front of cameras. In front of a whole crowd of reporters.

  “We put an emergency injunction on everyone in the room, requiring them to stay quiet. The woman who comes on stage—” Danny pointed to the sharply dressed woman as she stepped up to the lectern; he stayed silent as she looked around and shook her head. “She was his press secretary. She’s in New York now. We hired an actress to come forward and claim credit for her role.”

  Danny shut down the video and swiveled back around. “Truth is, the mayor’s gone. He disappeared—right that day, right that millisecond—and he hasn’t been seen since. And the video gives us nothing. Just—one frame he’s there, with that pissed-off look on his face, and the next frame … poof!” He popped open his hand, showing me an empty palm.

  I stood dumbstruck for a moment, trying to process this information.

  “Yeah,” Danny said. “Just blows your fucking mind.”

  I glanced over at Taylor, thinking she’d break down laughing at any moment, revealing this whole thing as a big fat joke, but her face remained perfectly still.

  “Anyway, after visitors and disappearances, we’ve got sounds without sources.” Danny pointed back to the whiteboard. “Voices emanating from empty rooms. Displaced screams and crying. Hell, for two days an invisible gun battle raged outside the convention center; a lot of people heard that one.” Danny shivered, and his voice dropped. “You could call them auditory ghosts, I guess. They usually come at night. We’ve got people who can’t sleep for all of the things they hear.”

  I remembered the soldier at the barricade. I remembered the wistful, nervous look on his face. He’d seemed like a haunted man, talking about his transfer out of the city, about how he no longer heard things.

  “Next, we’ve got creatures. Either animals completely out of place—flamingos in the park, clouds of butterflies in the middle of the night—or things that don’t exist, things that shouldn’t exist.” I nodded, remembering the dogs—the wolves—from the night before. Amanda’s animals, with those strange, extrajointed limbs. “There’s some scary shit out there,” he said. “We’ve found bodies. Bodies with tooth marks or clawed nearly in half.” Danny shivered again; I wasn’t sure if this was a genuine reaction, or just something he did to provide emphasis.

  “Our fifth category is a little more difficult.” I glanced up at the board and saw the phrase “mental problems.” “We’re not quite sure if it’s a phenomenon in its own right or a result of everything else. It’s just … people going crazy. Acting odd, unusual. Losing memories. Going schizophrenic or catatonic. It might be a result of all this stress, or it might be something else. Another symptom of this … disease.” Danny shook his head and managed a sad little smile. “In my time here I’ve had two commanding officers fall apart. One was struck dumb by complete amnesia. The other attacked three of his men with a knife … before turning it on his own genitalia.”

  I made an involuntary wince.

  “And the final category?” I asked.

  Danny gestured back toward the whiteboard. “Miscellaneous,” he said, offering up a pathetic shrug. “The last of our all-encompassing groups. Just … everything else.”

  I stared at the board for a long time, waiting for a pattern to emerge, waiting for some type of connective thread to surface and tie it all together. But there was no thread. There was no pattern. The categories remained disparate, unconnected things—except for visitors and disappearances, which could have been flip sides of the same coin.

  And miscellaneous? It seemed like these people, these experts, were stumbling around in the dark here. They had no idea what was going on, and their categories did nothing to illuminate the situation.

  The hotel room—that frightening tableau, now burned into my memory—remained just as strange, just as alien.

  I walked over and tapped the board. “In this … in this miscellaneous category, have you heard anything … like …” I groped for words, trying to figure out how to explain the body in the ceiling. “Has anybody seen somebody melted—a human body, just kind of merged with a ceiling or a wall? Limbs and body parts disappearing into solid objects?”

  Danny shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. Not that I know of.”

  “Is that what you saw yesterday?” Taylor asked. I turned and found a concerned look on her face. Not just concerned, but startled, going pale. “You saw a body? In a floor?”

