Dystopia Read online

  "Hey, sorry I fucked up, Mister. Wrong house, that's all." Relling backed toward the splinter-edged front door, clothes sticky with sweat, a runny smile puddling on his face. "No big thing, you know? Just got the wrong place . . . that's all. Okay?"

  His fingers searched for the doorknob and he lifted a scared grin, staring at the humming cannon hanging on the man's leg. As he frantically grabbed the knob, the door deadbolted itself with an electric CLICK, and voltage knocked Relling to the entryway floor. He shook his head, stunned, and the huge man looked down at him.

  "No mistake," the man said with his deep voice.

  Relling felt his guts tangle. There was something wrong with the man. As though he—

  "Hey, come on, man. . . let me outta here, will ya?" Relling's eyes were crazed and he could feel his veins starved for the crank. Everything was hurting.

  The man stared at him without emotion.

  "It was a fucking mistake, man! I'll pay for the damage!" He began to slam the door with the side of a fist. "Just let me out, I'll get the money!"

  The huge man stared at him and Relling suddenly reached into a torn coat and offered his own gun, throwing it down, nodding; eager to make a deal.

  "Okay? It's worth what the door's gonna cost."

  The huge man's gaze never wavered as he reached down to unholster the Air-Mailer. Relling lunged for the staircase and pounded up the steps, glancing back. The huge man had drawn his weapon and was thumbing down the pulse-switch for close range.

  Relling dived to the landing floor just before he heard the phloosh, and saw the laser bruise the walls blue. He whimpered as he scrabbled up and raced along the second story hallway, hearing the huge man's thudding footsteps on the staircase.

  The hallway was dark and silent.

  Three doors, a narrow table pushed against the wall. A small window, at the end of the hall, emitted faint illumination from a roof-eave security spot.

  By its light, Relling moved frantically, grabbing door knobs and getting shocked, fingers curling from the current. The footsteps sounded louder, closer, and Relling crouched under the hail table, terrified, breathing hard.

  What the hell was wrong with the man? He'd offered to pay for the damage, offered his gun. The guy was fried-out. Blood-hungry. What did the goddamn freak want?

  He saw the shadow of the huge man slowly coming down the hall, like a dinosaur hunting for little men with spears to eat, and crouched lower, body shaking.

  He watched the man's great boots step closer. Then past. He could see pants rustle, the shadow of the cannon held tightly; ready to Mail him. The man stopped at the end of the hall and opened the door there, without receiving a shock. He looked inside the room.

  Relling licked his lips.

  If he could make it to the stairs, get down, retrieve his gun and blow away the front door lock . . .

  He tensed, ready to bolt.

  But the huge man turned from the open doorway, walked back to the table and stopped. He kneeled to Relling's level and looked right at him. White teeth showed.

  "Can't hide," said the man, raising the Air-Mailer.

  Relling reared-up, throwing off the table.

  The huge man had the hallway blocked and Relling ran toward the window, grabbing its handle and yanking upward. An electric shock sawed at his arm muscles and he screamed. He looked back to see the huge man coming closer, lips drawn-up in a torturer's grin.

  Relling began to slam balled fists against the window, and his hands were sliced wide by the breaking panes.

  With fast glances, he saw the huge man almost to him; staring, stalking.

  In panic, Relling kicked at the glass and shoved a leg through, clutching at the window handle, numb to the jolts of electricity spraying his insides.

  As Relling finally made it partway through the window, thrashing wildly, the huge man raised the Air-Mailer.

  A laser phloosh filled the hall, and the blue arc bathed everything as Relling screamed, blown through the window, falling to the lawn below.

  Forty minutes later, the splintered front door opened and the owner came in, dropping his briefcase. He saw something from the corner of his eye and turned to see the huge man staring at him, Air-Mailer holstered. The huge man said nothing. The owner asked what happened.

  "There was an intruder," said the huge man in an informing monotone. "Six-fifteen. Tool of entry - crowbar."

  "Did you Subdue him?"

  The huge man made no expression. "I Removed him. He had a weapon. He resisted. Total Removal time, three minutes, eleven seconds."

  The owner sighed irritably and crossed the entryway, walking straight toward the huge man, and then through him, as if he weren't there. He stood before the wall-mounted control panel, face illuminated by the blinking light of the Holographic Stalk System 6000, entered his secret code and, in under one second, the huge man instantly disappeared.

  The owner went to the kitchen drawer and grabbed the system's manual, skimming it, while calling the police to collect the body. He didn't understand why the system hadn't Stunned and Subdued the prowler, as programmed, and cradled the phone to his ear as his call was answered.

