Rat-A-Tat: Short Blasts of Pulp

by Russ Anderson, Jr

  The key was a heavy thick metal, the old kind of key they stopped making in the last century—a skeleton key they used to call it, but this one was something else entirely.

  Everything was engraved with minute designs, spinning and twirling into each other, the recognizable shapes of human-like figures dancing around with staffs in hand. And Jim could tell, though he didn’t know how, that every groove, every bump and every bend in this key was part of the mechanism to open the lock. There could only be one key more perfect, and that was the one to God’s kingdom, Jim was certain. And while he wanted nothing more than to hold on it, examine it and keep it forever, Jim knew he had to return it to that beautiful young man. His heart beat quickly at the prospect of returning such a beautiful, precious item to the boy he adored and the thought of him smiling, thanking Jim.

  He bit his lip. Yes, he would give back to him, when he returned. No. Later. He would give it to the boy after he returned to his room, and the boy would open his door and see Jim standing there, holding the key... It was only then that Jim realized he had forgotten to ask the young man his name. Jim didn’t even know what room he was staying. Panic radiated from his potbelly. He had never wanted anything more and he had fumbled, pitifully.

  “The guest, the man who just left, the man in the black suit. What is his name?”

  “Excuse me?” the receptionist asked, her small face scrunching.

  “The man who just left!” Jim almost shouted, getting excited. “What room! What name! Now, dammit!” He slammed his palm down on the counter, biting back: I will smash your face on the counter, you bitch.

  “Jim,” the manager said from behind him, in that smart fancy voice. “You’re making a scene.”

  “I am not.” Jim could tell everyone was looking at him, but he didn’t fucking care.

  The manager put his chubby hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said with finality, “you are.”

  “That man,” Jim whispered to the receptionist and manager both, “who just left... forgot... something... I was hoping to give it to him when he returned.”

  “You can leave it with her, Jim.”

  “I don’t want... I can’t, sir, you see, sir. I just can’t,” Jim said, knowing in his heart that this wasn’t a desperate plea or a lie, but a simple, undeniable fact. He couldn’t give anyone the key. There simply was no other option.

  He stared at the manager, straight into his boring brown eyes. He did not fear for his job; you don’t fire an institution, even when the institution is bat-shit crazy.

  “Fine then,” said the manager, throwing up his hands. “Give it to him when he comes back. But another outburst like this... I don’t care how long you’ve worked here. I don’t fucking care.” The last was a whisper meant only for Jim.

  The day passed as slowly as it possibly could. Jim could measure the seconds, watching the shadows slide across the floor, racing the snails to see who’s slowest. He kept the key deep in his pocket, every so often reaching in to hold the key tightly until it got warm in his cold hand, running his nails into the fine groves.

  The sun set, dashing red light across the world.

  He begrudgingly took his break at eight, nodding off in the break room, his arms resting on his spheric midsection. Jim yawned, his body shivering into a stretch. His chin fell to his chest and his eyelids dropped closed and Jim plunged into sleep.

  “Mr. Craver,” a soft voice called from the void. “Mr. Craver, wake up.”

  Jim slowly forced his eyes to open, his head throbbing. A puddle of drool had formed just below his collar and his neck ached, cracking as he looked up. His eyes still focusing, he saw the young man, sitting across the break table, his legs crossed. The young man reached into his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes, drawing out a stick with practiced finesse.

  “Good morning, Mr. Craver. Well, I suppose, good evening would be more appropriate. Did you sleep well?”

  Jim groaned a response as he rubbed the back of his neck. His brain was working slower than usual, covered by the wet blanket of exhaustion.

  “I understand you have something of mine. That is what the nice young lady told me up front, yes. She didn’t say what it was, she didn’t seem to know, but she said you had it.”

  “Wwwhat... What’s your name?” Jim struggled to say. He couldn’t think straight; everything seemed blurry and washed-out like an old photo.

