The Key to Everything

by Alex Kimmell

  “But I didn’t see anything… there was nothing out there.”

  “He’s there.” Abram steps away from the door, giving her a chance to see. “Walking across the street.”

  Sgt. Harmon’s voice sounds close, as though he is standing directly next to them, even through the thick wood of the door. The melody is a song Emily is certain she doesn’t know. But she rises and falls along with the melody, like she’s heard it every single day of her life.

  “Open yourself…

  for me…

  and let’s play…

  for a little while …”

  Abram is shaking violently, loosing the battle to keep his teeth from chattering. They both try to run, but while the man is singing, they stand still, frozen in place. Fortunately, the squirrels are affected similarly by the song and gain no further ground in their attack.

  “Awfully un-neighborly of you to keep me locked out like this, my dear.” Sgt. Harmon sets his fingertips against the door. “You need to let me in now, Abram.” There is a moment of silence, suddenly broken by a pounding that shakes the door in its frame. Abram and Emily both jump back together. Sgt. Harmon slams his forehead into the center of the door again. Hard enough to break bone, this time cracking the wood.

  Abram moves first. He takes Emily’s arm and heads back for the kitchen. She turns at the sound of the next explosion to see blood and that same black fluid splashing through the remains of the splintered door. He pulls back again for one more blow that will certainly fell his obstacle and grant him entrance to the house.

  Emily kicks the first squirrel that comes at her. It tumbles through the air, landing in the center of the mass of brown swirling around the living room. Abram reaches over his shoulder to pull one of the beasts off his back and throw it against the wall. They barely make it a step or two without having to fight off more and more of the small demons.

  After what feels like hours, they make it to the edge of the kitchen. Covered in a mix of their own blood and fluids from places they dare not imagine, they round the corner, looking for the lock. Abram looks at the hellish ocean spreading over everything in sight. For the first time he actually looks hopeless. “I don’t think we can get to it.”

  “We don’t have any choice now.” Emily pushes past him and runs into the kitchen. She swings the electric knife across the table, sending flailing bodies, whole and in chunks, down to the floor. Scratches and bites dig into her hand, but she barely flinches.

  Abram sees another squirrel running across the floor toward her and shouts a warning, “Behind you!” The animal leaps in the air, all claws and teeth. Emily flips the oven door open and drops onto it belly first, flat out, straining the old hinges. The squirrel flies inches over her back, through the smoke coming off of her now-burning shirt. She rolls off the door and kicks it shut, trapping the malevolent creature inside.

  It slams itself into the oven window over and over, trying to get out. Emily pulls the burning shirt over her head and stamps it out on the floor. Coughing through the smoke, she looks around to find something to block the oven door. Abram rushes to her side and pulls the oven mitt from its hook on the wall. Trying to find anything that will help lock the oven door, she remembers something from their old apartment. She leans down inches from the glass and looks up beneath the door handle. Now smoking, the squirrel is even wilder than before. Rampaging inside, continuously slamming itself into the door. Emily watches, unsure if the beast is simply trying to escape or if it still wants to attack. She reaches up and finds the safety lock used for cleaning the oven. Her hands sting from the burns, but there is an oddly satisfying click as the lock slides home.

  The squirrel slams into the door one final time before collapsing in a burning heap on the top rack inside the oven, smelling faintly of chicken with a hint of black licorice. Dozens of claws scratch and scrape for purchase on the linoleum kitchen floor as more of the small army sweeps into the room. Emily makes sure the electric knife is still working and braces for the attack.

  Standing still now, the horde of shiny black eyes focus over her head. A shadow passes across the window above the sink, and she is too frightened to look. A deep laugh resounds through the backyard. “Would you like to come over for tea?” She can see a shadow in the shape of Sgt. Harmon’s head through the broken door now.

  “Are you okay?” Abram carefully examines the lock for any breaks or cracks.

  “No. I’m definitely not okay.” Emily looks down and hisses at the red skin of her stomach, and then turns the dial up to HIGH on the oven. “Just open that fucking door.”