  At four a.m., as the owner slept deeply, the wall-mounted control panel downstairs began to pulse. Somewhere, in the wrongly installed circuits, the Stalk System was replaying the earlier chase and Removal of the prowler.

  In several seconds, the memory storage replayed it millions of times and the circuits pulsed faster.

  The Stun-Subdue function brought no stimulation and the system silently re-programmed itself to only Remove. It began to scan the house with a sensor beam, for intruders, and finally located one. As the circuits pulsed wildly, the huge man, dressed in black, materialized in the entryway and began to head upstairs, to the owner's bedroom.

  It was Removal time

  HIDING

  They'd been married two months when the first fight streaked down their lives like black dye.

  She'd never truly understood him; the delicately sensitive movements of mood and need that blew him, kite-like, from one moment to the next.

  Ever changing. Ever vulnerable.

  But she tried to understand because she loved his tender heart; how he gently encircled her face in sweet hands as they made love. The way his shy smile would pillow her when they drank cappuccino together in bed; how he could make her laugh at invisible animals; silly voices.

  She giggled around him.

  Morning talks, naked and sleepy, were like a kid's party for two; complete with exotic treats, pantomime hats, invented places.

  And though he could never be sure she meant it, she cared about his feelings; his secret coastline. Sometimes, as he slept, a contented infant under thick wool, she would slip from bed and stare at his paintings on the bedroom wall; feathery watercolors, intense with hope. Windows to perfect places.

  Fragile places.

  Hectic dreams, in yogurt colors.

  She marveled at his imagination. His exquisite sensitivity. How he could touch a surface, or color, and tell her what it was thinking. How he could hold a cat and it would curl into a lulled nautilus in his warm arms; a child held by its mother.

  It was why she regretted the argument.

  It was the first time she'd ever raised her voice around him, and he sat so pale, he seemed to be filling with snow. Then, he wordlessly slipped from his morning spot, leaving the newspaper open, his cappuccino left to die.

  He went up the stairs.

  It was the last she saw of him.

  He was still in the house. But she couldn't find him. She knew he was in there; sensed he was only hiding. Grieving from the disagreement. Healing from the momentary trauma.

  But he wouldn't let her find him.

  At rare moments, as she searched, she'd think she'd glimpsed some aspect of him, dashing around the curved mahogany banister at the top of the stairs; a flutter of trouser leg, an evasive elbow.

  Once, several days after he'd disappeared, she even sensed
the ironically upturned corner of his mouth, a fragment of a melancholic smile, in movement. Suddenly sweet.

  Suddenly gone.

  Weeks became months, and she would continue to leave food out, to sustain him and let him know she still loved him. She would leave notes, at first angry, demanding he come out. But when they did no good, she feared they'd driven him more deeply into the shadows and creases of the house.

  Hoping it wasn't too late, she began to leave tender notes. Notes that told him she loved him; that she would wait for him. That she was sorry.

  There was never an answer.

  But the food still disappeared, and the plate, drinking glass, and silverware were always washed afterward by unseen hands. The cloth napkin was never soiled, the gingham check always pleasingly refolded, resembling a soft pattern of red bricks.

  Though others never heard it, and in fact, assumed he had merely left her for another woman, she often sat entranced by the sound of his singing, cloaked by wood and plaster, seeping beautifully through the walls.

  He sang for hours, and his muted arias rose on sweet pain, perfect pitch. She tried to record the angelic mourning, as evidence she wasn't mad, that he was in the walls, hiding.

  But nothing much came out. Just the suggestion of melody, compressed and small, audible only to a believer.

  And what few there had been, were now falling away, skeptical and pitying. Their faith and sympathy had winnowed and fled, unable to further indulge the sad fantasy that no longer made sense.

  That really never did.

  The phone didn't ring.

  The mailbox sat empty.

  Seasons passed, forever gone; irreplaceable ledgers of the solemn two-story home that housed a lonely woman and her husband, who hid somewhere she could never get to fast enough.

  Her family suggested selling the house.

  But, she couldn't bear the idea of strangers trying to find him by rapping on the walls, listening for a telling presence, scaring him. She couldn't stand that they might accept him but ignore his needs. That he might die of neglect or loneliness. She decided to stay with him in the house; they would live under one roof, though they'd never see each other.

  For her, it was better than nothing at all.

  And she always remembered what his mother had said about how, as a child, whenever his feelings were hurt, he would hide until he felt better.

  "He'll come out when he's ready," she had whispered. "Just speak quietly and be patient. Loud voices scare him."

