Got to Kill Them All & Other Stories

by Dennis Etchison

  The night time was the right time.

  Holloway tightened the belt around his waist, locked the hall door behind him, went back to the office and slipped a CD into his Discman. It was the session with Miles, Herbie and Chick from '68, the one that taught people how to listen. He slipped the headphones over his ears and set the level from the opening bars of Shh. Then he propped his feet up on the desk, closed his eyes and reached for the paper cup.

  It was empty.

  I knew that, he thought.

  He opened his eyes, put his feet down and dropped the cup into the wastebasket.

  Got to do everything around here myself.

  On the other side of the glass, the rec room glared like a movie set after the cast has gone home. The cleaning man had stacked the chairs on top of the tables so there was nothing that did not show. Every door in the ward beyond was closed tight all the way to the end.

  He hit Pause, took off the headphones and felt around for some change in the pockets of the white trousers. Nothing. Where was the wallet? In one of the staff lockers with the other clothes.

  Should've thought of that.

  He tried the top drawer of the desk. It was locked. He felt for the keys at his waist and leaned forward, as someone screamed.

  Holloway hit the switch on the intercom and heard only the crackle of white noise. The bare walls outside the office added an overlay of wind-tunneling, like waves in a sea cave. He left the circuit open to be sure the screaming had stopped. Now low, guttural sounds began to take shape in the roar as the last door at the end cracked open on darkness. Pale fingers and half a face appeared in the tall doorway, one eye staring at him along the gray-green wall.

  "Crystal? Well, come on out…"

  Two paper slippers and the wrinkled folds of a nightgown. A young woman of no more than eighteen or nineteen stood there. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail but it came loose as she tiptoed over the checkerboard floor and flew away from her face as she began to run. She lost a slipper and stumbled against a closed door, saw which one it was and hurried on in a zigzag pattern, afraid to step on the dark tiles. By the time she got to the glass her eyes were wide.

  "What are you doing here?" she said when he opened the door to the office.

  "I'm the night man."

  "No, you're not. Where's Mr. Pfeiffer?"

  "He never showed." Holloway jerked his head, motioning her inside. "Could you keep it down, Crystal? Folks are sleeping."

  "Not that one."

  He listened to the roar from across the rec room before he clicked the door shut.

  "Old Roy? Yeah, he got a rhythm going. Just like Tony Williams."

  "Who?"

  "You don't know 'bout Lifetime? Greatest fusion band ever, 'cept for Miles." He flipped through the CDs on the desk. "Want a taste?"

  "Just make him stop."

  "How about a pill?"

  "I took one. It didn't do jack shit." She squeezed her head between her hands. "He's driving me crazy!"

  Holloway chuckled. "Short trip."

  "I mean it, Charlie."

  "Hey, chill. Some folks snore, all right? How you gonna make it on the outs if you can't handle that?"

  "It's not just snoring."

  "What is it?"

  "He — says things while I'm sleeping."

  "How can you hear it, then?"

  "Can't you?"

  "You're not saving up your medication, are you? So you can OD?"

  "No."

  "All right, Crystal." He found the key to the cabinet. "This one's on the house. Thorazine, right?"

  She sat on the edge of the desk, shooting nervous glances through the glass while Holloway moved the little prescription bottles around on the shelf. "You'd know that, if you were the real night man."

  "I know plenty. Here." He remembered exactly which bottle it was. He rolled a pill into his palm and held it out. When she tried to snatch it away he closed his fingers. "What you gonna do for me?"

  She studied his face, saw something there she did not like, started to fasten the top button of her nightgown, then gave up and left it open.

  "Whatever."

  He smiled, nodding at another door in the wall next to the office. It led to the staff restrooms and the lounge. "Get me a coffee."

  "And you'll give me my pill?"

  "Would I lie?"

  "What if it doesn't work?"

  "Then we'll try something else."

  "Like what?"

  "Whatever it takes."

  "You better. Or I'll tell my doctor."

  "Kornfield? I like talkin' to him."

