Man in the Empty Suit

by Sean Ferrell

  The teens on the ladder beneath us were armed. Each carried the pistol, my pistol, the one the Inventor had used to hit me, and they all aimed theirs up. A hand from the window—older, I thought—grabbed the nearest and shook him. Both teens stood back and gazed up at us. The scaffold moaned and began to shift again, and I knew we had only moments of climbing before it freed itself from the building.

  “One more floor,” I called up to Lily. She didn’t respond. Hazarding another look below, I saw teens crowding the third-floor platform, fearful of climbing but unaware that they were in danger of collapsing it under their growing weight. The eldest held the others back, as if afraid he might be responsible for their loss. I realized that in fact he was, as was I. I took my own pistol from my pocket and lowered it, aimed at the street far below them, far away from any of them, and fired a single shot. It had the desired effect. The children—for they were just children—fell over one another to get to the window. I wondered for a second after the Body—what might they think. I knew they’d treat him with respect, but only out of fear. He would seem ancient to them and his connection to them tangential at best. I thought of their crowded rooms, their confused plans, the collisions of memories conflicting with new events. Each of them was alone. Each of them fought to be heard in a chorus. I pictured them clogging the doorway, filling the hall, and looking at one another, panic on their faces, worry in their hearts about what a dead body meant to them. How could they return home to a normal life after this? Untethered from one another because they’d been brought here, no longer even tethered to their own days and lives, no longer able to deal with the realities of their childhood after seeing what they’d seen here. They would go back to being children, planted in their normal routines, but they would know of this place and this time, know of the Body, of me, of Lily, and it would taint them and their days. Each of them would think it right to return here again and again, to continue to change events, to muddy their life and memories. A cold realization closed around my heart. I was no different.

  The scaffold jolted, and another bolt broke. A red dust speckled down on us. Lily coughed. She looked at me, her eyes dark. “It’s letting go.”

  “Get to a window,” I said.

  She climbed the steps to the next platform, and I followed. The scaffold groaned. Outside a window black with old newsprint, mildewed to unreadable, we held hands, and I removed the screwdriver from my pocket. For a moment I hesitated. In the window’s imperfect reflection, I couldn’t see how bad I felt. I saw only a man and woman, dressed for a party, holding hands. In the reflection my suit still inspired awe. What if we didn’t need to face any of the troubles I foresaw? The Body might be avoided if I simply hid, ran away, and never returned, ever, to the hotel. My youth might be wasted poring over every room of the hotel looking for me, but that could last only so long. An army of me would eventually limp home in retreat. Lily and I could go anywhere; we had limitless options.

  I thought all this in the time I studied a blessed reflection of myself and Lily, and then the scaffold began to separate from the building and I brought the screwdriver into the glass, pierced it with a nearly perfect wound.

  “Kick it in.” Lily cried.

  I raised a foot and attacked the window. The scaffold’s complaints sounded human. The ancient metal beneath us sagged, abandoned its rigid shape. It twisted like rope. We gripped the railings to stay upright as the floor curved like a lolling tongue. Finally the glass gave, and I threw Lily into the opening just as the scaffold let go. I fell forward to grab the window edge. Glass bit into my arm, and a bar of metal caught me across the back as it fell to the ground below. I screamed, or tried, and held on, Lily gripping my arm. Beneath me the shriek rising from the collapsing scaffold ended, and we were washed in silence. Both of us labored at hard, uneven breaths.

  “Help me up,” I said.

  We pulled me into the room.

  THIS ROOM WAS just as the others—lousy with dust and plaster grit. Lily and I lay for a minute on broken glass. Too tired to move, I watched the rise and fall of her chest. As her breath slowed, so did mine, and we climbed to our feet, picked glass from our skin and clothes.

  “They’ll know where we are,” she said.

  We left the room, headed away from the stairwell toward the end of the hotel. A noise behind us made me turn, certain it was Youngsters already bursting from the stairs. There was nothing there, some dust settling from the ceiling, the building exhaling.