  They run into the hall at the side of the stairs. A burning pain tears into the back of Emily’s thigh. Sharp teeth buzz-saw into her skin, trying to rip further down to muscle and bone. She turns quickly with the carving knife, pushing the blur of blades against the brown and black fur. The animal screams in pain as black-and-red liquid spurts from the now-gaping wound in its back. In an act of self-defense, its head turns, snapping vicious yellow-and-black-spotted teeth at her hand. She pushes the knife forward in between the biting fangs, its whirring blades slipping easily through the flesh of the beast’s open lips. Moving quite smoothly onward into the stretched skin of the cheeks, it sends black and red droplets flying everywhere. When the knife finally reaches bone at the back of the creature’s jaw, its motor whines higher for a moment, fighting and grinding into the gristle and bones. Emily pushes her hand harder into the plastic handle as the desperate animal reaches out with extended claws to pull the tool away and somehow save itself. She wiggles the knife back and forth as it grinds down, adding a white, powdery mist to the spray of blood and gore. Suddenly the blade frees up, slicing deeper into the back of the squirrel’s skull, taking the top of the creature’s head off, leaving the bottom jaw and body to fall lifelessly to the floor.

  Abram kicks the body away, grabbing Emily’s arm and pulling her deeper into the house. Screeches and nightmare yelps grow louder, moving along with the gathering horde, coming ever closer to them as they run on. Emily falls onto her side, grasping for her wounded leg, blood shooting out of the torn muscle and expelling more and more of her adrenaline and life by the second.

  She waves Abram on without saying a word and closes her eyes, knowing they are about to die. He ignores her command, un-tucks the lock from where he held it protected between forearm and ribcage, and moves to the wall in front of him. He holds out the lock and presses it against the drywall between a photograph of Jeremy and Jason playing catch, and a black-and-white portrait of Auden on stage with long hair, holding his guitar.

  ”You know the numbers. You know you do.” He looks at her with the finality of desperation. “One more try, Emily.”

  She opens her eyes half wide and realizes… “One. Four. Two.”

  He spins the dial quickly to one. Then back to the right, stopping at three.

  “Damnit.” Taking a deep breath, he tries to calm himself. He makes a tight fist to stop the shaking and slowly opens it, speaking the numbers aloud this time. “One…Four…Two.”

  The metal bar releases itself with the right combination, sending out a small puff of wind against his face. His fingers loosen their grip and let it go. The lock hovers in space, slowly spinning clockwise, around and around. Abram stretches his palm flat and pushes forward. He is like a mime for a moment. But what he pushes is not some imaginary object. Emily’s eyes widen and watch the lock fade into the wall.

  A white glow grows, until the light appears to be outlining the edges of a door. It burns her eyes in the warmest, most soothing way. Not wanting to look away, Emily lifts herself up onto her elbows and starts crawling for the door. Abram reaches out for her hand with one arm while grasping a nonexistent doorknob with the other. She feels herself twisting. Some previously unknown latch unlocks deep inside, permitting entrance to this sacred place. Claws and teeth dig into the soles of her shoes, fiercely clutching and pulling to deny her access. Abram stomps down on the tempest swirling behind h
er feet, unleashing a terrible growling that shoots fire at their ears. She hears a door close, leaving nothing but the sound of their panicked and strained breath to fill the otherwise quiet room.

  -41-

  Emily: Very Rare

  Abram rips an old jacket into a makeshift bandage for Emily’s wounded leg. The bleeding stops, but the stinging doesn’t. She’s never felt anything like this before. Her body has been through a lot over the past days, and she is definitely reeling from loss of blood. Looking at the wound, it just doesn’t seem like it could possibly ever heal.

  She pulls herself off of the stack of newspaper Abram told her to rest on, and gives herself a quick tour of this room that isn’t supposed to be here. Every inch of all four walls is covered in keys. They hang from hooks and nails, chains and small strands of old, torn rope. Some are beautiful, immaculate and glinting in the light. Other keys are hunks of beaten, cracked, malformed and rusted metal, forced into shapes that slide into locks keeping cages shut on things that she hoped would never see the light of day.

