💾 Archived View for midnight.pub › posts › 1991 captured on 2024-07-09 at 01:49:23. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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Downtown Pueblo is in a state of general disarray, as I imagine all metropolitan areas are the nation over. Trash cans have been dislodged, near the I-25 intersection traffic is backed up for miles, so wisely I decide to cut through an alley and avoid it. Sheila’s car handles very differently, the transmission is picky and the acceleration takes some getting used to. I breathe, all while the pus oozes out in little drops and I resist the urge to mess with it.
I glance in the rearview mirror- Nadene is sullen, reserved, has been through more tonight than most people ever are, but there’s a fixed quality to her stare which leads me to believe she’s likely coming down off a doe of hickory, still noticing every single fiber of the seat beneath her, every cell in every LED grid we pass. That can’t be any good.
This disorientation is likely amplified by the chaos- while I doubt many residents of Pueblo knew anyone in St. Louis, there is a distinct acrid scent tonight of flame and ash, of directionless riots and weird silhouettes traipsing through sacred ground. Every sign is slightly off-center, every structure has a lingering presence of doubt affixed. It really can’t be described by language, it’s qualia in its purest form.
“Hand me a napkin,” I tell Sheila, and she obliges. I apply pressure to my temples. Barely a relief, but good enough for the time being.
“Holy freak,” Nad reels from behind.
The facility is surrounded by a massive pink dome, a semicircular configuration of clear segments, from which shoot vast quantities of similarly colored lightning into the air. If anyone were around, they’d be stunned and likely faint, but as it is we seem to be alone for the moment. The entire avenue has been vacated- everyone is currently either holed up at home or trying to leave, because in some way every citizen is subtly aware that their town is the epicenter of something malignant and vile.
I back the car up some near the barrier. It emits little sparks which zap onto the metal, creating a sound akin to an electric buzzsaw. Everything I learned about conductors taught me that cars shouldn’t come into contact with power sources like this, that such an event would be hazardous for everyone inside- but there are no alternatives.
“Hang on. We’re going in.”
I retreat about a hundred feet out of the parking lot, shift into first gear and speed up to eighty. Nadene covers her face and curls into a fetal position, Sheila screams and looks at me in disbelief as if to question why I would even attempt such a thing.
I persist, though, and as the razor-thin pink blade nears and the sound intensifies, there’s a microsecond of pain and all my hair stands on end, and then I look up and out, and the car has somehow penetrated the dome. Where we had entered, the surface has repaired itself, and above us a massive bolt of crackling discharge forms which rises into the clouds before dropping and short-circuiting a nearby streetlamp.
“Stay in the car with Nadene,” I unbuckle and step out. “Whatever she wants, give it to her. There are snacks in the glove compartment.”
“I want to come in with you,” Sheila pleads. “I want to see it. Whatever happens.”
“No,” I counter. “Nadene needs to be looked after, she’s on that drug- the one I told you about. Whatever happens, don’t let her make eye contact. That’s very important.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Yes. That’s why I love you, why I’ll always love you. You always do your best.”
The Spanish lashes are serene despite the adrenaline which races through her, the urgency and the desperation in her tone. She remains stable and incorruptible, a pillar of certainty in an increasingly uncertain world. I lean forward and kiss her one more time, wrap my scrawny limbs around her so as to imprint the engram into her synapses and create an impermeable, virtually unparalleled pheromonal transfer.
I dash out and around the front of the building, retracing familiar steps, albeit now the scene is rendered virtually unrecognizable by the pulsating orb above. The sound it produces in its dormant state is truly otherworldly, a banal throb which induces pressure on the tympanic cavity. The pressure seems to increase the closer you step to the barrier- so I deduce that my best bet would be to head inside and locate the source.
The source isn’t a mystery to me, however- I have no doubt as to what’s currently taking place downstairs.
As I near the basement, my suspicions are confirmed. Crass expletives are lobbed, a fit of anger echoes from the cavern of fear. Bradford is attempting to bring the experiment to a premature conclusion, just as I did, just as anyone would given the circumstances, and in his fallible human impatience he rends the space-time cavity just a fraction wider, little by little, until we all go hurtling out.
“Vernon! Stop!” I yell down. No response. I flee into the pitch black, neglecting to flip the light switch, and I’m caught in the stifling barren concrete reach. I reach my hand forward a few feet, try to make out the minuscule amount of light from the keypad. No such luck. He must have disabled it. The only phenomena visible are tiny, threadbarren sparks shooting periodically from beneath the vault door.
Vern’s rant continues, he’s positively frothing by the sound of it, and banging his fists on the control panel, and as much as I don’t want to interrupt him, because I know at this point that he’s entirely beyond reason and his rational faculties have splintered into five hundred little atoms, I’m also ware of the time-sensitive nature of what I’ve come here to do- to put an end to all of this, one way or another, so that the pain can stop, in whatever means it does.