  Lily led me through the halls. It occurred to me that I should ask what she knew of the hotel, what it was that made her run so assuredly. Just then I saw another batch of graffiti: Dumb waiters tell no tales →→. The arrows pointed around a corner to what looked like a dead end, a cluster of three doors.

  “Hurry,” Lily said.

  I glanced behind us again. We’d made a number of turns, and I couldn’t remember how to get back. “What are we doing here?”

  A noise skidded up the hallway after us. It was a little boy’s voice, calling that he’d heard something. At that moment, as an adult, I understood the boy’s panic. I reached for Lily.

  “They’re coming,” I said.

  She tugged at the rusted latch of the small half door mounted on the wall beside us—a dumbwaiter. “Give me your screwdriver.”

  I handed it to her, and she worked at the latch until at last it snapped open. The dumbwaiter car was not there, but the ropes that held it were. She wrapped my hand around them. “Climb down to three.”

  “How will I know what floor I’m on?”

  She hesitated. “You’re right. Go to the bottom. We’ll start from the ground floor.”

  I took the rope in numb fingers and towed myself through the small doorway. It was like crawling into a vertical coffin, and I worried that if the rope snapped, I would twist in the cramped shaft and tie myself into a knot of flesh and bone. I held the ropes tight and tried to lower myself down. When I’d gone a few feet, Lily climbed in after me and drew the door closed, dipping us into darkness.

  The shaft was cold and wet. Mildew clouded the air, fighting with the dark for dominance, and I found myself more than willing to slide down great lengths of the rope in near free fall. Water dripped on my face. Lily descended as quickly as I did, catching my head and hands with her heels. At last I landed hard on something solid and hollow.

  There was no door in the shaft there. I whispered up to Lily, “I think we’re on the dumbwaiter.”

  “Break it.”

  I began to stomp on the dumbwaiter and prayed that the sound would not call out to the Youngsters. The old wood splintered with a wet crack, and I fell into the small car. I kicked at the door and then kicked the pieces of the dumbwaiter out onto the dark kitchen floor. I followed them out, snagging myself on the splintered edges of the car, and Lily emerged after me. Dirt and grime streaked up her legs and arms. I knew I was in a similar condition.

  “We’re going to have to get to that room.” I heard exhaustion in my voice. My speech slurred even though the alcohol had burned off hours earlier, and my mouth was dry, my tongue clicking against my teeth and lips.

  The kitchen had been scrubbed clean whenever the hotel had been vacated. There was no grease, no smoke stains on the ceiling. All the cupboards were closed tight. Other than a thin layer of dust, it was immaculate. I opened a cupboard and found nothing, not even a roach.

  Lily tried the faucet. It produced a rivet-gun staccato, but no water came from it. I wouldn’t have drunk the water regardless. “I need something to drink,” she said.

  “Let’s see if we can get to the bar.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I lied. “I know. But there’s water there, and ice.” Possibly, I thought. I’d spent much of my first year preparing for this event, traveling back and forth with trays of food, coolers of ice, cases of alcohol and bottled water. I’d estimated how much I would eat and drink, and then I’d doubled that amount and spent weeks bringing it all to this mornin
g, the morning of the party. I’d done everything myself; not a single Elder had ever appeared to help—but why would one? I already knew that the Inventor had prepared for the party alone, set up the bar, the food tables, napkins, utensils laid out just so. Everyone else showed up later and ate and drank it all, then pissed and shit it away. By this time, this late in the evening, I doubted there was any water left, let alone ice. But she didn’t appear to know that.

  We made our way down a hall to the kitchen’s ballroom entrance—double-hinged doors with round windows. The dark ballroom was lit only by a movie playing on the wall. In the light from the projection, I could see two dozen audience members slouching in chairs. The room behind them, where the Youngsters had held their war dance, was empty. Was I really so ignorant as a youth that I wouldn’t leave even one lookout? Apparently.

