After what might have been hours, Jim’s eyes shot open at the sound of the bathroom door slowly creaking open inwards behind him. He kept his head resolutely pointed in the opposite direction, willing any further interactions with fictional beings to leave his senses alone. Without warning, small crimson-clad legs swung into view next to his head.
“Hello, neighbor. I thought I heard you stomping around in here. What’s new?”
“You aren’t real,” Jim replied. “You’re a figment of my over-stressed fucking imagination. Maybe my wife’s poisoned me or something.”
“But that’s not possible, you see, Jim. You haven’t eaten a thing since you left Rob’s house last night. What was it that he made? Oh, yes: enchiladas. Furthermore, I hate to point out technicalities, but you no longer legally have a wife, do you? I can see that you still don’t believe I’m serious about this whole soul business. Don’t worry, I take no offense. It’s a regular occurrence in any of my more face-to-face offices.”
“Offices?”
“Come now, Jim. This day and age a man has got to be a go-getter when it comes to operating a successful business. It’s a tough market out there dealing in souls. It was sooo much easier when there were fewer to compete for, but the world is growing, my friend, and so is the competition.”
“Are you really trying to tell me that bad people are hard enough to come by that you’ve got to trick the good ones?”
Martin wiggled his feet and smiled.
“Well, as much as I hate to say it, yes. I know what you’re thinking, my fellow businessman—pardon me—former businessman, tough break. Anyhow, I’m sure you’re wondering how such a notorious figure as myself would possibly have trouble meeting quotas, but alas, it is a cosmic racket I’d never be able to explain.”
“Is it conversions?”
“Oh, for Hell’s sakes, no. Don’t try to flatter anyone. If anything, people are getting smarter.” Martin straightened his suit and hopped to the floor. “Just a sign of the times, my good man. It seems like you’re beginning to come around, though. Not trying to bash me out of your brains, anymore, are you? I do love when you people accept your fates quickly.” He tapped the oversized gold watch chained to his pocket.
Jim shifted uneasily in his couch bed. “So, how do I—well…do it?”
Martin laughed heartily. “I like you, Jim. Very direct. I’ll be honest with you. According to the contract, you have up to a week to, ahem, abandon your body willingly before I am allowed to force you from it.”
“A week! That’s it? But I need to—”
“What. Get you affairs in order? The last I looked, you were all but set to check out. Pardon the pun, but it never seems to lose its touch in the motel rooms. I mean, unless you wanted to call Sheryl and see if she’d like to get her lawyer to contest me so she could make off with your soul as well as your livelihood,” he joked. “Though I wouldn’t advise it, I do own damned near all of them.”
Jim tipped his head, thoughts drifting to Sheryl. He remembered their honeymoon, the nights out together, and even the trip to Cancun. His eyes welled up and he didn’t try to wipe them. “I really loved her, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” Martin said with believable sympathy. “It is a razor wire that divides love and hate, though both sides cut with the promise of pain.”
Jim sat silently, drifting through his own thoughts. “Dammit. It should be her.”
“I beg your pardon, Jim.”
“It should be her locked here in this room. She deserves it.” He tipped his head into his hands and wept. “Damn her. Damn her to hell.”
“Hmm,” Martin replied thoughtfully. “Well, there may be some way to arrange that, Jim. But no, you wouldn’t be intereste—”
“How?” Jim brought his tear-streaked face up to the little man standing before him at eye-level.
“It could be difficult, but I might just be willing to offer your soul back to you for a trade. You would, of course, have to convince her to sign a revised version of my contract.”
Jim stared into the rotting floorboards for a few moments before answering. “Get me a phone.”
A cherry red rotary telephone appeared immediately at his side.
“Perhaps I should do the talking,” Martin said. “She’ll likely hang up on you.” Jim paused before handing Martin the phone.
