Chapter Twenty-Four

"Persecution Complex"

Time stopped for me again, and there was more of that same darkness. Unlike last time, I couldn't distinctly remember the sort of rush that rendered me unconscious, yet the slight awareness I did possess did not notice the sensation of falling, so I guess I did go out again. I don't remember hitting the ground, either. I know I did, I know I must have, because it was just bound to happen. No hole in the world was truly bottomless.

Were any of the HOLEs bottomless?

Didn't know. Didn't care. I was engulfed in other kinds of sensations. Some of them were warm and pleasant, some of them were cold and evil, but even the good ones seemed tainted. I had lost Mary, after all, and the process was anything but pleasant. By the end… what? It was troubling to me that my memories seemed so fuzzy, awake or in dreamland. Nothing seemed to change, here, there, or anywhere. I was here looking for my wife, even though I knew she was dead. I was already resigned to the possibility that I was a few lights short of a Christmas tree, even though I did still possess enough lucidity to realize what I was doing and how crazy it was. Was it insanity that drove me on? I certainly hoped not. Desperation, even to this degree, was something I could handle and accept. Losing my mental facilities was not. If I lose my mind, I lose myself, and if that happens, what's the point of going on?

No answer was forthcoming, but I wasn't expecting one anyway.

All those swirling, whirling colors, all formless and amorphous, faded slowly, became shades of gray that all turned white slowly, dissolving and dispersing like smoke in a windstorm. Then, the whites changed direction, turning gray again, and then black. Feeling came back to me, no scares like last time. I could feel my feet and hands even before my eyesight returned to me. I moved them, feeling strange, as if I had never possessed extremities before. What a novel concept, hands and feet.

Finally, the lights and flashes of my mind misted away, and I found myself staring at yet another concrete ceiling, this one just as dark and putrid as any other I'd seen down here. Wooden beams criss-crossed the span, all of them completely green, and in a brighter shade. My field of vision came down, which revealed to me that I was surrounded by tables, every side of me had them. None of them looked special in any sort of way. Many had chairs, parked under or nearby, several skewed and none of them neat or clean. The floor beneath me was dirty as well, the same sort of overgrown cave-like neglect evident all over, but there was more here. Chunks of material were scattered about. Most of them weren't of a size worth noting, but several were, and all of them were black as night. I touched one that lay near my hand. It was very dry, lightweight, and smelled faintly of sweet rot. Then I saw the emaciated white chunk that stuck out of the side. It was a bone. I had a piece of meat in my hand, from animal or from human I couldn't guess. It was practically mummified with age, and the realization made my stomach churn. With a grunt of disgust, I leaned back and chucked it across the room, over the crusty, dusty tables and chairs. I heard it hit the wall with a soft thonk, then the floor with a softer thonk.

I stood, massaging a back that was sore but blessedly undamaged. My understanding of these HOLEs was hardly near comprehensive, but I was beginning to at least form a theory or two. Whatever their nature, I was twice able to jump into one, fall quite a long way, land on hard ground both times and live to tell about it, so obviously, there was some kind of unnatural property involved.

How many more would I have to go down, though? How deep did this fucked-up rabbit hole go? My mind was rife with possibilities, and none of them were pleasant. They were forced away quickly. The only way I could cope with my situation was by ignoring the likely outcomes. If I let them manifest, if I let myself become distracted by them, I might give up. I might not be able to go on, convinced I will find nothing. Mary is at that hotel. She is there. She said she was.

I scanned the room, looking for any threats that the radio hadn't caught. I didn't see any monsters. I did see several old pots and a ton of filthy serving trays, some littering the floor, most littering the tables. The bowls and steel pots were encrusted with the remnants of some ancient dinner. Spoons, a hand-cart, even scraps of clothing lay strewn about. It looked a riot had broken out and nobody bothered cleaning up afterwards. The walls were thick with stains of all shapes and sizes, surely some of those could have come from these trays. After all, meat can stain as easily as anything. A painting hung on the wall behind me. Strange place to find a painting, but this one was rather interesting. It showed the very room I was in, with the viewpoint facing where I was standing. On the far wall, you could see this painting, creating a strange infinity effect. I'd have found it fascinating in nicer circumstances.

The flashlight beam swept in that direction, but it stopped as if frozen solid when it fell upon something that was just a little more provocative than dirty tables and messy counters. A man sat at one of those tables, over in the far corner. Upon closer inspection, I realized that he wasn't really sitting, not so much as he was slumped over. He was resting, although it was rather obvious that it was of the eternal variety. The poor bastard's head was pulped, a complete wreck. The skull was smashed, and a macabre mess of blood, bone shards and shredded chunks of pale pink brain spread in front of him on the table, like a fan. The smell was thick and meaty and of rich copper.