  I leaned against the door, and it moaned open. Lily held back a moment, and I took her hand and gave it a reassuring tug. We stepped into the ballroom. I approached the scattered spectators, who sat in little clusters of two or three. Decades of me, tired and sleeping. I recalled having watched every film projected until the sun rose, but now on the wall played a film I’d never seen. The swinging movie image showed a stairwell full of rubble, the shadow of the cameraman as he staggered toward a window and nearly fell out to the city street below. The image captured me, and I had begun to focus on it when a voice called from behind me.

  “You’ll want to get out of here.”

  I turned to face Seventy. He held the projector’s remote and paused the film. No one else stirred.

  I indicated the others. “Won’t they mind?”

  He shook his head. “They’re asleep. Nothing on their minds to keep them awake. Unlike me. What’s happened?”

  I told him of the invasion of the Body’s room and our flight.

  He rubbed at his chin. “I didn’t realize they were that dangerous. They told us not to leave here or they’d kill us. We don’t believe them, but we’re old and tired enough to listen.” He shrugged at those sleeping around us. “It’s late for us to be up.”

  “You’re up.” It sounded like an accusation.

  “I had to speak with you.” His mouth wrinkled into a smile. “Lucky me. What are you doing back here?”

  “There’s a tape.”

  Lily’s heels scraped against the floor behind me. “What is so important about this damned tape?”

  Seventy straightened himself against his cane. He glowed in her presence. I’m sure she noticed it, too. I regarded him with a mix of pity and understanding. He must realize how he looked, but he was fearless in his admiration of her. I respected that.

  “I don’t know what is on the tape,” I said. “But it will be important enough for me to leave behind so that I’d find it.”

  Lily nodded as if she understood. I marveled again at her calm in the face of my chronology.

  Seventy walked back to his chair but didn’t sit down. “You should try to find that tape as soon as possible. But we need a diversion. I have an idea.” He drew the remote from his pocket and turned off the projector. The room fell into almost complete darkness. Only one of the chandeliers was partially lit, and as I watched, one bulb burst, bouncing orange sparks that faded to red, then black. Phosphene trails slid across in my vision as I heard someone approach.

  Seventy said, “You need to do us a favor.”

  Screwdriver joined us, eyes on Lily. “What is it?”

  “The Youngsters are hunting him and more dangerous than we thought. Can you provide a distraction?”

  “I can.” Screwdriver looked at me with a neutral gaze. “Give me your jacket.”

  I hesitated. Lily already knew about the gun, but neither Seventy nor Screwdriver had seen it. I reached into my pocket and clamped a hand around it.

  Seventy’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I withdrew my hand and the gun with it. Screwdriver’s eyes flared. He struck at my shoulder, and I lowered the gun and took a step back.

  “What the hell is he doing with that?” Several of the sleeping figures stirred.

  Seventy looked down at the gun as if it were covered in blood. I waited for a withering comment. Instead Seventy said, “No. He’s right to carry it. Obviously if the Youngsters are armed, he should be, too. You must have gotten this from one of them?” His eyes locked onto mine. I felt no need to answer but did anyway, with the lie he’d given me.

  “Yes. One of them dropped it.” Behind me I heard Lily’s silence and wondered why she helped me carry the lie.

  Screwdriver looked tired. “I still don’t trust him.”

  Despite my lies I was offended. “At what point does my fuse get so short?”

  Seventy said, “It was a slow burn.” He laughed and gave Screwdriver a reassuring nod. To me he said, “We don’t have time for this. Give him your jacket.”

  I removed my jacket and stood holding the gun and the extra timepiece I’d found near the penthouse. As Seventy and Screwdriver watched me repocket these items, I tried to see if they shared a scar where I’d been struck. Seventy’s old skin was impossible to read. Screwdriver was poorly lit, but I thought I could see a hint of a faded line.

  With my jacket on, even with different pants and the close-cropped hair, Screwdriver had effectively become me. We looked at each other a moment, his eyes bouncing from me to Lily and back. His hands ran through the pockets, searching for things that weren’t there, things I couldn’t be sure he remembered, as we were no longer tethered. “What floor do you need to get to?”

