"I was married."
Jeff looked up from the ground, confused. "Huh?"
They were walking through an underground car park. Martin was ahead of them, whistling as he lead the way. It was early afternoon in Chicago, Illinois, and the garage seemed eerily deserted in spite of the scattering of empty cars filling the slots.
Beside him, Evelyn looked pensive, although the fact that she was clutching a box of crackers gave her a slightly comical air. "You asked me earlier. My husband's name was Christopher. I didn't tell you before because I couldn't remember..."
"You couldn't remember?"
"It's hard to explain. I knew him, but I couldn't put him into words. He's the reason I wanted to come to Chicago—I'm going to find him."
"Okay. Can I have one?"
She shot him a wry look, but handed him several crackers.
"Remember Level 5," Martin said. He turned around to face them, but kept walking backwards, gesturing at a concrete wall marked with the number 5. "If anything happens, we get split up or something, this is our meeting spot. There is safety in numbers, so try not to get lost."
"Where are we going now?"
"I'm headed for the closest telephone." Having reached the elevator, he pressed the button to summon it. Nothing happened. "Stairs, then."
Four flights of steps later, they stepped outside. The wind was strong even for Chicago, carrying a chill that ripped through their clothes.
Martin hurried them into a squat building about a block away. It was utterly nondescript from the outside except for a painted sign which hung over the entrance. Much of the lettering had worn away, save an "M" and a "PH".
But Jeff guessed that it was a tavern even before they went in. Members of a gang crowded around a billiard table, each one clad in identical black shirts bearing the image of a serpent eating its tail. A few drinkers sat at the bar sipping from shot glasses, their eyes glazed. The air was clogged with cigarette smoke, making the lights seem dimmer.
"Do you have a phone?" Martin asked the bartender, an elderly man with a white mustache. Wordlessly the old man pointed to a door in the back, then went back to polishing glasses.
Martin turned to his companions. "I've got a call to make. It'll be a minute, and then we'll get both of you to where you're going."
And he was gone. Jeff and Evelyn looked around, then glanced at each other. She shrugged, throwing the empty box of crackers in the trash.
"There's two empty seats at the bar."
They sat. The old bartender glanced up. His beady right eye was clouded by a whitish cataract. Without saying a word, he turned around and began pouring two drinks.
"Uh, sir—we didn't order anything."
The bartender ignored them. Jeff's brow furrowed, then he shook his head. He was past questioning the logic of the afterlife.
Turning around again, the old man set two clear glasses down in front of them, then turned to fiddle with an old radio. Static and whistling gave way to ghostly voices and mottled instruments, songs bleeding together between stations. A shrill, warped "Take a Chance On Me" drowned out a droning "Imaginary Lover".
"If the radio's broken, why not just turn it off?"
"It's the little things that count."
Jeff looked at the bartender. "What do you mean?"
"The smallest of details, the minutiae. They were right about your memory. A good memory for details. A long memory." He gestured at Evelyn. His palm was covered in wispy hair. "She has no memory. Why else would she stay with the likes of you?"
Jeff glanced at her. Evelyn's eyes were closed and she was sitting very still, like she was straining to hear something faint and delicate.
"Fine," he said quietly. "If you know so much, why don't you tell me why it's 1978 and not any other year? Why not outside of time altogether?" He clenched his jaw. "I mean, I think I know why it's this way for me. But that doesn't explain why she's here, or you, or any of these other people..." Trailing off, he held his breath for a moment, exhaled slowly, and rubbed his eyes. His other hand was damp with condensation and cramping from clutching the glass too tightly.
Funny—he didn't remember drinking half the glass. Now he dipped two fingers in it and touched his tongue. As far as he could tell, it was nothing but water. "Imaginary Lover" was making a comeback, growing louder and clearer.
"Killing reminded you you were alive, didn't it? That's why you cling to the guilt and the grief." The bartender grinned, exposing rotten teeth. "Here's another thing to jog your memory."
"Well, if it isn't Jeffrey Dahmer!"
Jeff gasped and jumped to his feet. He turned around and found himself staring into a familiar face.
Mike grinned back at him. Not Mike from high school—Mike who had stood there singing Alice Cooper as Jim beat him up. His black hair was wild as brambles, and his eyes were drooping and lethargic. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth; lazily he blew smoke from his nostrils like a slumbering dragon.
