by Jim Heskett
“Probably because whoever was in here last doesn’t have the keys. You worry too much.”
Barry twisted the knob and started to open the door, and time slowed like images flipping in a slide show. As the door opened, Quentin heard a creaking, like tension on a barbed-wire fence. The twanging creak grew higher pitched as Barry pushed the door open.
Quentin threw his shoulder against Barry just before a blast erupted from the room. The sound was so loud that Quentin’s ears pulsed and his head throbbed in massive waves.
When he opened his eyes, he was on top of Barry on the floor, but still holding the lantern above them.
“What the hell was that?” Barry said.
Quentin stood up, checking himself and Barry for injuries. Didn’t find any. He held the lantern against the opposite wall, and now there were a couple dozen little holes peppering the door and surrounding wall.
“Shotgun,” Quentin said.
Barry stood up, checking himself. “Sweet mother of God. You saved my ass there. I sure as shit didn’t see that coming.”
Barry walked back toward the open door.
“Wait,” Quentin said.
“What?”
“You’re going to walk in there, after that?”
Barry pointed at his head. “Think about it. The switched signs, the shotgun booby trap. Whatever is in that room has got to be better than gold.”
Barry held out his hand for the lantern, but Quentin didn’t give it up. Barry shrugged and walked through the booby trap door. The room beyond it was small, maybe ten by ten, with a desk and a chair and a set of file cabinets. The shotgun hovered above the desk, anchored by a vice. A wire ran from the trigger, around a ceiling fan, and to the doorknob.
“This is some spy movie shit right here,” Barry said as he flicked the wire.
Quentin set the lantern in the middle of the room and stepped to a cork board hanging opposite the file cabinets. Thumbtacks held a series of aging printouts. Sexual harassment procedure, Employee Assistance Program, and a few others too yellowed and frayed to be readable. The people who wrote these printouts and the people who read them were probably dead. The words hanging on the wall were as meaningless as all the rest of it. No smoking. Pedestrian crossing only. Do not enter. No texting and driving.
“When did you work at Whole Foods?” Quentin said.
Barry pulled open the drawers of the desk one by one. “I don’t know, four or five years before they shot the president?”
In the six weeks Quentin and Barry had been wandering around Austin together, scavenging and surviving, Barry had never said anything about working at Whole Foods.
“I thought you told me you worked at an auto repair shop,” Quentin said.
Barry stopped what he was doing and let out a prolonged belch. “I did. Worked at a few places.” He moved on to the file cabinets, checking each of the drawers until he stopped at the bottom. “Interesting. This one’s locked.”
As Barry got out his tools to work on the lock, Quentin thought about the shotgun. How would someone have set up an armed shotgun trap? The tension on the line suggested it could have only been set with the door shut. But how would that person have then left the room once the trap was set?
Then Quentin noticed something he hadn’t seen before. A door in the wall opposite the desk. He took a step toward it as something clanged behind him and he heard the swish of the file cabinet drawer sliding out.
“Holy shit,” Barry said. “Quentin, you will not believe what’s in this file cabinet.”
***
Quentin couldn’t take his eyes off the door. A rustling, like an animal rooting through garbage, came from behind it. Something told him that it wasn’t an animal, though.
“Quentin, look at this.”
He turned his head. In one hand, Barry held a silver revolver. In the other, a brick of white wrapped in cellophane.
“Is that coke?”
Barry twisted the brick in his hands. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Barry set the coke down and opened the revolver’s cylinder. “Holy shit, it’s loaded.”
Quentin turned back to the door as he listened to Barry sifting through the drawer.
“There’s got to be pounds of coke in here. Plus boxes of bullets, too. We found the mother-load.”
Quentin stepped toward the door, his heart rate ratcheting up exponentially with each movement of his foot. He reached out and put one hand on the doorknob while he grasped the sheath of the hunting knife with the other.
“What are you doing?” Barry said.
Quentin ignored him and twisted the doorknob. What he found on the other side sent a chill down his spine and goosebumps across his flesh.