  “Baal Davar,” he waved his hands idly, as if to say, ignore that. “It’s Hebrew.

  Call me David. Simpler that way, no?”

  “Yes...”

  “Mm. Good. And I shall call you Jim. Get the formalities out of the way, since we’ve known each other for a while now. Would you like a cigarette, Jim?”

  “Okay.”

  “Can we smoke here?” He moved to light his cigarette.

  Jim struggled to think. “...No. No, we can’t smoke in here, sir. Not... Not allowed, no we’re not.”

  “Pity. Let’s go finish this discussion in my room. It is a smoking room. You know how rare that is in this city? Not the way it used to be. So sad. Come, let’s go.”

  The young man—who called himself Baal Davar, or David—took one of Jim’s gnarled hands into his to help Jim up from his chair. Jim felt the heat of the other man’s body radiate through his damaged joints and for the first time in decades didn’t feel the pain. He could feel his heart rattle against his chest, thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk. He could feel a tightness form somewhere deep in his stomach. He was going to the boy’s room. His mind was muddled—from sleep, he told himself. Jim knew he wasn’t allowed up in the guest rooms, but he was invited.

  The room itself was massive, one of the penthouse suites that overlooked the city, windows encompassing the entire room. It was well kept, as if no one had ever slept here.

  “Do you like the view, Jim?”

  “Oh... very much sir. Beautiful.”

  “I always stay on the top floors. Reminds me of home.”

  A drink seemed to appear in Jim’s hand; he didn’t remember David giving it to him. He was sitting in a large chair, sinking deep into the cushions. He had no idea when he sat down. Time seemed to be slipping.

  Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping... Jim heard from the back of his mind.

  “Are you gay, Jim?” David was saying.

  “No,” said Jim with finality.

  “Of course you’re not,” he said with a knowing smile. “Despite what some of your politicians and your clergymen might say, there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just the way you're built. It’s in your... circuitry, to use a more modern term, if you will. You like sucking cock? That’s fine with the Almighty. He made you, didn’t He? But there’s one thing He doesn’t like. Anger. Hate. The sort that seeps out of your bones. And you, Jim, are brimming with it. But don’t worry, that’s the kind of man I like.”

  Jim latched onto that last statement.

  “Why... why do you say that?” Jim forced out. “Full of hate? I’m not...” Jim massaged his head, trying to clear up the murk that penetrated his skull.

  David swirled his drink. No, his name really wasn’t David, Jim reminded himself. It was Ba... It was... He couldn’t remember. He knew the name. He knew it. He knew he knew it, but something... wasn’t...

  “It’s all about doors, Jim. I know that might sound silly, but in the end everything, everywhere is about doors. Opening. Closing. Walking through. In and out. Locking. Unlocking. Doors.”

  “I know about doors,” Jim mumbled as drool dripped down his chin. “I know about doors.”

  “Yes. You do. I need you to open one for me.”

  Jim blinked. “I don’t understand, sir. Can’t say that I...”

  Jim looked up. David was holding the key in his hands, the thin rivets glowing hot red. No, it wasn’t glowing. That was the setting sun reflecting off the key. Wait. When did he give David the key? Without thinking Jim reached into his pocket, felt the heavy weight sitting on his thigh. His fingers brushed against
the hot metal and drew it out. It had never left his pocket, hadn’t it?

  “...Mr. Davar.”

  “Ah,” the young man pointed at Jim, a teacher singling out a foolish student.

  “David. I told you, call me David, Jim. Only my Father calls me by my true name and we are not on speaking terms.”

  “David. David. David. I have this key. It’s your key, sir. Not... mine. But I...”

  “Yes?” Jim could hear David’s cheeks crease into a smile.

  “I want to open the door it belongs to. I want to...” Jim saw flashes of the young man’s naked buttocks, of sliding into him. He saw the manager’s bloody face smashed into the ground, the nose shoved back into his skull. Cum drizzled down the young man’s chin.

