Gavin closed his eyes to concentrate. There was a smell, a scent different from the mixed stench of mothballs and mold. It was a pleasant smell, the scent of… lavender.
The scent must have been from a perfume or body spray.
A woman.
A strong gust of air brushed the nape of his neck, and the smell of lavender was overwhelming. Gavin opened his eyes and spun around, but he remained the sole occupant of the aisle. “What’s going on here?” Gavin yelled. He swiveled back around in hopes of catching a glimpse of someone.
Another blast of air assaulted him, giving him the unnerving feeling of being caught in a vortex. The air that swirled around him was cold, but not like air conditioning or the chill of a freezer. It was as if someone doused him with a bucket of ice water, yet he was completely dry.
The sensation only lasted for a couple of seconds, but it was enough to cause Gavin to lose his footing. The cat slipped from his grip, shattering on the floor with a loud crash. Brightly colored marbles ricocheted in every direction, leaving only shards of the original piece on the ground.
The blood rushed to his face. “What the crap!”
Taking a few steps, he called to his unseen voyeur. “Let’s stop this game now. I’ll double it. Miss? I’ll give you forty bucks. Just bring my keys to me… now.” The last word soured as it left his lips, but he didn’t care.
“Enough of this. I’m Gavin Curtis. Gavin Curtis, the writer! I’m a… celebrity!”
His anger smoldered as he resolved to make whoever was doing this to him pay. His steps became purposeful—defiant even—until a blue-tinted marble found its way under his heel. Though the tiny glass orb barely weighed an ounce, it brought all 263 pounds of the man down for the second time in less than an hour.
The impact of his fall shook loose an uneven tower of vinyl records, launching a domino effect of miscellaneous small housewares and junk until the entire aisle toppled behind him. Gavin let out a grunt because of the pain in his back, followed by a few choice expletives as the area cascaded down like a faulty mineshaft of knickknacks and rotten furniture.
He stood, surveying the piles of junk that blocked the way he’d come, and spewed out a venomous rant at the debris. “If there was any money in this dump, I’d sue Béla and his brother, or cousin, or whatever that Puma-jacket-wearin’ freak of a welcoming committee is, and level this entire place to the ground!” He rubbed at the crick in his neck before adding, “And for good measure, I’ll evict that old harelip of a witch, Madame Kovács, next door!” He picked his jacket up from the floor, dusted it off, and slung it back over his forearm as he continued his search. His tirade melted away into a whine. “Jeez, all I wanted was a cigarette!”
He made his way around another aisle. A small beam of light cut through the right side of a taller shelf. The light mockingly peeked through the spaces between the boxes and clutter as if signaling to him to come. “So, hide and seek, huh?” he whispered to himself as he trotted to the source. The light bounced in exaggerated motions from the other side of the wall of junk. “That’s right, tease me all you like, but we’ll see what happens at the end of all this.”
As stealthily as he could manage, he navigated through a row of waist-high piles of clothes that lined both sides of this junk-infested corridor. The dingy fabric spilled out of overstuffed trash bags stacked two high and reeked of mildew.
Where did they get all of this junk?
When he got within a few yards of the light, it went off. At least he was close. He rounded the corner and was shocked to find that the path made a dead end at a cyclone fence. The barrier stretched up into the rafters. A metal sign posted on the gate warned “Keep Out,” embellished with a crudely painted skull-and-crossbones in red. More rows of mismatched shelves of junk blocked the view of how far back the caged area went.
He examined a large padlock—opened—and the corresponding chain that had been tossed onto the concrete floor.
The chill and sickly feeling returned briefly with the fragrant reminder of lavender. He fought down feelings of confusion and panic as he peered between the links for any sign of movement. All was still.
She had to be in here.
The gate resisted at first but finally gave way and swung open with a long squeal.
Gavin moved inside, looking for the woman. “If you need a ride or something, I can help out.”