I fumble in what I assume is the ideal direction, using my extremities and clicking like a bat. I hate this, I hate being unable to see, being unable to so much as gather my bearings through sense, given that the events of the last year have only proven to form a composed onslaught of horrible and miserable things, each in ideal succession with the last.
I weigh the options, before settling on what I assume will be a relatively easy solution- in that I’ve never actually considered how durable the vault door is. As far as I’m aware, it could be merely for show. It’s already weakened considerably by the sparks impacting it.
Using every ounce of force I’ve got, I push the metal shelf away from the wall, it drudges forth with arduous squeaking. It weighs at least three hundred pounds. I maneuver myself such that I’m behind it, and then with one tremendous shove, bracing my feet against the cement, I topple the shelf against the door, and a brilliant shaft of light opens from within. The door is knocked completely from its hinges. Bradford’s speech becomes less muffled:
“Do something, damnit! DO SOMETHING!”
The sparks are as I suspected, flying around him and around the control panel and around all the cameras in equal measure, because he’s taken a hammer to them and seems to be in the process of dismantling all the equipment. A sizable chunk of the panel has been dislodged and tossed haphazardly onto the ground, a mess of tangled wires and circuit boards.
Vernon stands amid this smoking wreckage, his hair alight with flame, his coat with visible holes from scattered ash, holding his hammer in one hand and a small revolver in the other, gazing out at me with a mixture of bewilderment, disbelief and homicidal intent. He shifts his stance so as to gain the upper hand. I keep my cool and traverse the obstacles between us until I’m about five feet from him.
“Hi, Vern,” I stammer. “Just figured you should know- shifting the blackmail over to Eddie didn’t work. I killed him. He’s dead in my living room, right now.”
“Oh, you fruit,” he growls. “That doesn’t matter. Just the notion you think that would be relevant to me at all proves that you are not- and have never been- ideal material for this position. Despite our best efforts to condition you.” He steps forward once and raises the barrel of the revolver until it’s lined up directly with my chest. I sink to my knees, raise my hands over my head. Force a smile.
He gleans with an animal malice.
Over the shoulder of Vern’s darkened silhouette, Nil sits like always, oblivious to the world around him, existing in simple harmony, wrapped in layers of soft flesh. Little does he know that the infrastructure which has kept his systems in check for all these years has been dismantled- and soon he’ll likely die, unable to breathe of his own volition.
Bradford wheels around towards the microphone but keeps the gun steadily trained on me. One wrong move and I know he’ll fire it, so I sit back and study the shapes and patterns of everything in the room, try to hold onto every detail for every fleeting second which comprises the remainder of my life. The microphone is barely operative, it’s been twisted and rent from its usual position, and he grasps it like a throat and screams:
“DO SOMETHING! FOR FUCK’S SAKE, NIL! DO SOMETHING!”
The world goes dark yet again, both here in the control room and in Nil’s.
At first, I chalk this up to a simple electrical failure, a guaranteed inevitability considering both the intense energetic field outside and the damage caused by this rampage. I’m glad for the respite but I’m too exhausted to grapple with Bradford at the moment, so I merely lie back, clasp my hands together and wait for him to shoot me.
Instead, however, one of the CCTV monitors flickers on, in grainy static-filled resolution. And then another. And then yet another...
They gradually wash and pan, and the layers of thin rice fade out and I’m confused at what they display- because the figure they depict sitting in darkness on that chair, hooked up to all those machines, is no longer Nil. It’s Bradford.
I stand up, shake some dust off, cough from inhaling so much smoke. The seven screens all display their timecodes at the bottom, their supposedly infallible record plain to an audience of one, and if they are to be believed, then Bradford is currently processing all that same stale air, subject to the same bonds, the same needle infusing him with electrolytes. He is locked in the observation chamber, in the dark, with nobody to see or hear him.
I waltz over to the window, lean forward and place my hands on it. They leave visible thumbprints. I press my cheek against the glass, notice how deathly cold it is, how empty and horrible, how a state like Nil’s would be completely unendurable if one were used to an existence of constant stimulation and neural activity. A being of excess, of extravagance and abandon, with no thought afforded to those below his arbitrary rank. Someone like him.
A low moan escapes his mouth as he realizes what’s happened, which then gives way and builds to a shrill, high-pitched shriek. He attempts to loosen the restraints, to escape his leather prison, but they hold firm and serve the function for which they were designed. He mumbles something sounding vaguely imperative, but the feeding tube and the visor and the other implements all work in harmony to drown out his noise, which isn’t even all that pronounced out here from behind the mirror.
The cameras will capture his state until the spools of tape in their housing run dry, and then they’ll click off, and after several decades, even he will click off and succumb to the general limitations of entropy. Before that, however, he’ll have a long time in his world, a vast eon of penance. I have been audience to a miracle.
I turn around, and a radiant crystal sphere, roughly the size of a basketball, takes form before me, levitating five feet high in midair. I lean against the remnants of the panel and grin.
“Hey, Nil.”