There was a pile of garbage in the tiny closet, as he suspected, but no animal. Instead, there was a man dressed in filthy rags. He was emaciated to the point that his skin looked like it might slough off his face. Cheeks sunken. Smelled of piss and shit. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.
The thin man lay on a pile of junk, his body twisted. His chest rose and fell and his eyes were open, but he seemed barely alive. Didn’t raise his head when Quentin opened the door.
“Oh my God,” Quentin said as he slipped his knife back into its sheath. “Barry, come quick.”
Barry stood behind Quentin. Quentin heard a click, then looked down as Barry was raising the revolver and pointing it at the emaciated man.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Quentin said.
“This guy is obviously suffering. Look at him. He’s a sneeze away from rupturing an artery or something.”
The man in the closet now took notice. His eyes shifted to Barry, and his chest pumped harder. He was afraid. He opened his mouth, and a strain of air hissed out of his lips. He tried again, and this time sounded a word, which was close to Barry.
Quentin’s head pulsed. Something wasn’t right, and he knew it. Events of the last hour replayed in his head: how eager Barry was to explore this place, how he seemed to know there would be treasure back here in this hallway.
“Stop,” Quentin said. “What the hell is going on here, Barry? There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Barry didn’t lower the pistol and kept his eyes on the man in the closet. “Shotgun booby trap? That’s pretty clever. Bet you thought I’d walk in here and you could blow a hole right through my middle. Then you’d finally win, is that right?”
Barry eased to one knee and pointed the gun straight at the man, who looked like he was about to die of fright.
Quentin gulped. “You knew this would all be here. You knew about the coke and the gun and you knew about this guy, didn’t you? Who is this skinny bastard in the closet?”
Barry sucked his teeth for a couple seconds. “My old… treasure hunting partner. We had ourselves a disagreement about equal work for equal pay and went our separate ways. Stupid son of a bitch has been waiting weeks for me to come back, thinking he’d get the last word.”
“Why did you lie to me? All that about pretending you didn’t know the coke was here. Why did you do me like that?”
Barry, still crouching and eying the thin man, waved the gun around to gesticulate while he talked. “Because, Quentin, I barely know you. You’re not dumb, but you’re way too idealistic. I’ve seen your kind before, and people like you trust a little too much. Enough to get yourself killed. I mean, I was perfectly willing to split the coke with you, if you survived, because I was certainly expecting asshole here to have some kind of trap. But that shotgun thing threw me for a loop, that’s for sure. I figured enough time had gone by that he would have cleared out and I could get my stuff back. But this is good enough.”
Quentin felt his heart sink. He’d thought he knew Barry.
Barry stood up. “But now that I got my gun back, I guess it doesn’t really matter. I won’t need either of you anymore.” He turned back to the man on the floor and pulled the trigger.
The gunfire lit up the room and made Quentin’s ears r
umble worse than the shotgun blast.
A splat of blood had reached Barry’s eyes, and he bent over to wipe them.
Quentin lunged, knocking Barry to the floor. Now on top of him, he pinned Barry’s arms to the ground. Lifted the hand with the gun, then rammed the wrist repeatedly against the floor.
“You son of a bitch,” Quentin said. “You were my friend.” On the next slam, the pistol dropped from Barry’s hand and scattered away.
“Don’t take it personally,” Barry said, straining. He head-butted Quentin, which knocked him to the floor.
As Barry tried to scramble for the gun, Quentin whipped his hunting knife from its sheath, then stabbed Barry in the back. Barry screamed and flopped on the floor like a fish. Flailed his hands, trying to get at the knife to pull it out.
In a few seconds, he stopped thrashing, but he kept attempting to reach for the knife in his back. He looked at Quentin and opened his mouth, then his eyes went glassy and still.
Quentin felt his forehead for a bump. His temple throbbed, and he felt a knot beginning to form there. He got to his feet and looked at the man in the closet. Definitely dead.