He moved along the shelves. These were higher-quality items, though still eccentric in nature—a rack of antique muskets and bayonets; a stack of perfectly folded blue flags, bearing what he guessed to be the state emblem of Connecticut; and enough choir robes to outfit the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
“This must be where they lock away the ‘good stuff,’” Gavin huffed, heading down another alleyway of antiques. Deciding to call upon the old Gavin Curtis charm, he injected his voice with a friendly, melodic quality. “Like I was saying, I can give you a lift somewhere. I don’t mind.”
He made it to the end of another aisle. A large, rectangular object draped with a thick mover’s blanket leaned against the wall at the end. He tugged at it, causing the heavy cloth to fall to the floor. It looked like an old western saloon mirror, and on its side, it was as tall as he was. He studied his reflection in the ornate mirror.
He watched himself as he lied, laying on even more sweetness. “I’ll drive you, but I have to have my keys. I have to have my keys first, and then we can go.” He had no intention of helping this person. This game had gone on long enough. As agitated as he was becoming, he was also rethinking the forty dollars. What were they going to do about it, anyway, if he didn’t reward them?
With one hand, he tried to make himself more presentable, running his fingers through his windblown hair. As he did, the reflection showed a woman approaching from behind him, about ten feet away. He guessed her to be in her mid-twenties by the yellow sundress she wore, but he couldn’t be certain since the dim light left her face in shadow. The soft fragrance of lavender filled the area.
A few more seconds—a few more steps—and he’d have her, whoever she was. He smirked at his reflection as he turned around. “Ah, so you wanna take me up on my off—”
He froze mid-sentence—he was completely alone. His mind reeled as if it had been sucker punched. “What’s going on here?” Gavin’s lip quivered as the question escaped from his mouth. After a second, he mentally snapped back, scanning the area for the woman, but there were only shelves of junk.
The return of nausea accompanied the unsteadiness of his stance. He staggered to lean on the shelf nearest to him, but at the last second, he decided against it for fear of it collapsing. “What are you doing here?” he finally managed to sputter out. “What is this? What are you doing to me?”
As he reluctantly turned to face the mirror, his entire body felt clammy. Most noticeable was the anxious look on his face in the reflection, but the image of the woman was gone.
Something on the opposite side of the row of shelves caught his eye. Nearly ten and a half feet up on a shelf shone a tiny light. “There it is!” he exclaimed, trotting down the row. He no longer cared about the woman or what she was doing to him or even about the radio. He just wanted to get his keys and get out of there as quickly as humanly possible.
Reaching the end of the aisle, he searched for boxes or anything else that could support his weight. Quickly slinging his jacket over a bundle of PVC pipes protruding from a nearby shelf, he dismissed the idea of shaking the keys down—that’d be too risky. He’d knocked over enough stuff for one day.
On the end of a nearby shelf was a stack of pre-war knockoffs of Samsonite luggage. As he grabbed one of the cases to test the loadbearing capabilities of it, he realized he was panting. Thankfully, the case didn’t buckle beneath his weight. Any moment now, he’d have the keys and be on his way out.
He anxiously looked around to guard against a sneak attack from the woman. Seconds later, he’d formed a suitcase ziggurat and slid it against the shelf to steady it. Taki
ng a deep breath, Gavin cautiously scaled his luggage construction. The cases were manufactured to be slightly bowed instead of flat. Sweat poured down his brow as he moved carefully to prevent the cases from sliding off one another. His heart raced.
Halfway to his destination, he saw it. Time slowed to a crawl as Gavin gazed upward at the fiery orange hues reflecting off a copper object. It had the circumference and height of a wide-brim pith helmet. At first, he hardly recognized what manner of device it was, but then he remembered photos of turn-of-the-century typewriters. That was before the machines were shaped like rectangular boxes, back when the design trend involved semicircular keyboards sprouting from a base. The QWERTY keyboard layout hadn’t even been accepted yet. Though Billy was the expert on that type of antique hardware, Gavin knew this was something special.