  “Well, I …” I shook my head. Pinned beneath that intense stare, I felt flustered. I felt a blush rising up beneath my collar. “No, not really. I’m just …” I composed myself a bit. “I’m not sure what I saw.” I shook my head, trying to dismiss her concern, trying to escape the sharp look in her eyes. “Just forget it.”

  They both continued to stare at me, Danny curious and Taylor … well, there was something strange—something hungry—about Taylor’s expression.

  “So what have you figured out?” I asked, trying to redirect the conversation. “After one, no, two months on the job, what have your experts deduced?”

  Danny shrugged. “Nothing much. The doctors and scientists say there’s some type of chemical imbalance in the population here. Neurotransmitters. In the brain. They don’t know what’s causing it. They’ve been giving antidepressants to anybody who wants them, to boost serotonin and dopamine levels. It seems to help. Some.”

  “Help with what?”

  “With everything.” He nodded toward the list on the board: visitors, disappearances, sounds, creatures, mental, and miscellaneous.

  “But it isn’t all mental, is it? There’s genuine physical phenomenon here.” I gestured toward his computer screen, where the mayor’s video file—09–07-pressconf.mpeg—remained highlighted. “Are you saying that a liberal dose of Prozac would have stopped the mayor from disappearing? That something physical—and impossible—was caused by errant brain chemicals?”

  “All we know is that people on the drugs are involved in fewer unexplained incidents. The correlation is there, small but statistically significant. And believe me, that’s killing our scientists. It’s something they just don’t want to hear.” Danny double clicked his mouse and restarted the press conference video. “So yeah, maybe if the mayor had been on Prozac, it would have been different. Or maybe it wasn’t the mayor. Maybe if everyone else in the room had been on Prozac …”

  Danny trailed off. On his screen, the mayor once again popped out of existence.

  “At least it doesn’t follow you out,” he said, his voice hushed, suddenly sedate. “Once you’re outside the perimeter, the neurotransmitter levels even back out. The weirdness stops. Things return to normal.”

  “It just doesn’t make any sense,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “Yeah,” Danny agreed. “Welcome to Spokane.”

  “We’ve got to go,” Taylor said. She gestured toward the door with a little sideways motion of her head. “The captain should be back any time now.”

  Danny got up from his seat and gave Taylor a kiss on the cheek. “Day after tomorrow?” he asked.

  Taylor smiled. At his touch, all the gloom and concern dropped away from her face. “It’s a date.”

  “They’re trying the hospital again tomorrow morning. They’ve got grappling hooks this time. Just like Batman.” Danny turned and gave me another appraising look. He clasped me by the shoulder and shook my hand, once again flashing that perfect smile. “You might want to check it out, Dean. Probably some good photos in it for you.”

  I nodded.

  Taylor led me back through the building—down the stairwell and across the lobby. She exchanged good-byes with the guards at the door and headed east on Sprague, back into the web of downtown buildings. We both stayed silent for a couple of minutes, walking at a comfortable pace.

  Finally, Taylor broke the silence. “Danny’s commanding officer—the captain—would shit a brick if he knew about our little arrangement. He’s got an issue with civilians in the city. Wants to crack down and force us all ou
t. He certainly wouldn’t like to see us walking the halls of military headquarters. That said, he’s not above breaking rules if it suits him. He’s got some type of deal with Mama Cass—lets her food shipments get through in exchange for a free lunch every day.” She raised her wristwatch. “Noon to one. Predictable as clockwork.”

  “Are you and Danny an item?” The question just bubbled out, a flash of fire from deep in my gut. A surprised look appeared on Taylor’s face, and I felt an overwhelming need to fill the ensuing silence. “It’s none of my business, I’m sure. It’s just … you seemed really happy together. I was just wondering.”

  Suddenly, a loud gale of laughter wracked Taylor’s body, the force bending her nearly double. “For a photographer, you’re not very observant,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I’m not his type. Really. The way he was looking at you … I think you’re more to his taste.”

  “What?” Then, after a moment: “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” Taylor once again started down Sprague. After a couple of steps, she cast a glance back over her shoulder. The laughter was still there, lingering in the corners of her smile. “He’s a good guy, a good friend. If you’re looking for a date, you could really do a lot worse.”