  Abram hulks over a small desk in the center of the room, wearing a pair of small round eyeglasses with a white chain looping down and around his neck. The left lens is much thicker than the right, giving his eyes a peculiar, asymmetrical appearance. He flashes a small smile with closed lips and turns his attention back to his work.

  “What is this place?”

  “This is my room.” Abram doesn’t look up again. His hands are a flurry of motion, sketching out angles and shapes on a piece of old yellowed paper. “I come here to make my keys.”

  “Obviously,” Emily whispers, turning around in a circle to take in the room again. “What are they all for? I mean…”

  “You mean what do they open?” Abram lifts his head and closes his eyes to the ceiling. For the first time, Emily looks up at how high the ceiling actually is. It must be four or five stories up to the top, every inch enveloped by hanging skeletons, screws, openers and latchkeys. There has to be a staircase hidden somewhere to reach up that high. No sign of one readily appears to her.

  “I wish I knew.” The words come out mournful and sad. Emily watches the twitches in his cheeks until they stop. “I’ve been making these ever since I can remember. Most were just for fun at first.” Abram picks up a clear plastic ruler and goes back to drawing. “In my teen years, they got me in some trouble. I stole a few cars, unlocked a bank or two…” Even standing behind him, she can see him smiling.

  “Then I met my Dedra.” He puts the pencil down and rubs the cramped muscles in his hand. “She was the first lock I couldn’t open with a key. Not a metal key. Not like these anyway.” He waves his hand around at the walls. “I worked harder at that one, yeah.”

  “I don’t understand.” Emily limps back to the pile of newspapers and sits down. Taking the weight off of her leg feels good.

  “Well… everyone’s a lock…” Abram swivels his chair around to face her. ”…and a key. We keep things hidden inside sometimes. We lock parts of ourselves away from the rest of the world, right?” Emily nods. “Every now and again, some of us are lucky enough to meet another person that makes us feel safe. They make us feel loved enough to unlock some of those bits and pieces we’ve sequestered from everyone else.”

  “Okay. So Dedra is your key?”

  “Yes. Just like your Auden is yours.” Abram turns back to his desk and picks up the drawing. “If we get really lucky, and I mean very lucky, we might even meet someone who is not only our key, but we can be theirs, too.”

  “But…”

  “That’s rarer than you think, Emily.” Walking to his left, he lifts a little brass key hanging from a pushpin stuck into a small bit of corkboard glued to the wall. “Very rare.”

  “So what are we doing here?” Frightened, frustrated, and confused, she doesn’t even try to hide the strain in her voice.

  The fingertips of Abrams’ hand turn a dark red, and his knuckles whiten as he pushes the small key into the flat wood on top of his desk. He turns it counterclockwise twice, lets it go, and takes a few steps backward. The entire room vibrates. Everything floats and bends, looking as if it were underwater. Emily grips tightly to the newspaper beneath her, trying to understand what is happening.

  The room is different now. It’s kind of the same, but a few things seem out of place. The keys are still up on their hooks. Abram is standing in the same place. It feels warmer, more humid now. There’s a deep pit in the center of the room where the desk was moments before, and several large barrels filled with water are standing in a row between the hole and the wall to his right. Steam and smoke billow up from a red-and-yellow glow in the middle of the pit. Abram hands her the yellowed piece of paper and slides on a pair of heavy leather gloves.

  -42-

  Auden: Opening

  You only notice the smell. Which is strange, since you haven’t actually smelled anything in a long, long time. Your nostrils aren’t flooded with a rush of information. It’s quite small. It’s a hint or a suggestion of something nearby. It’s the opposite of absence.

  You are still in the same small room. You are alone. Jeremy and the Other Jason have been gone for so long you can’t remember if there were really there at all. You remember trying to get Jeremy’s attention. Screaming and waving, kicking your feet against the wall. You even slapped yourself in the face trying to make enough noise for him to hear you.

