by Sean Platt
“Yes, I read the feature in The Economist about your situation. Which is why I’m here. I think we can help one another.”
“Help one another?” Art found his smile. “What do you have in mind?”
“First, let me ask you a question. Would you like your old life back? Your youth? Your vitality? All of your memories?”
“Hey, lady, if you’re pitching some snake oil, go peddle your wares elsewhere.” Art’s smile turned into a laugh full of cracks. “Doctors already said there’s nothing that can be done for me. Besides, I’ve lived long enough. My family, the ones I care about anyway, are all long gone. What’s the point of being young again even if you could make it happen?”
“Because nobody wants to die. No one would choose nothingness over life. And I see the glimmer in your eye, Mr. Morgan. I see that you’ve got quite a bit of fight left inside you.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, ma’am. I’m quite tired of fighting. I’ve seen enough quarreling, enough violence, enough death, to last me five lifetimes. I’m ready to meet my maker — or nothingness if that’s all there is. I’m ready to lie down and just be.”
Rose shook her head. “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. I see a tired man, yes, maybe even a discouraged man. But he’s not tired of fighting. He’s tired of losing. He’s tired of not being able to affect change. He’s tired of not counting. But what if you could have your health and get people listening again?”
Art wanted to tell this woman to leave him alone, stop trying to sell whatever it was she was hocking. He looked around again.
“Where the hell is Estelle?”
Rose leaned in again, put both her freezing hands on his. He wanted to pull his away, but couldn’t. His heartbeat sped up, and a shiver ran through him.
He asked, “W-what are you?”
“I am the Maker. I am going to change everything in this world. I’m offering you a seat at the table.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Art’s blood was boiling in anger, and he felt a twitter from detonation. His body refused to obey him. He couldn’t even stir enough anger to yell for someone to get this clown out of here. He was pretty certain that she was somehow holding him down, even if he couldn’t figure out how.
What the hell is she doing to me?
“I’m talking about this, Mr. Morgan.” Rose released his hands, reached into her purse, and pulled out a glass vial with glowing blue liquid inside.
A hundred thoughts swam through his mind, all screaming danger. For a moment Art was certain the woman was some sort of anti-war protester who had brought a toxin to poison him, to make some kind of misguided political statement.
But just as Art was transfixed by her eyes, he found himself unable to look at anything other than the vial.
“Go ahead,” she said, handing it to him.
His hand moved forward, as if with a will of its own.
He touched the vial.
A spark jumped from the vial to his skin. But rather than deflecting his hand, it drew his fingers closer.
The vial was suddenly in his hand, surprisingly warm to the touch. An energy coursed through him, and within seconds Art felt a vitality he hadn’t felt since his thirties, perhaps even his twenties.
What is this?
He stared at the vial, watching as the blue liquid seemed to climb up the glass toward the black stopper, as if trying to flee.
Open it, his mind said. At least he thought it was his mind.
He heard a swelling of dozens, if not hundreds, of whispers above a low hum. Together, the sounds seemed like music to a forgotten song on the tip of his tongue.
Art longed to hear more.
Rose withdrew the vial.
The energy and wonder that had filled his heart was gone, popped like a bubble.
Art already longed to feel it again. She was like a drug pusher giving him his first hit for free, before she announced the price of his next.
“Please,” he said, his trembling fingers outstretched, reaching for it.
“Not here,” she said. “Come with me.”
“OK.” Art stood and followed Rose, willing to go anywhere she wanted if it meant feeling that feeling again.
Twenty-Two
Marina Harmon
Marina stared out the window into Culver City’s filthy, beating heart.
It was charity to say the house had seen better days. The home, with its boarded windows, chipped paint, and weed-strewn lawn, looked like a war zone. Of course, given the neighborhood’s general neglect and how many of its citizens faced death on a daily basis, that wasn’t far from the truth.
“This is your house?”
“Yes,” Acevedo said. “The neighborhood went to hell about ten years ago or so. It used to be beautiful.”
“And you stored the most important thing in the world in this dump?”
Acevedo nodded. “Never underestimate the power of hiding in plain sight.”
Marina looked up and down the street, saw some thugs standing at the end of the block, wearing oversized clothes that surely covered guns.
She felt guilty for stereotyping young black men, but wasn’t naive. It was the neighborhood, not their color. She told herself she’d feel the same way if it were any other race of young men hanging around looking like thugs. She also realized that anyone living here had to adapt to their surroundings so as not to stand out, and that any kid living here would naturally don a thug’s persona. That didn’t mean every kid who looked like a thug was one. But at the same time, Marina had to assume they all were, lest she let her guard down.
Marina had lived a lily-white life of comfort and opportunity. She’d done some work in poor communities and had even travelled to Eastern Europe, Africa, and Haiti to do missionary work for the church. But she’d rarely been in neighborhoods like this, let alone truly got to know anyone who lived there.