  I blushed, feeling stupid, then hurried to catch up.

  When we got back to the house, Amanda and Mac were in the kitchen making grilled cheese sandwiches. Amanda was tending to the Coleman stove while Mac leaned in over her shoulder. His arms were wrapped around her waist, and she was laughing, squirming in his grasp as he nuzzled at her neck, rasping his whiskers against her pale flesh. As soon as she saw me enter, a look crossed over her face: a momentary darkness, like a cloud across the sun.

  Those animals. Those dogs. Those things. After last night, it was something we shared. A bond.

  “Hungry?” she asked, momentarily breaking free from Mac’s grip. She gave his hands a playful little slap.

  “God, yes,” I groaned. The smell of bread frying in butter and the sharp tang of cheese had already started my mouth watering. I was running on empty. I’d slept through breakfast, and Taylor’s soldier friends had stolen my PowerBar.

  “And Taylor?” Amanda asked. “How about you?”

  Taylor shook her head. “I had a big breakfast,” she said, brushing past me and sitting down next to Charlie.

  As far as I could tell, Charlie hadn’t moved a muscle in our absence. He was still sitting at the kitchen table, still perched in front of his computer. The only thing that had changed was the addition of a half-finished sandwich resting at his elbow. Taylor handed him the USB drive, and he grunted a distracted thanks.

  “I was thinking I could show Dean the park,” Amanda said. “Maybe later today.” She slid a sandwich from the skillet to an empty plate, then walked it over to the table. I took a seat next to Taylor.

  As she handed me the plate, Amanda gave me a slight nod, and for a brief moment, her face became pinched, her eyes suddenly imploring. It was a fleeting expression, and when she straightened back up, the look was gone, hidden beneath a smile. “You’d like the park,” she continued. “People see things there … animals, sometimes. You might get some good photographs.”

  I nodded, getting her message loud and clear. When I glanced back over to the stove, I found Mac watching me with a confused look on his face. He’d seen something between the two of us, no doubt the wrong thing.

  I started to say something—I don’t remember what: a question for Taylor, maybe, about Danny and the military—but a loud bang shocked me out of my thoughts. I turned and found Charlie standing bolt upright in front of his computer, his chair overturned on the floor. He stood like that for a long moment, a stricken look on his face. Then he slammed his laptop shut and darted out of the room.

  He fled the house, leaving the front door standing open behind him.

  I glanced over at Taylor, but she just shook her head, her eyes wide.

  After a moment of paralyzed silence, Mac started to move. He took several steps toward the front door, going after Charlie, then pulled to an abrupt stop. He took a step forward, then a step back. It was like some halting, tentative dance, a ballet of confusion and adrenaline. Amanda, meanwhile, stayed on her side of the room, fiddling with the dials on the Coleman stove.

  “What …?” Mac finally implored, turning toward Taylor. “What just happened?”

  Taylor stood up and moved over to Charlie’s computer. She opened the lid and pressed the space bar a couple of times, waking it from slumber. After a few seconds, the hard drive spun into motion and the screen flickered back on.

  I recognized Charlie’s email program. There was an incoming message open in the main window. Charlie’s address—cd01@gmail.com—was listed in the “to” field, and the subject line had been left blank. The sender was listed as admin@spokane.wal.net.

  There was no text in the body of the message, just a single picture. File name: sherman_today.jpg.

  The picture showed a woman standing on the corner of an abandoned city block. She was a black woman, at least forty years old, maybe forty-five. She had straight shoulder-length hair. Her body was turned away from the camera, but she was glancing back over her shoulder. It was a candid shot, and she looked distracted, worried. The street was shrouded in mist, disappearing into white oblivion a half block up. It looked like early morning, just before sunrise.

  There was a street sign on the corner. The pole was bent at a severe angle—at least thirty degrees off vertical—but it was still readable, its green reflective surface practically glowing in the early-morning haze. It was the brightest color in the whole frame: SHERMAN ST.