"You must be mistaken," Evelyn cut in, putting her hand on Jeff's shoulder. "He's my brother Daniel."
Jeff threw an anxious glance at Evelyn. Of course, she had no idea who she was talking to—probably thought a stranger recognizing him was just a byproduct of his notoriety in life, one that could be easily construed as a mistake.
"I didn't know you had a sister." Mike smirked. "You don't look much alike. She a sister from another mister, if you know what I mean?"
"Where are your idiot friends?" Jeff snapped.
Mike took a step forward and tilted his head to the side. "How about yours? Lot of fucking help they were. Couldn't even get you to open the door for us!"
Enraged, Jeff swung his fist at Mike's face. Mike lost his cigarette dodging the blow, but then grabbed his still-outstretched arm, twisted it, and yanked. Jeff's feet were knocked out from under him, and he landed hard on his back. Evidently, Mike had learned from their previous encounter.
Evelyn screamed for help, but Mike ignored her. Grabbing a pitcher of liquor from the bar, he dumped it on Jeff's head. Then he got down on one knee and poured what was left on the dirty, scuffed floor.
"Now, Jeff... you're going to lick it up, like a good dog."
"Go to hell," Jeff sputtered.
"Lick it!" Mike's hand clamped down on the nape of Jeff's neck, thrusting his face into the foul liquid.
Jeff grit his teeth and fought back, but Mike was stronger than he looked. Impotent rage boiled his blood even as his will faltered. Evelyn had run to get Martin, leaving him alone. The bystanders were all just sitting there watching it happen—she might as well have been screaming at the dead.
"If I do it, will you leave me alone?"
Mike laughed again, a coarse and grating sound. "I gotta have somebody else to play with, if not you. How about your 'sis'?"
"Keep her out of this."
The corners of Mike's mouth twitched. "I don't see your tongue. This floor better be clean on the count of three... two..."
Breathing hard, Jeff clenched his fists and forced himself to do it. Only the tip of his tongue touched the floor, but the grit of dirt and the bitter taste of booze filled his mouth all the same, making him gag. Retching, snickering and snide remarks came from the onlookers, the first sounds they had yet made.
"You actually did it!" Mike howled. "You really fucking did it!"
The back door opened and Martin strolled out, his hands in his pockets. The atmosphere changed completely. A pungent, rancorous hatred electrified the air—and fear thickened it until it hurt to breathe.
Nowhere was the change more jarring than in Mike, who slowly rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off Martin.
"Been busy, Mike?" Martin asked, his tone level.
"Fuck off," Mike spat venomously.
"You vandalized my truck. Bit petty even for you, but did you think I wouldn't notice?"
"We were sending a message. You're out-stepping your boundaries."
"Hardly. But it's not like you ever play by the rules."
"It's barely worth the effort for this one." Jabbing a finger down at Jeff, Mike's mouth curled into a malicious grin. "Still, there's not going to be enough of him left for anybody when we're through!"
"He's not just a piece of meat, you know."
"Oh, come off it!"
Evelyn darted out from behind Martin, curved as far away from Mike as she could, and ran to help Jeff up. Absorbed in the bizarre confrontation, her presence served to snap him back to reality.
"We have to go now," she whispered anxiously.
Jeff stared at her, and it finally dawned on him what they were planning.
"No... no, he can't—Martin!—"
Mike whirled around, his lips pulling back in a beastly snarl. Before he could pounce, Martin grabbed him by the shoulders and pinned his arms against his sides.
All hell broke loose. The gang at the billiard table dropped the game in unison, their identical uniforms blurring into a single mass as they charged. Those drinkers lounging at the bar roused from their torpor, leaped to their feet and joined in the fray. They swarmed around Martin, still holding a kicking and screaming Mike in place.
The noise was deafening. Wincing, Jeff covered his ears even as he started toward the horde.
Evelyn's tugging on his arm wasn't what ultimately stopped him—it was Martin. They were savagely beating their fists against him, biting and scratching, but he weathered the abuse without a sound. Towering over the throng, his face was that of an avenging archangel, triumphant, steadfast, invincible. Jeff turned away, feeling like he had witnessed something he was never meant to see.
"Come on!" he heard Evelyn shout over the din, and at last he relented.