I'd like to say it was the first time I'd seen a person mutilated in this manner, but it wasn't. Just a few hours earlier Maria and I had found that guy on the Nathan Avenue bridge, and overall, he was in worse shape than the man in front of me. He wasn't fresh, though. Whoever he was, he had been dead for at least several hours. The guy at the table here, he was. He was very fresh. The blood hadn't even started to congeal yet. What the hell happened to him? And how had he gotten down here? It looked like someone had taken a large gun of some kind and…

Then it hit me. I had seen someone fucked up this badly, and not just the bridge guy. My mind's eye flashed helpful imagery; a small, half-size refrigerator, literally soaked in dark, smelly blood. The door open, and human feet poked out beyond it a foot or so. It was a kid, a teenager at best, certainly too young to buy a pack of smokes without some trickery. He was killed, butchered really, and stuffed halfheartedly into a refrigerator. He was dead maybe a minute when I found him, and this guy here likely wasn't dead much longer. And not another minute after I saw that terrible work of art, I came across the guy who was almost certainly responsible. Found him kneeling across a toilet, puking his fat guts out and denying any involvement.

And in that moment, before I even thought about turning, I knew what I would see when I did. I knew I would see Eddie. The two deaths were just a little too similar. I knew Eddie would be nearby.

I didn't have to look far, either. He was only a few feet away, sitting on the ground and leaning up against a door. His legs were splayed out in front of him and he stared straight ahead, totally unmindful of me and the flashlight I shined in his face. His eyes were blank and unmoving. I could see his pupils contracting, and that was about all the movement I could see going on. What hair I could see poking out from the rim of his baseball cap was thick and matted. His striped polo shirt sported thick, dark sweat stains. Dust and dirt caked much of his exposed skin. His arms lay slack and limp.

And yes, friends and neighbors, Eddie's revolver was loosely nestled in his pudgy right hand.

I shined the light in his face, moving it back and forth, hoping it would get his attention. At first, there was nothing but the blank stare. He seemed to be in some sort of trance, but he wasn't unconscious. I could see his chest expanding and contracting, and it was doing so too rapidly for him to be asleep. He looked to be slightly catatonic, if anything. I wanted to help him snap out of it. Sure, the guy gave me definite bad vibes, and he had this irritating habit of being in the company of recently-made corpses, but I couldn't leave him like this.

So, I kept waving the flashlight across his face. It didn't seem to be getting me anywhere. I could shake him, but the thought of physical contact was a little disturbing. After all, he did have a large gun in his hand. What if I surprised him? What if I scared him? What if I broke his little fugue and he came out of it completely disoriented and started firing off that revolver without even knowing it?

What if he was a killer? What if he liked it?

Didn't want to dwell on that one.

I was just about to give up and force myself to shake him awake when he suddenly turned away from me, throwing his arms up. He was trying to shield his eyes. I heard him muttering something, but it was too quiet to be intelligible. I angled the light so that it no longer shined in his face. He looked back towards me, his face still pasty and pale from whatever had happened to him. I saw a sneer flash across his face, a look that seemed almost contemptuous, and it was directed at me. It was only there for a moment though, then it was gone. He leaned over and tried to use his arm as leverage to stand. I offered my hand and he took it. His hand was clammy and sweaty, and cold from resting on the floor.

Once on his feet, Eddie looked around nervously, as if expecting someone else to suddenly appear. His roving gaze finally fell upon the grisly corpse slumped over the meal table. He snorted when he saw him. Then he looked to me, out of the corner of his eye, as he remained facing the body.

"You know what?" He said. His voice sounded dry and raspy.

"What?"

"Killin' a person. I used to think it was a big-ass deal, you know? I used to think you had to be some kind of tough-shit to kill someone."

I said nothing.

"It ain't, though," he continued. "Killin' a person ain't no big deal at all."

"You killed that guy?" I asked. I tried to hide the edgy discomfort in my voice. To my chagrin, I wasn't doing a good job of it. He could tell, too. I was sure of it.

His expression changed suddenly from one that looked smug and satisfied to one that looked afraid, and in over his head. Likely all of it was true.

"You don't get it, man! It… it wasn't my fault! That guy, he made me do it!"

I held my hands up, and he stopped. That was good. The last thing I wanted was for him to get excited and hysterical while he still had that gun in his hand.

"Easy there, Eddie. Calm down and tell me what happened."

He pointed at the corpse, never taking his eyes off of it. "It was his fault! I didn't do nothin', and he was just comin' at me! Kept on comin' and he wouldn't stop! He was askin' for it, James! Ya see what happened to him? He had it coming!" He paused, and his eyes opened wider, giving him the look of a pulpit preacher with a serious case of righteous piss-off. "Besides, I didn't like the way he was lookin' at me. Son of a bitch was laughin' at me the whole time, laughing at me with his eyes. Maybe he thinks I'm stupid, but I ain't stupid. I could see it. He's just like that other one…" He spit in the direction of his victim. "Ain't neither of ya laughin' now though, now are ya?"