He guessed that the flat, round, nickel-sized pads attached to the twenty or so metal tendrils were the keys of the contraption. Even from his vantage point, the overlapping, spoke-like stems weaved in and out, twisting like pipe organ tubes before disappearing into the midsection of the typewriter. A tiny wireframe cage extended three or four inches from the top.
Thrilled with his discovery, he ascended the remaining levels of the precarious luggage staircase. “Now, that’s something Billy will love,” he said aloud.
There was a noise from behind him down the aisle, and Gavin caught a whiff of lavender again. He carefully twisted his head, but the only motion was his reflection in the mirror at the far end of the aisle. He looked like King Kong laboriously scaling the Empire State Building.
The middle suitcase shifted slightly, causing him to flail about for a second. He instinctively grabbed for the edge of the shelf but connected with the outermost typewriter keys instead. The machine responded with four rapid-fire snaps. Clack-clack-clack-clack!
Gavin caught his breath and steadied himself. He was intrigued with how the metal keys were unexpectedly warm to the touch. “Well, at least it still types.” Gavin cautiously took his final step, bringing him eye-level with the device.
A rush of confusion washed over him as he read the four letters on the page.
OUCH
At the precise moment that he grabbed the sides of the machine, a spring released with a click and thrust the carriage back into the starting position. The crisp ding of the mechanism’s internal bell acknowledged the swift reset. A perplexed Gavin was helpless as the shift in weight made him wobble on the stack of suitcases. The world moved as if in slow motion again as he let go of the device. He attempted to gain a handhold on the shelf, but it was too late—he was already falling.
He hit the ground hard, landing flat in a sitting position. Pain exploded up his spine as he let out a wail. With his head cocked back, he saw the machine teetering on the edge of the shelf above him.
Uh oh…
He watched in horror as the device broke free from the shelf’s edge and came tumbling down to meet him. There was a painful flash of light and then darkness.
Gavin dreamed of a memory from when he was ten years old. The boyhood version of him left the cramped two-bedroom apartment that he and his mother occupied on the south side of the city. They often found it necessary to relocate in an attempt to find her a better-paying job or to avoid creditors that always seemed to hunt them down eventually. Sometimes, the two of them would move two or three times during one school year. The nomadic existence sentenced Gavin to a world of social awkwardness—forced into a perpetual state of flux, doomed to the role of the outcast wherever they landed.
So it was no surprise that when the boys in the apartment complex hollered for him to come and see what they were doing, Gavin eagerly ran to them in the hopes of establishing new friendships. Maybe it’d be different this time.
The two older boys were crouched over something on the sidewalk, studying it with an uncommon intensity for pre-teens. As he approached them, the bigger of the two said with his back still turned to him, “Hey, come here and check this out.”
The dream played out exactly as it had in real life. The other boy asked, “You’re not squeamish, are ya?”
At that moment, young Gavin noticed a dissected frog on the ground and gulped, saying, “No, I’m fine.” He forced himself to take a step closer. If this was what it took to establish a friendship with the boys, he was willing to do it.
“I’m Gavin,” he said, bending to the ground. He positioned himself next to the larger boy, who repeatedly doused a cotton ball in a flimsy, disposable plastic cup and then mashed it on the frog’s head for a few seconds. Next to the frog was a small, slimy mound of what Gavin suspected to be the creature’s entrails. He noticed an odd, pale bubble beside the frog. The small sack, about the size of a nickel, was connected by a sinewy tangle of innards that came from within the jaggedly cut abdomen. The bubble expanded and contracted slightly.
It only took Gavin a second to realize that the frog was still alive. Though the sight was disturbing, he was determined not to look away, not to “wimp out” in front of the older boys.
His mind raced. He barely heard the second boy return his introduction. “I’m Troy. Troy Bridges. And this is my brother, Des. You just moved into the second-story apartment on the corner, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Gavin said, masking his distaste. “Me and my mom, three days ago. Is that chloroform you’re putting on it?” The fumes made his eyes water.
“Nah, I wish. Where would we get any of that? You watch too many spy movies.” Des spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. “This is bleach and acetone. You get acetone from fingernail polish remover.”
