Henry awoke in a sweat again, nerves jangling. He blinked in surprise at the lack of rust on his walls, then a few more times before he was able to collect himself. No red webby walls, no crusty blanket...no, everything was normal.
Dammit. The same nightmare.
Once again, his bedside clock read 3:30 AM.
And all isn't well.
This time around, he walked right past the fridge. Instead, he turned on the light over the stove and pulled a heavy, just-over-half-full glass bottle from the cabinet to the right. His hand reached for a glass, but stopped in midair. Instead, he plopped down onto his couch and unscrewed the cap of the bottle. He lifted it to his lips and took a deep swig of its contents as he picked up the TV remote and pressed the power button.
Nothing happened. He tried again. Amazingly enough, the screen flickered to life...
...and blasted static. He turned down the volume quickly and flipped around the channels with one hand as he held the bottle to his mouth with the other. Same here…and here…and on the twenty-four-hour news station…and on the public access station. Even the program guide station was gone.
Great. TV works, but the cable's out. I know I paid the bill last week. Damn. If it isn't one thing, it's another.
So he was in exactly the same place he'd been twenty-four hours earlier…up in the middle of the night, nerves shot to hell, on his couch with a bottle in his hand. Different type of bottle, though...very different.
Clearly, the world is conspiring against us, bottle. It's just you and me now.
Twenty minutes later, the screen was still blasting static. Henry, however, was unconcerned by this, having nearly emptied his bottle and thus enveloped himself in a happy fuzzy haze that brightened everything he saw. He dangled the bottle in front of his eyes, and watched the blurs resolve into letters.
Sto-lich-na-ya. An-es-the-sia. I hope.
No wonder that he'd knocked himself out that quickly, since there was nothing at all in his stomach. He knew damn well that his gut would be a deep black hole of fire the next morning, but he didn't care. About anything, really…and that was exactly the point.
God, when was the last time I got drunk? Not on my birthday, just had a few glasses of wine with my dinner, that was all. No, it was before that…
Last New Year's, actually. Just him in his room, after he'd laid in bed for half an hour trying to ignore the racket from the party across the way, then another half hour with his pillow over his head trying to drown it out. Then, he'd given up.
Screw it. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
So, he'd trudged to the kitchen, dug out this selfsame bottle, broken the seal on the top and dropped into the chair by the window. He leaned over the chair back and nudged the window open and waited, listening to the music and the voices and the laughter that drifted through the window from somewhere nearby, and sipping from the bottle. As the clock counted down to midnight, he lifted the windowsill open further and leaned out of the window into the chill of the night. The air was fresh and clear, which was more than could be said for Henry himself. He felt dirty and random, which hadn't been the intended effect...not that he'd had one in mind anyway. But it really didn't matter, of course. He was fuzzy and happy, and that was what was important.
Voices floated up from the party down below.
"Five...four...three..."
He lifted the bottle to his mouth and noted idly that it was almost half-empty.
Where did all that go? Into me, I guess. Heh. Which is just fine.
He smiled, and dribbled a little of the vodka onto his chin. His other hand came up to wipe it off, and as he turned his head he saw someone several feet away, leaning out of the window to his left. His neighbor...what's her name...Eileen. The wind stirred her straight dark hair as she turned to face him. He was just at that level of drunk where everything seemed sharper and crisper, and the motion of each individual strand fascinated him just then. He found himself staring as it swung and blew in the breeze. Then, he caught himself staring, and saw that she was smiling at him. He smiled back.
Never noticed it before…but she's really nice to look at.
From far below, popping and cheering announced the arrival of the New Year. She grinned, and mouthed something over the noise of Auld Lang Syne.
Happy New Year.
He raised his bottle to her, and drank deeply.
But that was months ago. Now, he was by himself on the couch with nothing but a rapidly emptying bottle of vodka, a useless TV and a desire to never go to sleep again.
Wonder what Eileen's doing now. Probably fast asleep. I should be, too. Can't stay up forever.
I hate drinking alone. Which is why I don't drink often, I guess.