  At some point, your body, drained of energy, just stopped. The skin of your cheeks and hands is still raw and stinging. Your toes tingle, having left splotches of bloodied footprints behind, dripping down to the floor. At least, you thought they did. There’s nothing over there but white now.

  Jason’s body lingered a while longer. From the way he was lying on the floor, you could see his elbow gently rising and falling on his side. His breathing never faltered. Otherwise, his body didn’t move at all. Averting your eyes from the tendons and muscles exposed from his skin’s removal, you stared at the back of his head, memorizing the unwashed curls of his dirty blonde hair. There were a few strands of red buried deep in there too. Lovely hues that didn’t show up all the time, but in the right light, they created a unique, caramel texture. You squinted at the tears as they welled up in your eyes. When they opened, he was gone.

  Now you don’t feel anything. If the room is hot or cold, you can’t tell. If the floor is hard underneath your toes, you don’t know. You don’t care. You close your eyes from the constant white and try to picture Emily’s face. Her eyes are closed as you touch her chin. She turns to you and lifts her lips closer for a kiss. You wish you could feel her lips. Taste the hint of cherries that always brushes off of her lip balm.

  Her eyes open, pale and iris-less. A vacuous and empty white staring blindly from the nothingness inside. Her head snaps to the side, mouth opening to scream. You feel nothing. There is no fear. There is no panic. You are hollow. There is nothing left of you to be torn down or destroyed. You lift your hand to the wide, stretched space, filled with static, between those lips you once dreamt about. Your fingers move closer to the static and begin to change. They lock tightly together, knuckles snapping and popping backward and sideways. The skin darkens to grayish black, angles fierce and sharp. The key disappears into the static.

  Air pressure builds. Eardrums click. Eustachian tubes squeeze and compress. Sinuses press, on the verge of collapse. Melody and words dive-bomb, rattling the bones of your skull. “Open yourself for me and let’s play for a little while…” The sound is black and grey. A tiny plastic speaker turned up far too loud for its limited capabilities. Treble stabs into your brain in piercingly pitched sharpness.

  Thick, milky fluid drains out of your ears, running down the sides of your neck. Smoke rises from skin beneath the acidic discharge. The smell grows in intensity now, a distinctive sourness of burning hair and plastic. The atonal melody’s tenor squelches and warbles, rendering the words unintelligible.

  You don’t even bother to fight. You can’t move anyway.
You can’t get out. Even if you could, you have no idea where you are. You look down and see. You see your hands. You see your key. Your hand is a key. You are the key. You reach your key up to your face. Your mouth opens. The key slides in. The key turns. Somewhere there is the click of a lock opening.

  -43-

  Sgt. Harmon: Resolute

  Sgt. Harmon sits down on the couch with a wedding photo in one hand and a picture of little boys playing on swings in the other. Their two empty spaces above the fireplace are now filled with sniffing and scratching rodents. He takes his palm, brushes away a few fresh droppings from the coffee table, and places the photographs down, facing him. He leans back, lifts his feet, and crosses them, heels down, between the picture frames.

  All around him, the room is in motion. Even the furniture appears to be floating on the strange brown, black, and red sea. His army of shadow-tails sniffing and searching every cranny and nook. Behind each small crack in the baseboards, under every bed, chair and table. He closes his eyes and leans his head back. Fingers crossed on his lap, he allows his thumbs to start tapping while he hums his favorite song.

  Four new small legs skitter along the top of the couch. The animal pushes dozens of other squirrels out of the way as it impatiently moves closer. At the side of the man’s face, the squirrel stops, standing on hind legs. A small claw reaches out tentatively and brushes his white beard. Sgt. Harmon doesn’t move other than to open his mouth. The squirrel swiftly crawls in between the chipped and yellowing teeth and closes its small black eyes.

  Sgt. Harmon’s humming is only interrupted by the sound of crunching as he chews. He swallows. All goes silent. The brown ocean tides settles, frozen in place. He opens his mouth again, this time releasing a beautiful basso profundo…