  The receptionist’s throat was crushed, black finger imprints scrawled into the dead skin. “I want to open your door, sir. I am a doorman. That is my job. I want to open your door.”

  “Then do so.” David's voice echoed from inside Jim’s cranium.

  Jim looked up, where an immense black door stood alone in the room to his left. There was nothing behind it. Gripping the key tightly in his hands, he pushed himself off the chair, spilling his drink as he stumbled over to the door. Heat radiated from the door; there was fire behind it, Jim thought, even though when he peered around the corner all he saw was the hotel room. Sweat poured out beneath his suit. He pushed the key into the keyhole, a pleasure and pain he had not felt before. The locking mechanisms spun and clicked, moved and switched until there was a final, soft boom that echoed through the door. Gripping the doorknob he pulled the heavy slab of metal and wood open, a heavy wind of heat pushing at skin.

  Jim stood up straight, like he always did as he opened the door, and proudly smiled to David, who watched him from his chair, smiling a pointed grin.

  “Heading in, sir?” Jim asked with strength.

  Baal Davar’s smiled broadened as his skin took on an unnatural red hue.

  “No,” it said in a voice of rusted nails. “I’ve been in there before. You’re just letting everything out.”

  Jim looked into the flames, and just before the madness of fear took him, he understood.

  NO MORE RUNNING

  By H. David Blalock

  They say your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. I always wondered how “they” knew that, and just who “they” were that they did. I also wondered how long it would take.

  I think I know now.

  But, let me start from the beginning. After all, I have the rest of my life to finish the story.

  It began innocently enough, as most disasters do. The day was clear and warm, with a light westerly breeze playing through the branches of the trees in front of my house. Somewhere someone was mowing a lawn. A dog barked far off, perhaps at a passing car or the odd jogger using the subdivision's winding roadways as their training ground. I sat on my front porch watching the day progress, listening to the familiar neighborhood sounds and dozing off and on in my rocker.

  It was the week of my 75th birthday and the celebration had taken its toll. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, friends, neighbors, they had all decided to descend on the wife and me for a party. It had started early in the morning and gone on until late afternoon. By the time the last guest pulled out of the driveway, we were exhausted.

  I hated birthdays. They were a constant reminder of how long my miserable life had clung to my miserable existence. My life had been one long series of embarrassments and crises, most of which I had done my best to avoid or forget, and birthdays were the times people insisted on hearing stories about “the good old days”. I did my best to color the tales with humor and wit for the sake of the children, but in reality I hated having to relive those times. The wife, bless her, would watch with that pity in her eyes that said she felt for me, but even she made no effort to relieve me of the duty.

  The night closed in on the house with its blessed blanket of silence as we rocked quietly on the porch and watched the stars come out one by one.

  “It was nice of the kids to have that party,” the wife said, her eyes closed as she rocked.

  I grunted in agreement.

  “The grandchildren have grown up to be fine people,” she went on.

  I grunted again.

  “And the little ones are so cute.”

  Grunt.

  The creaking of the rockers was all that broke the silence for a moment.

  “Happy birthday,” she said.

  I smiled grimly and watched a falling star as it arced across the night.

  And burst into a dozen falling stars, which then burst again until the sky filled with streaks of yellow, green, and blue. The original falling star got brighter, bigger, and burst again. A sound like far-off thunder rumbled.

  “Now, there's something you don't see every day,” I observed as the fiery trails burned.

  One particular trail looked too short to be staying bright. It took a moment for me to realize the truth.

  “Dear,” I said, watching the thing get brighter, “I think we should run.”

  “Run?” she repeated absently, watching the same trail.

  “I think it’s headed for us,” I said, rising from my rocker.

  “What?”

  The rumbling now had definitely got louder. I reached out and grabbed her arm, yanking her up.

  “Run!” I shouted, shoving her towards the street.

  “Which way?” she shouted back, panic rising in her voice.