  Taylor reached out and touched the computer screen, gently tracing the length of the woman’s body. She glanced up. Her eyes were wide, darting from my face over to Amanda and Mac.

  “It’s Charlie’s mother,” she said. “She’s here. Downtown.”

  Photograph. October 18, 01:50 P.M. Between the walls:

  It is a claustrophobic space. Very little light.

  The photograph is framed in the vertical—walls to the left and right, the camera pointed straight down. The space between the walls is no more than a foot wide. There is a source of light down below—a dim line of electric blue, extending from the top of the frame all the way to the bottom. A ruler-straight line of color, down where the walls end.

  A trickle of daylight illuminates the foreground; we can see bare wood studs and line after line of joists proceeding into the darkness. There are holes punched through these two imposing stretches of wall—splintered dents, like violent, gaping wounds. But they are distant, and they let in only tiny fingers of gray.

  The wood in the foreground is damp, glistening as if coated with a sheen of ice.

  There is a bulge in the left-hand wall, about five feet away—a dark half-moon with a blurry fuzz around its edge. It is off center, perched in the lower part of the frame. Slightly out of focus. After a moment of study, you can just make out pale flesh in the dim light, then a wide-open, terrified eye.

  Down there, lodged in the wall, is half a face. Half a human face—sexless—ringed in a nimbus of short, dark hair. It is angled inward, toward the wall, and its open mouth is bisected just to the left of the canine tooth, sheared away where flesh meets wood.

  The wide-open eye is not blurred. Not clouded. Not insensate.

  The eye is clear. And damp. And terrified.

  We found the street sign on the corner of Second Avenue and Sherman Street. It was twisted like a bendy straw, just as we’d seen in Charlie’s photo.

  The corner was deserted. No Charlie. No mother.

  “It wasn’t like that before,” Taylor said, nodding toward the sign. “I walk this street three times a week, and I don’t remember seeing it bent like that. It must have happened in the last couple of days.”

  Amanda and Mac both nodded. Mac gave a single strong nod, while Amanda’s head just kept bouncing up and down, like a weight on a spring.

  I had my bac
kpack slung over my shoulder—I’d grabbed it as we stormed out of the house—and on a whim, I took out my camera and tried to re-create the photo of Charlie’s mother. I found the correct angle about twenty feet up Second Avenue, then turned back toward the sign and raised the viewfinder to my eye. This is where the photographer had stood. I tried to remember the particulars of the shot. The light was completely different now, with sunshine and shadows instead of early-morning mist.

  My viewfinder showed Amanda, Mac, and Taylor clustered around the sign, surveying the surrounding buildings. I don’t know if it was a conscious decision on their part, but they’d left a wide gap where Charlie’s mother had been.

  Lined up, left to right: Amanda and Mac, the sign, a large space, and then Taylor.

  I could combine the photos, I thought, snapping the shot. At first it was just an idle bit of fancy, but the image that rose to mind was strangely affecting. I glanced down at the LCD screen and studied the photograph I’d just taken. I could see it now. The combined picture would have Amanda, Mac, Charlie’s mother, and Taylor, all lined up in a row. Amanda, Mac, and Taylor would look confused and just a little bit bored—on the camera’s screen, Taylor had her arms crossed in front of her chest and an impatient look on her face—but Charlie’s mother … she would be wreathed in a halo of mist, glancing back over her shoulder with that scared look on her face.

  It would be an interesting shot. A hole punched through the world. A hole punched through time.

  “Charlie!” Taylor called. I looked up from the camera and found her turning a full circle in the middle of the street, her hands cupped around her mouth. “Charlie!”

  I joined the others at the sign, and we all started craning our heads, studying the surrounding buildings. After about a minute, I noticed Charlie half a block away, standing motionless in a doorway on Second Avenue. He wasn’t moving to join us. He wasn’t even looking our way. His head was down, tilted against the door frame, and the way he looked—the slump to his shoulders—made me think that the frame was the only thing keeping him on his feet.