He drained the last of the vodka and stood up. He was alone, yes, but he was feeling good. His arms stretched out wide in sheer contentment. The room spun in the opposite direction of the ceiling fan, and so it seemed to stand still for a long, long moment. Time for bed. He pointed himself toward the bedroom and staggered down the hall, not noticing the bottle drop from his hand. The bed loomed large and blue in front of him, and as his head swam he fell onto it heavily.
I...am.
He was conscious of nothing else.
I...am...here.
He turned his head slowly. It felt so heavy...
He was standing in the courtyard of some building he'd never seen before. It was an apartment building, about the size of South Ashfield Heights, but with a different layout. This one was L-shaped, not U-shaped. Neatly cut grass lay in front of him, and as he turned around, he saw a raised swimming pool behind him. Fog swirled all around. He felt...huge. All over. Massive. The ground lay much further from his eyes than he was used to. He was enormous and powerful and fearsome. It was...
The long, thin spear in his hand rested lightly in his grip. He turned to his right, and entered the building in front of him. He knew what he had to do.
He felt like a puppet. His body was moving, but he wasn't telling it where to go. It was as if he was some sort of remote-control robot...he saw things and felt things, but he was just along for the ride.
Walking was laborious. His legs felt so heavy. Up the stairs. Every step was like lifting weights. Through the door. Down the hallway, then left, then further.
208
A man sat in an armchair several feet away from a television, watching...nothing. Static blared, yet the man's blond head stared straight ahead. As Henry moved toward him, the man sat motionless, as if...
Waiting for me.
And now he knew why, and what he was about to do, and…
He raised the spear in his hand, and plunged it into the man's chest. The man jerked forward, gurgling, then sagged back into the chair as warm blood spurted forward. He tugged on the spear to pull it back out, but it was stuck in the bone and flesh. He only succeeded in pulling the chair, man and all forward, leaving a long smear of thick red on the ground to match the thick red that now coated the man's entire front and obscured whatever color his clothes had once been. Finally, he pulled the spear free, and blood gushed onto the TV screen. The wetness drenched him to the skin. The dead man's hair was no longer yellow...but his eyes were still open, and he was faintly smiling.
Oh my God. What have I just done? I've killed a man.
Another thought came, unbidden and unwelcome.
…good.
Whose thought was that? Not his...but in his head. So it had to be his…but something wasn't right. This had happened before…thoughts that weren't his…but he couldn't remember when or why. He turned away from the blood-soaked body and moved toward the back of the apartment. The clock slid aside smoothly to allow his passage.
In the next room, he noticed a picture on the wall. He couldn't quite make out what the image represented, so he stepped closer for a better look. But what he saw in the reflection startled him almost out of his skin. He cried out before he realized that he was looking at himself. He had...no head. Just an enormous, bloody, rusted helmet. It was all angles, and came to a point at the top. He wore a heavy white cotton smock, stained with fresh blood and dirt and something else. His lower legs and feet were nearly black with the stuff.
That's why my head feels so heavy...because it is...
Still, the weight of the helmet seemed to be keeping his headache in check. As he emerged from the room, he saw bars blocking the hallway behind him.
Strange. But it doesn't matter. They're not for me...they're for him. The back of his mind asked, For whom?
Footsteps approached, and Henry gripped his spear tightly. But on the other side of the bars, he saw him.
The man I just killed. No, of course not…but very like him.
The man looked exactly like the body in the chair in 208...except that this one was alive, and breathing hard, and staring back at him in shock and fear. He seemed so puny, with his little wooden board in his hand. The few bent nails in the end of the board wouldn't hurt a fly. So weak. No match for him. Not even close.
As he stood facing the smaller blond man in the green jacket, Henry knew that he was looking at the reason that he was here.
For you, James.
We were sent here for you.
There were...things…in the hallway. Monstrous things. Things with four legs and no body that walked upright on long, slender, shapely female legs. Things with their entire upper bodies covered in skin and flesh, waggling armlessly along and hissing obscenely through slits in their chests. Things like Henry had never seen before. He was terrified, couldn't believe what he was seeing, but at the same time he…
This feels familiar somehow. Like this whole place is…like I've been here before. I know why I'm here, so maybe that's it. But it doesn't make any sense.