  “Four,” I answered.

  “I’ll try to keep them on five and six, then.”

  I nodded, and he turned without another word. Seventy watched him leave. “Don’t lose that.” He pointed at the extra timepiece in my hand.

  “I won’t.”

  He sat down on his chair. “Go find that tape.”

  Beyond the ballroom doors, the stairs sounded with Screwdriver’s footsteps. I crossed the room to the bar and reached over for a bottle.

  “You won’t need that,” Seventy called. “You don’t have time for a drink.”

  I ignored him. When I turned around, the glow of the projector had returned. Frozen on the wall was a decrepit stairway, white paint peeling, metal handrail rusted. A shadow like that of a woman’s arm hung on the wall. Beneath the rectangle of the image, caught in its reflection, was the group of men I would become, maybe. Sleeping through the commotion, the panicked chase upstairs, the frantic search for answers about their own dead Body. In the light of the projector, hair of differing lengths and shades of gray—grayer here, whiter there—fluttered in competing drafts. Was I really that indifferent to my own suffering? I wondered. I thought of the boy and how I had failed to comfort him in any meaningful way.

  I gripped the bottle of whiskey tight at its neck and marched past the sleeping men. “Where are Yellow and the Drunk?”

  Seventy held the remote ready. “Off somewhere tending to their wounds, I’m sure.” He was waiting for me to leave before running the video. Still a private man, I thought of myself, even when only being entertained.

  “What wounds does Yellow have?”

  Seventy smiled. “Only those you haven’t healed yet.”

  Still angry, I took Lily’s hand, and we left the room. As the door shut, I heard the old man resume his movies.

  WHEN WE REACHED the fourth floor, I had little recollection of where we had been held hostage. Lily was likewise unsure. Last time we’d come to this floor, I’d been unconscious and she’d been terrified and bound. I closed my eyes and conjured a dizzy picture of that room, the boys circled around us. In my memory there were streetlights outside the window.

  “It has to be on the side of the building facing the street,” I said. We turned right, stepping lightly around rubble and ceiling plaster. This floor was in worse repair than others. Water damage from leaking pipes had caused a great collapse. Musky odors hung in the air, and mold grew along the
walls. I walked with one hand outstretched, afraid of what I couldn’t see, despite the predawn sunlight trickling through several doorways. Room after room revealed disheveled furnishings and ripped window covers.

  “They’ve been here,” Lily said.

  “Who?”

  “The children. They’ve been looking for us. Torn every room apart to find us.”

  She was right. I marveled at my own pursuit. These Youngsters were more determined than I remembered ever having been. The fanaticism of one, one old enough to feel the danger of being untethered, of having removed his connection to the rest, was enough to drive them all.

  We passed room after room, glanced in at floors covered with glass and plaster, paper and wood. Nothing remained to remind one of a hotel other than numbers on the doors. Above us thundered footsteps, raised voices shouting. Screwdriver was one floor up, and the chase was on.

  “We have to hurry,” I told Lily. “If they catch him, it will take them just a few seconds to realize they have the wrong man.” We moved to the next room. It was there, among pieces of glass, that Lily found the tape. Her hand shook as she handed it to me.

  I watched her try to hide her eyes. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Let’s go.” She left the room, and I followed.

  Back through the wet halls we rushed. We’d almost reached the main stairs when voices called from behind us. Youngsters had spotted us. They squealed, as if it were a game, squealed and screamed and grinned like hungry dogs.

  I grabbed Lily’s hand, and we ran.

  Tripping down the stairs, we reached the third floor and rushed along a hallway. They’d expect me to try to get to the ground floor, I thought, not hide on the third. We ran past the Body’s room, which now stood open, the sheet on the floor, the Body abandoned and uncared for on the table. At the smaller staircase at the end of the hallway, I heard noises below us, calls of children, high on panic and power. Where was Screwdriver? I thought. Why hadn’t he been able to keep them away longer?