  “Anywhere but here!”

  We ran. My life began to flash before me as I realized that whatever was headed for us was big, really big, and we probably wouldn't be able to get out of its way.

  All at once, I felt strangely detached, as if I was watching a movie about what was happening instead of living it. I had read about people at accidents saying things felt “unreal”, but I had never understood that until now. I no longer felt my feet against the ground as I ran. I no longer felt the air burning in my lungs, nor the pounding of my heart.

  I suppose I should have been concerned about the wife's safety. I suppose I should have faced the situation with more courage. After all, I was 75 years old. I had lived a good and full life. Good job, great kids, beautiful wife, wonderful grandchildren. I should have taken this in stride, not panicked and run like a frightened child.

  But somewhere deep inside of me, I was still a frightened child. I had never been proud of my cowardice. I had always avoided confrontations, rationalizing that by casting myself as a peacemaker, a pacifist at heart. I extolled the philosophy of non-violence, praising my own neutrality in the inevitable arguments that rankled the peace of my office. I would turn the other cheek whenever I was caught in an awkward situation. And when I got home, I would find an excuse to head out to the wood shop I built behind the house to spend an hour cursing myself for a fool and a coward, all the while remembering myself as that frightened child, running from a stray dog, running from the school bully, running, running, running...

  I would have kept running, giving in to that frightened child as I had all my life, but my body betrayed me.

  We had reached the driveway gates, the wife well ahead and running for all she was worth, when I fell. I had never been in good condition. I spent the last 25 years sitting behind a desk, growing fat and complacent. My right knee, always a complainer, decided at that moment to go on strike. The leg, minus the knee's flexibility, jammed into the ground with a crunch, I felt something give, a sharp pain, then saw the driveway rising up.

  I partially broke my fall with my right arm. For the rest, I used my face. Teeth came loose. I tasted blood. Dirt blinded me.

  There was a noise that defied description. To say it was loud is to compare moonlight to sunlight, to compare the warmth of an April day to the midday heat of late August. The ground beneath me lifted, carrying me with as little effort as I might a leaf.

  I had heard of time dilation. The term had always been abstract, an exercise in philo
sophy, a parlor game with words. Not anymore. I felt the ground rise, knew exactly when it bore me across the road, saw the road swallowed by the earth beneath me.

  Then the concussion wave seeped through the ground and into my brain, leaving blackness.

  I wondered how long it would take, the “life-passing-before-your-eyes” moment. Now I know.

  Everything hurt. And I mean, everything. My feet, my legs, my back, my neck, my head, my teeth, my eyes, hell, even my ears. I was one big ball of pain. But, to my surprise, I was alive. Not that I was enjoying being alive. Being alive hurt. A lot.

  I tried to call out to the wife, but my mouth was full of blood and dirt. I gagged, spit, and tried to rub the dirt out of my eyes. That was a mistake. It made them hurt worse. Though I couldn't voice them, I had a few choice words in mind about the situation in general, and whatever hit the ground behind me in particular.

  I sat up with an effort, opening my aching eyes. It was no use trying to hear anything around me. My ears were plugged with dirt. Even hadn't they been, I doubt I could have heard anything anyway. After that noise, I might never hear again. My vision cleared slowly. It hurt to keep my eyes open, but I had to see what was happening around me.

  I found myself atop a bream of scorched earth, maybe three or four hundred feet above where I should be. To my south, the land looked normal, untouched by the disaster. To the north, it was a different story. Where my house once stood there was nothing but a smoking crater several hundred feet deep. There was no trace of the house left, not a splinter. All around me bits of wood, blackened and charred, smoked and popped. Whatever it was had hit about ½ mile north of my house. The majority of the damage from the impact was oriented northward, probably the only reason I had survived. Still, the impact crater had carved a massive hole deep into the hill on which my house stood, boring into the bedrock before expanding its energy outward in all directions.