“You think we’re safe?” she asked, fearing that the priest would think her some uptight elitist.
“Nobody’s going to mess with us.” Acevedo sounded confident. He got out of the car, and Marina joined him. Together they walked toward the house, her trying not to look directly at the thugs, who were definitely scoping them out.
Marina walked quicker, pulling up close to Acevedo, feeling vulnerable, as if everyone in the neighborhood could sense them there, and that she had something of unimaginable power in her jacket pocket, making her a ripe target.
Acevedo unlocked the front door then stepped inside and flipped on a light just inside the doorway.
“Wait a sec,” he said, vanishing into the house.
Marina wanted to call out and remind the priest that he shouldn’t leave her on the porch too long, but didn’t want to sound wimpy.
As she waited, Marina noticed several chipped marks in the door jamb, surely signs of people breaking in. She wondered if they’d made the trip for naught. What if someone had broken in and found the vial and Acevedo’s list?
“OK,” Acevedo appeared in the doorway. “No squatters.”
Marina crossed the threshold into the house and was immediately thrown back by the smell of feces and … something putrid she couldn’t identify.
She saw the walls smeared with feces, blood, and God knew what other kinds of fluids, along with hundreds of words scrawled in pen, pencil, crayon, and even by knife. Words were mostly too small to read without moving closer, but Marina made out a few:
DEATH
NOTHING
VOID
HELP
“What the hell?” she said looking at the place, littered with evidence from countless squatters — food and drink containers, dirty clothing, porno mags, and plenty of paraphernalia from drugs. Large chunks were missing from the walls, as if there had been a party with a sledgehammer. The house looked like the set of a snuff film.
The air was suddenly heavy. Marina felt a mix of strong emotions swirling through her, from euphoria to anguish.
She wan
ted to leave.
Being in here was too much.
She thought of the master’s training, paused, then drew a deep breath and counted to five before exhaling.
“People break in here all the time, no matter what I do. They’re drawn to the vial, I suspect. They come in search of something they can sense but not see. Then, driven mad, they tear the house apart, searching but unable to find a thing. Eventually, they lose their minds and leave, or … ”
“Or what?”
“Let’s just say the police have pulled many bodies out of here.”
“I can feel it,” she said, “so much pain. That’s the vial?”
“I don’t know if it’s the vial or residuals — psychic stains, if you will — of those who have suffered here. But yes, it’s strong.”
“So the vials act in response to what people are feeling, to what they are? Isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“So is it possible that your vial may have already been tainted by the people in here? Already turned to Darkness?”
“No,” Acevedo said, then after a long pause added, “at least I hope not.”
“Great,” Marina said with a sense of impending doom. She wasn’t sure if the sensation was a response to the situation, a delayed reaction to everything that had already happened, or if she were being infected by the home’s haunted emotions.
She tried to think positive thoughts, not let the house change her mood. Marina could see why Acevedo demanded that she complete the training. She couldn’t imagine how she would’ve responded if she’d not been somewhat prepared to combat the overwhelming sense of doom.
Acevedo led Marina to the kitchen. The cabinets were destroyed, ripped from the walls. The sink was torn out. The refrigerator was open, filled with rotting food and what looked like more shit. Walls were broken in many places, paper peeled and hanging low. The floor was scattered with more remnants of squatters, and the linoleum was ripped away to reveal a dry, dirty concrete floor.
Acevedo looked up and smiled.
“It’s still here.”
She blinked. “It is? Where?”
He pointed to the floor and said, “I’ll be right back.”
Marina stood in the kitchen as Acevedo went to the car.
Standing there, she felt a humming from the vials in her jacket, as if in response to the one beneath her.
Dig.
Dig.
The thoughts raced through her head so fast she wasn’t sure if she’d thought them or if … the vials had.
The room grew cold while she waited for Acevedo.
Again, Marina felt the stirring of emotions, and they began to seep into her. She found herself wondering what the hell she was doing with the priest.
Who was Marina to think she could save the world?
She couldn’t even save herself, let alone see the danger that was lurking inside Steven. What hope did she have? What hope did they have?
It all felt so futile.
She had to flee the house, clear the dark thoughts from her head.
Where the hell is Acevedo?
Something moved behind her, a dark blur in the living room.
She turned, but it — whatever it was — was already gone.
Her heart like a jackhammer, Marina wanted to run outside, and get the hell out of the house.
The front door opened, and Acevedo stepped back inside holding a concrete saw in his gloved hands, wearing goggles and a mask.
“You might want to stand back. You don’t want to breathe any of this dust once I start cutting.”
“OK,” Marina said, going out to the living room, where the stench of shit and despair was strongest.
As the priest began to cut a hole in the floor and the saw’s whirring echoed throughout the house, Marina moved closer to the front door, wanting to just go outside, even if she did wind up with a bunch of thugs throwing their murderous stares on her body.