"Eddie!" I cried, "You killed him? Just for that?"

Now he turned that gaze on me, and it sent shockwaves of ice through me. "Whaddaya mean 'just for that?'" The look in his eyes was nothing short of lunatic. There was black murder in those porcine eyes, and if I didn't tread really carefully, I might find myself on the receiving end of it. I swallowed nervously, and considered my next words a little more carefully.

"But Eddie, you can't just kill a person just for looking at you funny…

Yeah, nice choice of words. Obviously, he can kill a person just for looking at him funny. The body at the table provided mute evidence to the effect.

"Why the hell can't I? I've been taking shit from assholes like him my whole life, James! They're always pissing on me, walking all over me, treating me like shit. Even that stupid dog, even he was giving me that look! Well, he got his, dammit!"

Oh boy oh boy, this guy isn't just a little crazy, he's a fucking grade double-A batshit psychopath

He must have seen the look on my face, and if he considered it a valid enough pretext for murder, I was as good as fucked. If funny looks warranted a death sentence, my face should have earned seven generations of Eddie's crazed, paranoid wrath. For several agonizing seconds, I just stared at him, wondering if he was going to bring that gun up to my face. There's no way I would be able to get my gun in enough time. I might be able to dodge the bullet, maybe, but I had no idea how loaded the revolver was, and with the limited space to maneuver, he would have all the time he wanted to finish me off before I would even have the chance to reach for my own gun. And, if I reached for mine first, then of course he would respond in kind. Even still, I really wanted to. I wanted to have the upper-hand. This man, this overgrown boy, was dangerous and crazy. Yet, he was as much a victim of his environment as I was. I couldn't exactly blame him for losing his mind. Regardless, I didn't want to die, and I didn't want to kill him, but if it came down to it, I'd fight for my life. I'd kill him if I had to, and right at that very moment, it looked too likely that I would have to.

Just as I made up my mind to reach for my pistol, he laughed. It was a creepy, hollow laugh, and it didn't even begin to put me at ease.

"He he, I was only kiddin' with ya, James." He looked at the corpse now with good humor that looked genuine. Now that did disarm me a little. But only a little. "I found him like that when I got here. He was already dead like that, swear to God."

I didn't believe him, not for even a second. Not after that little tirade a minute ago. Thankfully for me though, I was able to keep my feelings hidden this time. If Eddie was going to drop the matter, I would be an idiot to keep pressing.

Now he turned towards the door, looking at me as he did so. "I gotta get going now." He opened it and was halfway through when I stopped him. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it.

"You're going to go out there alone?" I asked. I was hardly excited about the idea of roaming this area with him, while not knowing where he is and when. I was even more reticent to team up with him, for obvious reasons. Well, there was another door over near the painting, I can try going that way.

"I'll be okay, don't worry," he said as he slid through the door and pulled it closed behind him. Nope, no worries. I shuddered violently. Couldn't help it. I lost a few too many nerves during that encounter.

I turned towards the other side of the room and the door that was over there. I pointedly ignored the corpse at the table, the man Eddie both confirmed and later denied was his own victim. His denial would fool no one, least of all me, but there was nothing I could do about it now except to do my best to avoid being the next one. Beyond this door was any number of nasty things that could kill me, and I had spent many dreadful hours encountering and avoiding them. The last thing I needed was another human being, who was undoubtedly quicker and more aware than the ghouls of the town, and more deadly to boot, stalking me through this nightmare. Life was complicated enough as it was, thank you very much.

Apparently, it wasn't. The doorknob turned, and I was able to push on the door enough to know the lock wasn't active, but no further. Something on the other side obstructed it. I couldn't see what it was through the crack, but whatever it was, it was heavy and unyielding, even after I threw my body against it repeatedly. Damn thing didn't give even an inch.

I stood back, sweating both from the effort, and from the prospect of following Eddie through the other door. I didn't want to do it. I fervently didn't want to do it. I almost preferred finding a way to climb back up that HOLE, as impossible as I was certain that was. Of course, life generally doesn't give a shit what you prefer, and this was one of those times when that was made readily apparent.

It was with a resigned sigh, and not a little fear and apprehension, that I crossed the cafeteria, again trying to ignore the body, and went through the ancient steel door. I had my gun in my hand this time. I was in no mood to take chances. Yet, as I closed the door behind me, I wished the weight of the weapon in my hand would make me feel safer and more reassured than I felt. Of course, you can wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which fills up first. That was one of Dad's favorite bits of wisdom. There was only one answer, of course. I cursed my luck for the thousandth time.

That didn't do me any good, either.

6