As he shuffled down the hall on the third floor, two of the four-legged things came up to him, swinging their hips and shaking their upper legs at him. Like they wanted something. That second voice in his head said Heh. I know what you want. I know what you need. He grabbed each one by a leg and dragged them down the hallway to an empty room.
What am I doing?
But he couldn't stop his arms and legs from opening the door and dragging the two things into the room. The light in the small kitchen area was dim. He threw one, then the other, against the counter. They lay there, twitching limply.
Oh God...
Henry realized with horror what he was about to do…and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.
Oh God...
As he moved closer, his horror was joined by an even worse sensation...he was...
No...this isn't happening...
But it was most definitely happening, and it was happening to him. And he...God help him...he was enjoying it. More every second, in ways both familiar and alien. His mind rebelled in horror at the same time as it thrilled to the sensations engulfing him. He hadn't known that pleasure like this could be so agonizingly acute...and so repulsive. He couldn't stop it, and he couldn't block it out. He should be feeling nauseated, wanting to retch his guts out, but he couldn't even do that...
…please…stop this…stop…
But whoever or whatever was driving this body didn't seem to care. He really was just along for the ride. The pleasure and the horror built up, more and more of both, and he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Kill me...now...please…
He felt his head being ripped apart and his brain being turned inside out as he fought like hell to deny what was happening, and he was losing the fight. His skull was going to blow into tiny pieces any moment now...at least that would end this torment...
Somewhere in the distance, a door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of yellow hair, and he realized that that man -- James -- had entered the room. He saw him slip into a closet, trying not to be seen.
Too late.
And just like that, it was over. One of the things slumped to the ground. He took hold of the other and dragged it out of the kitchen, dropping it
it...that seems so wrong somehow...
on the floor as he went. The unbearable pleasure was gone, thank God, replaced by a dull ache. A heavy, dull, metallic ache. The headache was back. He had to get this damn helmet off, now, or it was going to crush his eggshell skull. The thing on the floor kicked up at him, and he planted his foot square in its belly. It lay still. He tried and tried, but no matter how hard he pulled at the huge metal helmet, he couldn't budge it. It wasn't going anywhere soon...
Then, gunfire erupted from the closet. The bastard was shooting at him! The bullets echoed in his ears as they bounced off of the helmet, like daggers through his skull, and he stumbled toward the door.
God damn him!
He threw open the door and lurched into the hallway. Down the hall, down the stairs, into the courtyard. Anywhere to get away from the noise...
Henry gradually came to the realization that he wasn't alone. He could feel it...there was another like him out there somewhere. It was oddly reassuring.
Henry...
He heard it (him? her?) speak to him in his head. Was it really speaking his name?
Henry...go...
Go to the stairwell. He will meet you there soon.
The small room was empty. He waved his hand, and the stairs below filled with silvery water. James wouldn't be going anywhere soon.
Movement caught his eye. A single armless creature was huddled in a corner, scrabbling away, trying to crawl into the wall.
And neither will you.
It was trying so hard to not be seen...and failing so miserably. He laughed to himself.
Smart. But futile.
He grabbed it and pulled it out of the corner, ignoring its muffled cries. He shoved its head roughly into his abdomen. The horror came flooding back again…and so did the pleasure.
Yeah. You know what to do...
Just then, the door opened, and in wandered James, oblivious as usual to everything going on around him...and, as usual, arriving right in the middle of things. With a twist, he flung the creature to the floor, and turned to the new arrival. His hand tightened around the handle of the knife that dragged behind him.
Time to play, James...
Bullets pinged off of his helmet again, but he did his best to block out the pain. James was running from one end of the little room to the other, too quickly, and he couldn't get a good bead on him. Finally, James stopped, exhausted, and he gripped the huge knife firmly and started to lift it.
Goodbye, James.
But just as he was about to slice the man in two, he heard it, in the distance...
Killing James would have to wait. The siren was calling him home. Down the stairs he went, and as he opened the door at the bottom, the waters rushed out and he felt himself dissolving into a million little pieces in the daylight...
It's Her turn now, Henry. Let Her do Her job.