“Marina,” a voice said from behind.
She turned.
Acevedo was still kneeling on the kitchen floor, guiding the saw’s blade through the concrete.
“Marina,” the voice repeated, a man’s voice, slightly familiar, though she didn’t recognize it over the noise.
She looked around, and saw the bedroom door in the back of the house swing shut.
She wanted to tell Acevedo, but something stopped her. Instead, Marina approached the bedroom.
“That’s it, Marina, come closer.”
Everything in her said to turn and run back to the kitchen. But Marina felt a compulsion to see what was inside the room.
Her heart was like thunder, goose bumps raking her flesh as she crept toward the door. Marina reached out slowly for the doorknob, her mind screaming at her to turn around.
She tried to turn the handle.
Locked.
OK, that’s it. Turn around and go. Now.
Finally, Marina felt something click inside, and she was able to turn away from the door and walk away.
As she headed back to the kitchen, the sound of Acevedo’s saw cut off.
Behind her, she heard the door unlock.
Click
Marina turned, staring at the door.
“Marina,” the voice said again, this time sounding muffled, as if coming from the other side of the door.
She turned to look at Acevedo who had turned the saw back on and was cutting again, oblivious to Marina and whoever else might be in the house.
She turned back to the door and walked toward it.
She reached out, turned the knob, and stepped through the doorway into a pitch-black room. Light from the living room should have bled inside but didn’t.
The room clutched its darkness like a cloak to disavow nature’s laws.
“Come in,” the man’s voice said from the far corner of the room.
She could barely make out a shape in the darkness, not enough to see who it was.
She wanted to turn and leave.
This is a terrible idea.
Acevedo’s saw faded into the background as if it, and he, were becoming impossibly distant and far away.
“Come closer, so I may see you,” whispered the man.
Marina’s body obeyed.
The door closed behind her.
Click
Marina’s every fiber screamed at her to run. She was being tricked by The Darkness, eager to finish the job It had set out to do: kill her.
Yet she couldn’t turn away.
Marina had to move closer and see what It had to tell her.
She moved toward the corner.
“You cannot trust him,” said the man in the dark.
“Who?”
“The priest. You must make sure he doesn’t get the vials.”
“Why?”
“You don’t really know anything about him, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
The sound of her name cut into the conversation — Acevedo from the other room. “Marina?”
She turned back to the man in the shadows, but he was gone, and she was alone in the darkness.
“Marina?” Acevedo called again, his footsteps approaching the door. He twisted at the handle, but couldn’t open it.
“Marina?”
“Coming.” She reached out in the darkness, found the lock, twisted it, then opened the door.
“What’s going on?” he asked, eyeing Marina suspiciously.
“I was looking around and … the door just closed and locked itself behind me.”
She left out the part about the man in the darkness and his warning, hoping that Acevedo couldn’t tell she was withholding.
She looked down and saw a metal box in his hands.
“Is that the vial and the list?”
“Yes,” he said, “please, take it. You need to open it.”
“Why me?”
“I don’t need the temptation.”
“OK.” Marina opened the box.
Inside
was a thick black cloth wrapped around a vial. Marina couldn’t see the vial, or its glowing blue liquid, but she could feel it humming, louder as she opened it.
Beside the vial was a piece of folded paper.
She pulled it out and saw three numbers written in her father’s handwriting.
“What are these?”
“The names of the other three people who have vials, and their addresses. Written in code.”
“I assume you have the key?”
“Yes,” he said pointing to his head, “up here. Let me see the list.”
He took the paper from Marina and looked it up and down.
“Make sense to you?”
“Yes, and one of these is in town. I suggest we head there first. Let’s get out of here. I feel like someone’s watching us.”
Marina wondered if that’s who she saw in the room. The someone watching them. She wanted to tell Acevedo about the person, and the message, but at the same time something in her gut said the voice could be trusted.
Yes, her father had trusted Acevedo enough to give him a vial and a list of the others. And yes, he didn’t seem to want any part of the vials, enough to have told her not to surrender them.
Yet there was something off about the priest. Being fooled by Steven had taught Marina to acknowledge her instincts. There had been small signs of Steven’s oddness that she’d gathered from time to time, things she shouldn’t have ignored. Marina allowed her love, if she could call it that, to blind her.
She wouldn’t be that stupid again.
At the same time, Marina wouldn’t blindly trust a voice in the dark.
There was no rush to tell Acevedo anything. She could hold her cards and bide her time until she had reason to trust the priest, or not.
Marina hoped she could trust him.
If not, she had no one else.
Twenty-Three
Edward Keenan
Ed listened through the walls, ear to the long-range Agency microphone’s earpiece until the saw’s buzzing scream finally abated.
Afterward, he heard Marina talking to the man Paola said was a priest.
Judging from their conversation, they had a list with the names and locations of the other three people holding vials.