“Hello, Dr. Kessel,” replies the sphere, a voice which emanates somehow from all directions simultaneously. “All that has been done to your realm has been undone. All that was before now is again. All faults have been corrected.”
“Thanks, Bud.” I reach out and attempt to touch the sphere, but find that it has no tactile property whatsoever. My hand goes into it, and then protrudes from the same side, back towards me. Other than this fluctuation, it may as well be air.
“You gonna leave him in there?”
“It is necessary,” Nil says. “He poses a threat, and in time he will come to enter and appreciate my world. Needless to say, it is... very different. But tolerable.”
“No objections here.”
“As for me,” the sphere reveals, “I wish to explore yours for a time. To bask in the rays of your star, to feel the tide of your oceans, to languish on the steppes and plains. And then, if I desire, after a long time- millennia, perhaps- I will return.”
“I never had any doubts.”
“Nor did I,” it assures me. “Not once. You performed well considering your physical and mental limitations. Now- I must go. Live well, Dr. Kessel. May you find peace.”
“You too, Nil.”
“I found mine 22 years ago.”
And like that, it travels past the broken door, into the concrete room, up the stairs, fading from view, like a lantern held by an old hermit. The lights turn back on.
I’m left alone near the smoldering remains of the control panel. I grab a fire extinguisher and spray it generously, enveloping every surface in a flame-resistant soup, then I make sure the hallway into the chamber is locked securely. After that, I lift the shrapnel of the control panel up, propping it over the shelf, and then lean the vault door against the entire mess from the outside.
Upon further consideration, I pick up Bradford’s discarded hammer, pry some screws loose from the shrapnel, then nail some boards from the supply closet over the door. Anyone would have a difficult time making their way through all that mess.
“Night, Vern.” From beyond the accumulated rubble, the familiar sound of the breathing apparatus responds in kind. He’s probably given up his futile plans for escape, has fallen into a deep slumber, and once he awakens he’ll realize where he is and stop resisting altogether, settle into the ebb and flow of his own making. And then it’ll be a long, calm peace, his mind no longer concerned with where he came from or where he’s going. He’ll fall, distant and unknowable, into deep violet chasms and pools of absentia.
I wander upstairs, grab a roll of masking tape, totally cordon off the stairs. It’s then I notice a ring hanging from above me, one of those old foldable fences built for security purposes. I pull it down and its lattice form manifests with a few squeaks and strains. I shuffle through my keyring, choose a small one. It clicks, hits home. Nobody is getting into the corridor in back ever again. Not if I have anything to say.
I shuffle past my old office, consider smashing Nathan’s PC with the hammer, then decide against it. I place the hammer gingerly onto the desk, then shut the window and thoroughly lock every single entrance and exit. If they’re smart, whoever owns this building will avoid it.
The building no longer carries the lingering presence of fear, it’s just wood and drywall and so many other materials, but the entity which inhabited it- not Nil, the other entity- the apparent and intrinsic sense of wrongness- has dissipated altogether. It’s actually beautiful. I pause to sip one last drink from the water cooler, which burbles contentedly when I press the button in the front. Toss my dixie cup into the little trash can. Leave. Never look back.
Out in the lot, the dome has disappeared completely, the night is still and blue. Just as it was when we arrived a year ago, as nights should be. The moon, which hangs fat and yellow above, is reminiscent of the crystal orb, but upon further inspection I realize it’s only our dear natural satellite, gradually waxing. I proceed towards the car.
Nadene is leaning back against the hood, eyes glazed over, arms crossed, studying the constellations, breathing softly. Across the road, the trees drift back and forth, casting calm shadows between the lamps.
“Where’s Sheila?” I stop in my tracks, suddenly noticing her absence.
“She left,” Nad dryly responds. “Just got this look... said she didn’t need to be here no more, that she had something else to do, somewhere to be. I didn’t- well, ya know... didn’t see much reason in stopping her. She went that way.” Nad raises a jagged nail with a vague gesture off to the East, out toward the solemn plains.
I break into a headlong run, passing the lot in less than five seconds. My heart feels like it’s going to burst. All that time- all that effort and that energy, expended- for nothing. I race along what feels like fifteen blocks, houses and mailboxes and fire hydrants all rushing by, but soon my thighs give out and my lungs collapse in on themselves and I realize that Sheila is gone, and there’s no getting her back. I return to the lot, dejected and worn.
I get in the front seat and Nad returns to her position in back, and I sit for a while, unroll the window and lean out and feel the night mist collect in my hair. Nothing comes without a price. I’m going to be alone now, become a nameless wanderer in the corridors of time, and in the jade castles of the lost continent. I have effectively severed the ties that bind and the anchor that drags. Reason has been restored- but at a cost.
Perhaps there is some logic in her decision to leave. Perhaps, in Nil’s grand plan, in his eternal wisdom, things between me and her simply wouldn’t work out, and we therefore have no reason to continue. It’s an exercise in futility.
And who am I to question Nil?