“Hello, Sheryl. Hi, yes, it’s Walt Reynolds from Reynolds, Reynolds, and Tick. I just wanted to let you know that we were finally able to secure an agreement from your ex-husband that would give you rights to all of his assets. I know, wonderful, isn’t it? Listen Sheryl, we’re going to need you to come down to the Great Falls Motel and get some things signed before we can call this case closed. I realize it’s quite a drive, but if you can make it here in the next six hours, that would be fantastic. Uh-huh. Wonderful. See you then, and congratulations.”
Martin beamed at Jim with his disturbing set of chompers. “Done and done, my friend. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get some contract editing done before she arrives.” He hopped again onto the edge of the couch and slipped over the back. “The devil’s in the details, I’m afraid.”
“Hey,” Jim said. “You’re going to be putting everything in it that we discussed, right? No hanky-panky stuff for me?”
Martin widened his smile and narrowed his greedy eyes as he peered over the stained seatback. “Come on, Jim. We’re pals. Would I lie to you?”
The Last Christmas
December 22, 2007- 4:00 p.m.
It has now been two days since hell first visited my North Empton jail cell.
My name is Jonathan Delgado and I write this from the confines of my locked, concrete cage, though the purpose of it all is still unclear. Maybe it’s because I need something to busy myself with to keep my sanity grounded. Or, perhaps it is the result of some innate egotistical fear of being forever forgotten that compels me to document these horrific happenings. It could even simply be for the sake of posterity, should anyone happen to still be alive to find these notes, even though the likelihood of such a possibility seems to me to dwindle with every passing hour.
It’s hard to believe that less than a week ago I was sitting at my desk at the Daily Herald (a horrible rag that I have gained a little more appreciation of in retrospect, given my current state), trying to figure out how to put a good spin on an overall piss-poor performance by the Lake City Centurions for the morning edition.
I have to pause here to apologize for any stray thoughts that may interject themselves into my writing, but you must understand: I am being watched as I write this. And those damned things are growing ever closer to figuring out how to reach me. I don’t know how long this one-way correspondence will carry on for, but I will try my hardest to ensure that it makes sense.
Two days ago, I thought my world had ended. Little did I know how drastically my former fears would be overshadowed by the events that took place well after my initial incarceration.
When the officer pulled me over, I knew that my BAC was over the limit, but somehow thought I would be able to verbally convince him otherwise with a deft display of vocabulary. I was wrong. Apparently I am not as eloquent as I’d imagined myself to be in the wee hours of the morning after having polished off five margaritas.
After taking a few pictures holding a chalkboard with my name on it, and dipping all of my fingers in smelly ink, I was given a special set of vomit-proof jammies and thrown into the detoxification cell. This was where I first met Sudsy (perhaps it’s Sudsie), the ill-fated fellow with whom I shared a comfortless, barred room.
Sudsy was a nice enough guy. Like me, he was also in on charges related to alcohol consumption and motor vehicle operation, though he was on his last strike. His scraggly, biker’s beard and massive frame were alarming at first, but once we got to chatting, I was glad to find that my initial prejudices were shamefully inaccurate.
After about a four hour nap, I woke to find myself a little less drunk, and a lot more cold. They
sure didn’t waste any tax dollars heating this concrete shitbox (I’ve got myself a guard jacket, now).
Sudsy and I were getting into a surprisingly good discussion about political affairs when a uniformed officer burst into the secured holding area with his gun drawn. He pointed it at both Sudsy and myself, a wild look in his eyes. Sweat was beading on his brow, and a stream of blood dribbled from his nose and down his chin.
“How?” he said, more to himself than either of us. “Where?” With a jerky, twitching motion, he spun around and watched the door in a panicked pause. He continued to flick the weapon back and forth, between us and the exit.
“Hey man,” Sudsy called, “what’s going on? What the hell happened to yo—”
“Oh God,” the officer said, shaking his head. “You haven’t even heard, yet. How could you have, you poor sons of bitches?”
“Officer, what’s going on?” I asked.