Gavin nodded as if this was the obvious chemical alternative, the substitute that he’d have chosen to keep a frog unconscious if he were fresh out of chloroform. He paused before asking, “That mucus-lookin’ bubble there—that’s his lungs, right?”
“Well, Troy says that he read frogs breathe through their skin, but that sack sure looks like it to me.” Gavin was alarmed at the boy casually probing the frog innards with a stubby pocketknife.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Des said, plunging the blade into the soft membrane of the sack. The bubble deflated.
To Gavin’s surprise and disgust, the unconscious frog began to spasm wildly as if attempting to escape. To make it worse, the other two boys laughed, saying, “Look, it’s swimming. It’s trying to swim away.”
Troy added, “I got bad news for you, Kermit. You’re not going anywhere like this.”
Gavin watched in horror as the swimming motion slowed and then ceased entirely. His own breathing sped up.
“Pretty cool, huh, kid?” Des asked, cleaning the pocketknife on the grass.
“Let’s get another one from the ditch,” Troy said with enthusiasm as he sprang to his feet. “Comin’, Gavin?”
Tears welled up. He forced himself to say in as calm a voice as possible, “Nah, I’m cool. I wanna stay here with this one… you know, to look at its guts and all.”
“Suit yourself,” Des said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes with more. Don’t spill that cup. We don’t have any more fingernail polish remover.”
“Yeah, okay,” Gavin replied, transfixed on the lifeless thing before him.
When the brothers were a safe distance away, he ran at full speed back to his apartment. He returned with a shoebox and scooped up the frog’s remains by hand into the makeshift coffin. With tears streaming down his face, he carried the box to the drainage opening at the curb. Gavin crammed the box into the opening between the grates before returning to the scene of the crime. He violently stomped the cup, splashing the mixture in every direction. Doing this was certainly going to get him in trouble with the older boys. He might even get a beating, but he didn’t care. His mind was filled with the image of the frog struggling to swim to freedom.
A high-pitched sound punctured the bubble of the dream, rhythmically stabbing at Gavin’s semi-conscious mind like a tiny dagger. After a few moments, the sound took form. The bursts of noi
se were the barking of a dog.
Dog… what is that dog barking at? Gavin questioned, still unable to open his eyes. Through the fog of his mind, he felt something pushing his left thigh. Was the dog doing that? He didn’t even have a dog. No, the barking was farther away.
There was another nudge, more forceful this time.
It felt as if his brain was on fire. He struggled to open his eyes, but the most that he could manage were thin, sleepy slits. Bright, orange splotches on a background of black hovered in the haze before him.
A man’s voice commanded, “Get up.”
Something heavy was in his lap. He tried to look down at it, but he stopped short due to the blinding pain that throbbed in synch with the barking.
The orange splotches came into focus. They were a print of flowers on a drape or something.
There was another nudge on his left, even harder than the previous ones. The man’s voice, more clear now, ordered, “I said to get up!” It came from the side of the pushing.
“Where… am I?” Gavin slurred out to the orange flowers. The barking changed from annoying shrieks to a constant rumbling growl. As the image of the flowers sharpened, he strained to open his eyes to a half squint.
It was a dress worn by… Madame Kovács? What was she doing here? Wait—was he in a hospital? How could a dog be in a hospital?
“Get out of here.” This time, the nudge was a kick. Gavin rolled his head to the left. The Puma jacket man was there, ready to administer another blow. “Stop it! I’m hurt!” Gavin instantly regretted yelling at him when the effort compounded the pressure in his aching head.
“Get up or I’m call the cops,” he said with an accent thicker than even Madame Kovács’s.
“Cops?” Gavin did his best to comply, but his arms and legs were like lead. He was slumped in a half-reclining position with his shoulders and head propped against the fallen luggage. Instinctively, he shoved the antique typewriter out of his lap and onto the floor to the right of him. The impact of the device rang out with a loud, metal clang. Madame Kovács answered it with a loud gasp.
Cruel Devices Page 5