Quentin walked to the gun and stuffed it into his back pocket. Then he went to the file cabinet and examined the contents. Boxes of ammunition and four or five of those bricks of cocaine.
He opened his backpack, took out the blender, then set it aside. He filled the free space in his bag with several boxes of ammo rounds, and a few of the bricks.
He put the blender in the drawer and shut the file cabinet.
Before he left the room, he crouched next to Barry. Removed the knife from his back, which made the body jiggle. “Friends don’t treat each other like this,” Quentin said. Then he wiped each side of his knife on Barry’s shirt and left the manager’s office, wondering if he could trade the coke for enough gas to get the hell out of Austin.
Party at the End
(BEFORE THE FALL)
If Zach Mettenberger had a dollar for every bar in New Jersey that had tossed him out, he’d have eleven dollars. The way the bouncer was looking at him tonight, he had a feeling he could round it up to an even dozen.
Secaucus was maybe the filthiest of all the Jersey cities. And a rinky dink bar like Coochie’s had no business hassling him about his ID on a night like this. Couldn’t a man go out and enjoy himself three days before the end of the world?
When the bouncer turned his head to check the ID of a couple of chicks in front of him, Zach slipped past, head down and shoulders turned in. The thick-necked, tight t-shirt-wearing bruiser probably wouldn’t be fooled for long, though.
Zach hid behind a coat rack as the bouncer searched for him. How could he drink like this, hiding and unable to approach the bar? Maybe the bouncer would give up pretty soon. There had to be some kind of hope to hold on to, at least. Or maybe Zach would step to him, smack the big guy in the mouth. He had been working out a lot lately, after all.
Two uneventful minutes passed. People on their way in and out of the bathrooms tossed strange looks at him, but he kept his head down and his mouth shut.
A black blur filled his vision and a pair of hands grasped Zach by the jacket. He clutched at the coat rack, but the bouncer was too strong and pried him loose.
“Wait a second,” Zach yelped as the bouncer dragged him toward the door. A few people laughed, one guy threw a wadded-up piece of napkin. Such humiliation, in New Jersey, of all places.
They went through the door and the bouncer released him in the parking lot.
“Hey, come on, man, let me back in. I’m not going to cause any trouble.”
“I’ve seen your ID before, you little shit. It’s as fake as my ex’s tits.”
Zach snorted. “Well, I don’t want to be the one to give you relationship advice or anything, but–”
Zach felt a crack against his jaw a fraction of a second before he heard it. His head jerked one way and his body another, then he hit the ground. The bouncer stood over him, rubbing a clenched fist with his other hand.
“If I ever see you here again, I’m going to do a lot worse than that.”
Zach sat up on his elbows. “Do you realize how ridiculous you sound? You won’t see anybody ever again in a few days, you idiot.”
The bouncer flipped Zach the middle finger as he went back inside to his stool.
Zach’s jaw throbbed and seemed to have stuck in place. He rubbed it a few times until he got it working again. Man, that guy could pack a punch. Zach assumed it went with having biceps bigger than his own thighs.
He stood up and cast a glance around the parking lot to see who might be snickering at him. In a lot full of cars, there were only two people total. A man and a woman, not much older than Zach. They were sitting on the hood of a Hyundai, smoking and smiling at him.
Zach clenched his fists, ready to tell these Jersey yokels off, when the man waved him over. The smile didn’t seem malicious, so Zach sauntered across the lot with his head held high.
“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” the man said. He looked maybe twenty-two, with jet black hair and a hint of eyeliner. He was wearing a black leather jacket with silver spikes on the shoulders. Like some kind of mix of tough guy and Ecstasy-dropping warehouse rave kid.
“No, it isn’t.”
The woman, about the same age and with a similar look, took a card from her purse and passed it to Zach. “If you want to have some fun, come to this address Friday night. This is the kind of party no one gets turned away from.” Then, she grinned at the man. “He’s kinda cute, don’t you think?”