  "Give it to me."

  "Coffee, first." He held the pill between thumb and forefinger, a tiny shining globe, a world of quiet and deep sleep. "Right here, Crystal. It's got your name on it."

  "Okay."

  "Good girl."

  She started out of the office, then turned back.

  "I need money for the machine."

  "Just a minute."

  He picked out the key to the top drawer. The day man kept petty cash, he was sure. Where? He saw Bic pens and Wite Out for the charts, a letter opener, rubber bands and paper clips, a bondage-and-discipline magazine and a dogeared Stephen King paperback. The big drawers below were not locked. He pulled them out and found pads of blank forms and a brown paper bag with a rotting apple in it, but no coins.

  "Don't go away, now," Holloway told her.

  "Where can I go? You have the keys."

  "That's right. The man with the keys. That's me."

  He stepped out of the office, unlocked the hall door and walked a few feet to the supply closet. He had to stop and tighten the belt one more notch to keep the trousers up. He reached in without turning on the bulb and felt for another pair of trousers hanging from a hook inside, removed his wallet and came back to the office. He riffled through the billfold and snapped out a crisp dollar.

  "Here you go, sweets."

  "Cream and sugar?"

  "Black." He tossed her a second dollar. "And get yourself a hot chocolate. The eagle flies tonight."

  He left the hall door unlocked for her, then sat down, took one of the objects out of the drawer and placed it on the desk where she would see it, slipped the headphones over his ears and pressed Play.

  Shh had already segued into Peaceful, all Miles and Joe Zawinul with some tasty drum riffs from Tony Williams. Who was doing the vocal? He heard a broken baritone in the background, singing scat, so incoherent it sounded like a Baptist preacher talking in tongues. He saw that she had left the office door ajar and lifted the headphones away from one ear.

  The voice came from beyond the rec room, third door from the end of the ward. The old man sounded like he was gargling. Holloway could have sworn that the glass panes were vibrating.

  She came back with two new cups, holding them out so they would not spill on her nightgown. Now she had lost the other slipper. Her eyes were big and shiny.

  "Don't go in the hall," she said.

  "How come?"

  "It's not safe."

  He saw that her hand was wet and shaking. The cup was only half full. She had lost some of it on the way. He put his fingers over the steaming hot chocolate as he took both cups from her and set them on the desk.

  "Why not?"

  "The floor's soft."

  "Well, you didn't get stuck, now, did you?"

  "I had to stay on the white parts…"

  She put her hands over her face and cried, her body shaking and wracked with sobs. He didn't like to see that.

  "Sit down, Crystal."

  Her fingers closed into claws at her eyes. He took hold of her stiff shoulders and helped her into the chair. When he tried to get the headphones over her ears her hair got in the way.

  "How 'bout some music? Make you forget all about it."

  "You think I'm crazy."

  "Want to talk, then?"

  "You're not my shrink."

  "That's right, I'm just the night man. But you can talk and
I can listen."

  "Mr. Pfeiffer never listens to me."

  "Well, he's got some down time tonight. You lucked out."

  She finally took her hands away and let him see her face. It was red and blotchy and her eyes were still big and black and now they were leaking all over the front of her gown, wet spots growing darker on the fabric. She looked like a scared child. She spoke fast as if afraid someone would hear and make her stop before she got it out.

  "The black squares…"

  "What about 'em?"

  "They're melting."

  "How come?"

  "Something…underneath."

  He leaned in. "Mmm-hmm."

  "You don't believe me."

  "'Course I do."

  "Why do they do that?"

  "It's the sound."

  "It is?"

  "They call it Ultra-Low Frequency Modulation."

  "Who does?"

  "The cops. CIA. They got a machine that makes sound waves, right through the walls. It melts anything. Keeps you crazy, so you can't sleep."

  "I know!"

  He looked around as if the room might be bugged. "They have special agents, too. Plainclothes."

  "Even in here?" she whispered. "Do you think Roy…?"

  "What does he say?"

  "My name."