He tipped his head back and laughed. “We’re fucked, that’s what!” Tears were streaming down his face. “Too fast. It happened too fast.” It was then that I heard soft repetitive popping noises from somewhere beyond the room’s heavy metal door. With the concrete walls as insulation, I supposed it must have been very loud to have registered inside the cell room.
“Gunfire,” Sudsy said blankly.
“Are we in danger?” I demanded. “Talk to me! Are we in danger?”
The officer swung the barrel of his gun in my direction and pulled the trigger.
December 23, 5:00 a.m.
My arm still hurts me seriously, which is most of the reason why I had to stop writing last night. I still can’t believe that son of a bitch actually shot me. Despite the annoyance of having a searing lead slug forced into my flesh, I was extremely lucky in two respects. The first was that the bullet only made a flesh wound through my upper shoulder. The second was that Sudsy had gotten his nickname while serving as a notoriously clean field medic in the Army. Thanks Sudsy.
He was a decent guy, but I couldn’t bear to look at his body lying on the floor only a few feet away from the cell after those…things had gotten him. I was glad they didn’t waste much time in taking his body away. Whether or not they’re smart enough to figure out how to get into this cell is beyond me. Only time will tell. Though, how much time I have is anyone’s guess. However long it takes me to starve, I suppose.
When the officer shot me, I thought I was dead for certain. It’s amazing that there was no initial pain. I remember reading that in circumstances of extreme trauma, the body is capable of releasing its own opiates. I suppose that’s what helped me get through the initial shock for about five minutes. Since then, however, the pain has only gradually increased. Part of me worries that an infection is taking hold. The rest of me hopes that it will kill me faster and with less pain than either starvation—or them.
After shooting me, the distraught officer threw his gun to the floor and collapsed in tears. Sudsy told me that the man had begun mumbling to himself. Once Sudsy had used most of his shirt to stop the bleeding of my wound, he turned again to the seated cop.
“Please, don’t hurt us,” Sudsy said quietly. After a few silent moments, he asked, “Just… please tell us what in the name of hell is going on out there.” The officer turned to look at him and shook his head, lower lip jutted and a resigned look on his face.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” he said. “Hell, neither do I.” He seemed to consider this a moment before reaching down for his ring of keys. He unhooked them and thrust them at our cell. I watched in a kind of daze while the teary-eyed officer sat spread-eagled on the floor. “Oh, Callahan. What did they do with your arms?” He began trembling and weeping violently.
“Hey, man. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”
“That’s bullshit!” the officer shouted. Sudsy backed away from the bars as the man brought his service weapon closer to his chest. His deep, uncontrolled breaths were the only sound that echoed off the walls of the holding room for the next few minutes.
“I won’t go like them.” He looked back at us with a lost and child-like desperation. “I won’t.” The barrel of his gun clicked on his teeth when he slipped it into his mouth with a trembling hand. Sudsy hardly had time to utter the first sound of protest before the man pulled the trigger.
December 23, 2007- 9:45 p.m.
I can’t write for long. My arm is throbbing so badly I want to scream.
I don’t know how or when exactly it started, but it happened extremely fast. If you’d care to hear any of my theories, I would say that they could range anywhere from alien invasion to a government bio-weapons test gone horribly wrong. Whatever the hell it is, I pray that the government was able to contain it. If so, they haven’t made it here, yet. That I know for certain.
I can’t see them. As ridiculous as I know it sounds, I’m fairly sure that they’ve got some sort of invisibility powers. There is the occasional shuffling from the skirting of my cell, and I have witnessed the door swing open a number of times, apparently of its own will. Two of those instances were when the bodies of both the suicidal officer and Sudsy were dragged out.
December 24, 2007- 11:25 a.m.
Sudsy took the officer’s keys and opened our cell as quickly as he could.
“Hold still, Jonathan,” Sudsy said, “I’m gonna go call a doctor.” After pausing to inspect the body of the guard, he winced and slipped through the doorway.