The man nodded, and Zach took a step back. “Whoa,” Zach said, “I’m not into any of that swinger freaky stuff. If it’s that kind of party, you can count me out.”
The two ravers laughed, and the woman lit up a fresh cigarette. “It’s whatever kind of party you want it to be. There’ll be plenty of girls there, drinks, any other party favors you want. Nobody will say no to anything. That’s a promise. It’s the last big blowout, so why don’t you come along and have some fun?”
“I dunno. Nobody will say no to anything?”
“That bouncer who tossed you, he won’t be there. It’s not a party for guys like that. It’s an open and free place where you can do whatever you want and no one will get in your way.” He took out his car keys. “We’re going to take off, but I hope we see you there.”
They got in the car and left Zach alone in the Coochie’s parking lot. He turned back to the light of the bar and held up the card.
PARTY AT THE END OF THE WORLD
14 Amberg Lane
Redbank, NJ
Friday @ 8
Blessed are the destroyers of false hope.
***
Zach went back to his aunt’s house in Queens to sleep on the couch that night. He slept well, with one exception when someone broke into a neighbor’s house just before daylight. He heard the glass breaking, but no screaming after, so he figured the neighbors must have left already.
In the morning, he came downstairs to find his aunt passed out with her head on the kitchen table. Two empty bottles of gin on the table, a handful of sleeping pills spread out between them. His pulse skyrocketed when he saw the pills, so he rushed across the room.
He shook her. She moaned and swatted a hand at him.
He breathed a sigh of relief, but then he figured she’d probably meant to take all the pills and had been too drunk to follow through. She had a right to go out the way she wanted, but damned if he didn’t want to stop her. Not that he had any good reason to do so.
Nothing to do but leave her be, and let her choose her own fate.
He went out after breakfast to see a friend headed for the Catskills that evening, convinced he’d survive at a higher elevation. Nobody could change his mind. Zach had to hoof it since the trains had stopped running, and by the time the sun started to set, he felt exhausted.
But he kept taking the card out of his pocket all day long, reading it over. The idea of a no-holds-
barred last shindig before the meteor sounded hard to refuse. Besides, the only other option was to sneak into more bars or hang out at home with his doomsday suicidal aunt.
But the last line on the card troubled him: Blessed are the destroyers of false hope. What kind of weird druggie hippie shit was that, anyway? As far as he knew, nobody had any hope of anything left. Best to get laid and shit-faced and sleep it off until the world collided with a ball of fire.
***
Red Bank sat on the water, a wealthy Jersey town full of old-money mobsters who did business in pizzerias with dim lighting. Zach stood at the gate of the house on Amberg Lane. Big wrought-iron gate and a long driveway led to a mansion on a hill. A collection of concrete pointy spires made up the rooftop, like a mix between castle and prison.
He pushed open the gate and began the ascent up the cobblestone driveway. His heart pounded, and he didn’t know why. Excitement, maybe, but it felt a lot like anxiety.
Stone gargoyles mirrored each side of the front porch. He stopped in front of the heavy front door and gave the brass knocker a couple raps. A loud creak reverberated off the gargoyles as the door opened and a pale-skinned man with a shiny bald head appeared.
“Can I help you?”
Zach puffed out his chest. “I heard there was a party here.”
The man looked Zach up and down. “You seem a little young to me. How did you hear about us?”
“Couple of ravers in Secaucus, out front of Coochie’s bar. They gave me this,” Zach said as he passed the man the card.
The man ran his thumb over the card. “Alright then, come in.”
The door creaked open further and Zach stepped inside to a dark entryway room with a massive glass chandelier hanging above his head. The ceilings were decorated with murals, the walls painted a deep brown. Had to have been the fanciest house Zach had ever seen in his life, like something from the movies.
The only other features in the room were a stairway leading up, a pair of doors on either side, and a desk in the middle. Behind the desk sat a middle-aged woman, leaning back in a chair with her feet up on the desk. She was holding a tablet, and the reflection of the screen lit up her face.
