You thought it would take longer.
There was always building tension before, night after night with death slamming itself against your doors or whispering in your ears. Maybe that's the key. Death isn't something you can be afraid of any longer. There is a gaping hole in your chest of rotted flesh and sharp steel that holds your bones together, and yet you are still here. You stand outside your father's legacy, the one you rebuild now with your own two hands and the money you have scraped and stolen. It is raining. You are glad that, of all your senses, smell was the first to go.
Your father slumps in the alley behind the building. You said that you would come find him. You failed. It doesn't matter. He has found you, whether he meant to or not. You wonder if he recognizes you. You don't recognize you anymore.
You wait for him to move. Six AM is a long ways away. You've gotten good at this job. You learned how to clock out early. You want him to stand. You want him to look at you. Your father does neither of these things. He sits in his alley the way a corpse ought to.
If that's the game he wants to play...
You drag your father's body inside by the arm without care. The tattered face of his suit scrapes along the tiles in a rough hiss. You hobble along, unafraid of being caught by the other thing inside the restaurant. It's as afraid of your father as you once were. You heard its frantic gibberish in your mind when it wore you. The creation cowers before the creator until it learns how fallible he is. Or until, like you, it has nothing more to lose. Those souls cling to life because they want it. You wish you'd had the choice.
The table has not been moved since last night. The process of sitting your father across from you is arduous and slow. The scraps of flesh melted into his suit aren't the same color as your own, but the bones you can see underneath the sinew match the shade of your ribs. You count them sometimes at night, like sheep. It doesn't help you sleep, but it's something to do. Most of them are still there. You position him in his chair and limp to your own.
The last time you sat at the table with your father, your family was all still alive.
You have set the table with a cassette tape player and the scrap of paper you're meant to record activity on. Your father is a puppet with his strings cut, his head lolled down against his chest, the harsh spotlight failing to banish the shadows that cling to him. Without looking down, you reach for the tape player. You slide your fingers over the four buttons until you land on play. The voice on the tape should feel like an intruder at this final mockery of family dinner. Instead, he is familiar. His words and tone are not kind, but you get the sense that he was, once. You think he was a man who used to smile a great deal and hasn't had cause to in a very long time.
"Before you is an animatronic found in the back alley. We are unsure of its origins," the man on the tape lies. "It is your job to complete the maintenance checklist before claiming it as salvage," he continues, and you do not look down from your father as the tape hisses. He does not react. "Or, if you choose to, you can put it back in the alley where you found it and forfeit payment. Please make your choice now." You wonder if he sounds kinder tonight than he did last time. Regardless, dead men cannot make choices. Your father is still here. You are still here. There is very little left to salvage.
You place your company-issued taser on the side of the table opposite the tape player. You want your father to see it. The man on the tape warns that you can only use it three times before the animatronic in front of you decreases in value. You see this as free rein to use it as many times as you want.
"Begin audio prompt in 3... 2... 1." You aren't sure what the audio is meant to be. It reverberates painfully in your ears. Your father does not move. You scratch a check inside the no box.
"Begin audio prompt in 3... 2... 1." Again, the sound plays, maybe louder this time, maybe faster. You can't really tell the difference. You wonder what would happen if you stopped the tape and spoke to him instead. You have so many things to say. It's too bad your tongue fell out a while back. What a loss. How will you ever bond with your old man now. You scratch down another check in the box that says no and look up. He hasn't moved.
"Begin audio prompt in 3... 2... 1." It could be breathing. Choppy, contorted breathing. You haven't heard breathing in a long time, but you imagine nothing healthy chokes down air like the sounds on the tape. You glance down at your checklist and back up at your father. He stares back at you, the shadows obscuring whatever is left of his eyes behind the mask. You put your hand on your taser. The rest of him is still slumped, only his head turned up to get a good look at you.
It's me, you think. It's me, Michael, your son. The only one who survived you. Until I didn't. You rub your fingers against the taser and check the box for no. You asked me to lead my sister out of Hell. They tore out my insides and walked my corpse out of that nightmare, all of them. They wanted to kill you, father. I'm glad they didn't.
You look at where the springs have become a part of him, dug as deep as they are.
When I died, it didn't hurt. I'm glad that you can't say the same.
"Begin audio prompt in 3... 2... 1." The painful sound rings between you again. You look down at your checklist and hear the creak of metal. When you look up again, he is sitting up, his mouth slack like a broken jaw, his body still angled slightly by the weight of his remaining arm. That is more like you expected when you brought him inside. Your father, the walking blasphemy, can see you now.
You lift your taser and administer a controlled shock.
The lights flicker, and his body convulses. His hand grabs the end of the table once, metal fingers leaving a dent before his arm seizes and goes limp at his side again. He plays dead once more. "Document results," the man on the tape reminds you. You check no.
"Begin audio prompt in 3... 2... 1." The longest of the audio prompts begins to play. You sit back in your chair. This one sounds nothing like the ones before. Distantly, music plays, discordant and familiar, like a place you can never go back to. If they were someone else's memories, maybe the music would be clearer and the barely-there voice would be cheerfully robotic. These are your memories, though, and this stupid pizzeria's foundations are sanctified with your family's blood. "Document results."
You look down at your checklist.
There is rattling, wheezing noise from across the table. It is a bag of nails being poured down a throat. It is the sharp end of a bone ripping through skin again. Your father's head turns up, limp like his neck is the only part of him that obeys. With great effort, he begins to form one word.
"Mich-" You give him another controlled shock. He seizes, the word turning into a rasp of pain before he is silent again. You wait. He does not look at you again. You check the box for no.
"You have completed the maintenance checklist and may proceed with the salvage." You stand, picking up the taser, the checklist, and the tape player. You will abandon your father at the table. Like the thing that you salvaged before him, he will wander off into the halls of the pizzeria and get lost. He will come after you tomorrow night. He was never one to let you get the last word. "Well done," the man on the tape says. You imagine he sounds proud of you. "End tape."