After a few minutes, he returned, panting.
“Sudsy, what’s happening?” I said, struggling to sit upright. He pressed himself tight against the door and slid to his haunches, folding his head in his hands. Ignoring the fiery pain in my shoulder, I stood and walked toward him. His face was the color of a fresh sheet of copy paper.
“We have to get out of here,” Sudsy said. “But I—can’t go back out there.” I walked to where the big man sat and leaned down.
“What did you see out there? Can we get help?” I had just witnessed an officer of the law commit suicide in emotional desperation, and was now watching my new friend and fellow inebriated driver apparently losing control of himself in front of me. I knew damned well that something was seriously wrong. When I reached out to him, Sudsy slapped my arm away savagely. He looked up at me with wet eyes.
“We can’t go out there,” he said. “Nope. Can’t do it. Too much blood.”
I don’t know what possessed me then, but I reached back for the sprawled guard’s gun, and grabbed Sudsy’s arm. “Come on,” I said, dragging him back to the cell. Looking back, it may have been one of the smartest decisions of my life, or perhaps one of the stupidest.
I collapsed on the hard bed for God knows how many hours after I pulled Sudsy back into the cell. My body was exhausted. When I awoke, Sudsy was standing at the front of the cell, with his head planted firmly against the bars. He must have recovered the dead officer’s jacket, because it was draped over my upper body.
“Sudsy?”
“Yeah, John?” he answered softly.
“What did you see out there?”
“If you don’t get some antibiotics in you, that thing is going to get an infection,” he answered blankly. “You don’t want that John-O. That’s some dead-painful shit.” For the record, I hate being addressed as John, and positively despise the version with the added vowel. At the moment, however, neither even remotely registered as unnatural in my ears.
“Sudsy, you didn’t—”
“Go back to sleep, Jonathan.” Before I could argue, exhaustion had swallowed me again. When I woke from my slumber, Sudsy was no longer in the cell with me.
According to the clock on the wall, it was just before midnight on the twenty-first. The gun was still tucked into the elastic band of the back of my pants. After sleeping on the steel weapon for god only knows how many hours, it was no wonder I could hardly walk. I looked around quickly for any sign of Sudsy and saw a black notebook face up on the floor. It was the officer’s memo book (which I am now writing in). Scrawled
across the top page was: John, Gone to find help. It was at that moment that I realized that the ring of keys were nowhere to be seen.
“Damn it, Sudsy.” Not only had he left me alone in a room where the only view was of a cop slumped in a pile of blood, but he had locked me inside the cell. Sure, I had the gun, but there was absolutely no way for me to get out.
Two hours later, Sudsy returned.
The door to the de-tox area slid inward with a slow, rusty creak, and brought me out of my doze. I shot up to see Sudsy step awkwardly into the room. It was immediately apparent that something was not quite copacetic with my new friend.
“Sudsy,” I croaked. “Hey man. Where’d you go?” He made no response, but shuffled forward with roughly jerking steps. His neck had twisted sharply to the side, and his shoulders lurched with every footfall. He moved like a poorly guided marionette.
I walked to the bars to reach out to him. “Sudsy, give me the keys. I think it’s about time for us to get the hell out of here.” He still showed no signs that he’d heard me. His eyes were slack, and it was then that I saw the sticky trail of blood running freely from the top of his head and down the side of his neck.
“Holy shit. What happened to you?” I said. “You’ve got to give me the keys, man!”
“Keeeezss,” he croaked. It was not the voice of the man I had discussed politics with only a day prior. But that was not the most troubling part. His lips hadn’t moved so much as a millimeter when the words were spoken.
When he suddenly crumpled to the floor, I stretched out my arms instinctively to catch Sudsy and screamed in pain as something slashed at my left arm. My hand was instantly coated with blood from a series of long gouges that ran along my forearm. It burned, but I was too shocked to register the new source of pain.
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