  "What else?"

  "I don't know."

  "You can trust me."

  "Things."

  "What things?"

  "I told you, I don't know! It's so loud…"

  "Sure is. Me, all I want is some peace and quiet, so I can play my music."

  "I knew you could hear it."

  "'Course I can."

  He held down the button on the intercom. The gargling snore from the ward rasped like amplified tires on gravel.

  "Old Roy. Somebody has to shut him up, before he does some damage. You know, noise can give you cancer. Gets inside your bones and makes 'em melt."

  "Is that really true?"

  He nodded solemnly.

  She dried her eyes with her sleeve. "I need a Kleenex."

  "You got it." He looked around for the tissues.

  "On top of the file cabinet," she told him.

  He gave her the whole box. "Now tell me what Roy says to you."

  The glass had stopped vibrating. Outside the office, the ward was still. She blew her nose.

  "I'm okay now."

  "Till he starts in again. Messing with your mind. It's not your fault, what he tells you to do."

  "That's just it — I don't know what he's telling me."

  "I do."

  "What?"

  "He wants to rest."

  "He does?"

  "Only he can't. The sound's in his bones, and it comes out through his mouth. You'd be doing him a favor."

  "How?"

  "If you gave him peace."

  She snapped to and shook her head sharply from side to side. "I'm not supposed to think about stuff like that."

  "Why not?"

  "Dr. Kornfield says I have a lot of work to do."

  "That's not what he told me."

  "When?"

  "Today. Said you're ready. Even wrote it in your chart."

  "Let me see."

  "Can't. You know the rules."

  "You're full of it, Charlie."

  Holloway drew out the top file drawer and removed a folder. He opened the folder and flipped through the pages under her picture. There was a case history, a clipping about her murder trial, a copy of the commitment papers and a record of medications.

  "Says so right here. You're ready for release." He held the page so she could not read it. "'Patient shows progress…symptoms in remission…recommend discharge to Braewood.'"

  "I'm so sure."

  "Did I ever lie to you, Crystal?"

  "Braewood's in Redondo Beach."

  "Mmm-hmm. Right on the ocean."

  "But it's private. For rich people."

  "They get money from the state now. Real nice. Boats, field trips. You could even get a job on the outs. One sweet deal."

  "What do I have to do?"

  "Nothing. You're entitled." He started to close the folder. "Wait. Just one thing."

  "No shit."

  He moved his eyes as though reading. "'If the patient remains free of audio-visual aphasia…' That's hallucinations."

  "Okay, okay." She wrinkled her brow, concentrating. "I won't tell him I hear it. Thanks, Charlie…"

  "You can't bullshit a doctor. He'll know."

  "Then how?"

  "Make it stop. So you can get your sleep. That way you'll be straight tomorrow, when Korny does his rounds."

  "I don't know how to stop it."

  "No?" He turned his back on her and took his time putting the folder away. "Sometimes you do what you have to do, Crystal. Seize the moment."

  "You said you'd make him stop."

  "Yeah, well, I can't do it myself. Restraints, cold tubs, all that, it takes authorization."

  "You could call a doctor."

  "This time of night? He'd be plenty pissed."

  "I thought you were my friend!"

  "I am, Crystal. But I can't do everything. Nobody can. You have to prove you can handle it, if you want to get out of here."

  He kept his back to her, watching her reflection in the glass behind the file cabinet, the way she fingered the objects on the desk. The chrome steel letter opener glinted in the overhead light. He closed the drawer. When he turned around the letter opener was gone.

  She covered something with a quick fold in the lap of her nightgown and pretended to be busy with the cup.

  "I better get back to my room," she said. "You can give me my pill now."

  "I already did."

  "No, you didn't."

  "That chocolate taste good?"

  "Yes." She gulped down the last of it.

  "Then you just had your pill."

  She blinked at him, confused.

  "See?" He opened his hand and showed her that the pill was gone. "I put it in your cup, when I set it down. Didn't even see me, did you?"

  She looked into the empty cup. There was a white residue dissolved in the bottom and some of the grains still clung to the sides.

  "What are you, Charlie, a magician?"

  He winked. "I've been practicing."

  She was on her feet, hiding one hand nervously behind her nightgown. "Will you be here all night?"

  "Gotta take a break in a minute. Might be gone awhile. You can take care of yourself, can't you, Crystal?"

  "Yes," she said quickly.

  "Sure, you can. You'll sleep good tonight, I promise. Soon as you take care of business."

  He watched her cross the rec room, stepping on only the white tiles, careful to avoid a hidden landscape just beneath the surface that might force its way up at any moment, snuffing out the light. Before she got to her room she turned back one last time.

  "You can visit me at Braewood!" she called out. "All right, Charlie?"

  He gave her a thumbs up and lifted the headphones.

  The title track was over. Now It's About That Time was nearly finished, the last cut on the disc. He put the phones down while it played out, retrieved the old, empty coffee cup from the wastebasket and left the office.

  In the hall, he reached into the supply closet for the shirt and trousers he had left there and picked up the girl's slipper on the way. There were a few drops of coffee on the tiles, the white ones as well as the black, like a trail of bread crumbs in a forest. He started to scuff them out, then decided it did not make any difference. She was wrong. The tiles here were solid.

  He used the keys to get into the restroom and pushed open the first stall.

  "How you doin', Pfeiffer?" he said to the man on the toilet. "Sleepin' it off?"

  The man was passed out in his undershorts and black socks. Holloway draped the clothes from the supply closet over the stall door and rinsed the cup at the sink, shaking it to be sure all traces of the grainy white residue in
the bottom washed away down the drain, then crumpled it up and dropped it into the trash.

  He took off the white trousers and staff shirt, checking out his reflection in the mirror for a moment before he pulled them onto the other man. Pfeiffer did not wake up but his arms were thick and heavy and one of his feet got stuck at the cuff. Finally Holloway put his own clothes back on. They felt good. The trousers were a lot smaller and the belt closed at just the right notch.

  He carried the sleeping man out of the restroom and back down the hall to the office. Pfeiffer was dead weight so he had to take his time. Holloway propped the feet up on the desk and folded the hands in front and put the keys back onto the belt. Then he tied the shoelaces and made sure everything was exactly as it had been when he left his room and went to the office the first time to buy the night man a coffee.

  He picked up his Discman and CDs and took them back to his room.

  On the way he noticed a few drops in front of the third door from the end. They weren't brown yet like coffee but still bright red. The trail led to Crystal's door. Someone would see it and they would find the letter opener, too. She had probably tried to hide it but the way the rooms were set up there was no place that did not show. He dropped one slipper in front of the door and kicked the other one over in front of hers just to be on the safe side, and went on to his room.

  He lay down on his bed and slipped the headphones over his ears.

  Before he pressed Play he listened for other sounds. The ward was quiet now. Soon it would be dawn and the noises would begin again, the white crush of traffic from outside the walls and the shuffling of paper slippers and the arguments in the rec room, but for now all was still. There was time at last, plenty of time to listen to Miles and Chick and Herbie and Wayne Shorter and John McLaughlin jamming the rest of the night away, with no competition from Old Roy or anyone else. Dr. Kornfield would not do his rounds till the afternoon so Holloway could sleep in, the same as Crystal.

  The night time is the right time, he thought.

  He set the level from the opening bars of Shh, rolled over with the headphones locked securely around his ears and closed his eyes so that he would not have to think about the shadows on the floor here and what might lie just below the surface. His face had a peaceful expression, a sublime and nearly absolute peace of the kind he had not known for a very long time, so long he had almost forgotten what it was like.

  My Present Wife

  The road was wide and well-lighted for the first mile or so, then narrowed to a single lane and led into the foothills, where the signs were impossible to read even with her high beams. That was almost enough to make Leslie turn around and go home, especially when the other car sped up and began to close the distance. It had been on her tail since she left the freeway.