  She never spoke loudly again.

  On Christmas Eve, she wrapped his presents, using the brightly colored paper and ribbons he'd always loved. She tiptoed down the stairs and left them under the tree. Then, she went back to bed and stared at the walls, wondering if he were watching her, too. Wondering what he did for Christmas.

  She turned off the light and reached over from the bed, placing her hand gently to the wall's warm surface. She stroked it, slowly, lovingly, fingers tracing its smooth flatness, remembering how she used to touch him.

  She began to cry, trying to make no sound, trying not to startle him and scare him away.

  "1 love you so much. Please come back," she whispered. "I'll always be nice to you. I'm sorry."

  Her hand pressed the wall, as if it were a huge palm, and she fell asleep, protected beside it.

  She went down in the morning, rubbing sad eyes.

  His presents were gone.

  But he'd left something for her; the first message he'd ever sent from the other side of the walls, from the corners and shadows where he hid.

  It was an envelope, and he'd tied it with a bit of the ribbon she'd wrapped his gifts with. She opened it eagerly and, inside, found a simple note.

  It read, "Soon."

  She smiled, feeling excited.

  She tried to imagine how he would look. A bit older, but the same. In her mind, they gazed longingly at each other, and he held out his arms to her, wanting to trust again.

  "I love you," he would say. "And I missed you."

  "I love you," she would say.

  But for now, she got the logs going in the fireplace and put on Christmas music. And as the cat climbed on her lap, she spoke softly to it.

  "He's coming back," she whispered. "He's really coming back."

  MOBIUS

  Heat blistering.

  Head leaned, grinning at sun. About forty. Swollen, staring eyes. The man in the tie stared at him. Spoke calmly. Smoked.

  "Ready to talk?"

  "I want some Coke or somethin'. . . I'm thirsty."

  "Later."

  "I'm thirsty."

  Words thick. Hard to understand. Lips rising, falling, chalk dry.

  "Let's answer some questions first. How many people have you killed?"

  "Isn't there nothin' around here to drink?"

  "Seventy-three, that's a lot, Jimmy. You're a vicious man."

  "That how many?"

  "You don't remember killing them?"

  "Hey, man. . . I'm fucking thirsty."

  "Ever been to L.A.?"

  "I Love L.A. Know Randy Newman? Fuckin' incredible. He's famous, you know. Randy Newman . . . fuckin' incredible."

  "Ever heard of the 'Off-ramp Slasher'? Dumps his victims next to freeway off-ramps, in the bushes. . . . Hollywood?"

  "Heard of what he did. I was at this topless bar. Saw it on the TV. He cuts off people's . . ." Smiles. ". . . cuts off everything, right?"

  "How'd you know what he did? Wasn't ever printed in the paper. Wasn't on the news either. Only the killer would know that. How'd you know, Jimmy?"

  Silence. Toying with a hole in greasy jeans, tearing it like a cut in skin.

  "Let's talk about Debbie Salerno."

  "I'm thirsty. You said I could have a Coke."

  "Debbie Salerno was found next to the Vine Street off-ramp and she'd been sexually . . . torn apart. Blonde, fifteen years old."

  The greasy jeans tore more, fat white threads taut. Snapping.

  Eyes closed. Thin veins, puffing at temples. Brown teeth grinning stupidly, diseased and soft.

  "We talked about her yesterday. Remember Jimmy? You gouged her eyes out while you raped her. You remember doing that? Remember how it felt?"

  Pulling on upper lip. Shrug.

  "It was okay. Somethin' to do."

  "So tell me more."

  "How many you say I killed? Thousand?"

  "You can do better than that. How many was it, Jimmy?"

  "I'm gonna be famous. Like Jack the Ripper. Randy Newman."

  "Seventy-three. You killed 'em all. How tall was Debbie?"

  "Debbie who?"

  "Salerno."

  "Never heard of her."

  "Don't fuck with me, Jimmy. I'm running out of patience. You confessing or jerking me off?"

  "Okay . . . she was five-three, five-two. I don't know. She was screamin'. . . what'd'm I supposed to do, measure her?"

  "How'd you meet her?"

  "You tell me."

  "Alright, you sick fuck, I'll tell you . . . here's exactly how it went down: you were in your van, cruising Sunset and you were shooting garbage. Maybe a couple hundred in your arm. You were cranked and you got that little urge you get. And then you saw her. Her hood was up. Starting to remember yet? She needed help . . . you pulled over. What'd you say to her, Jimmy?"

  A big smile. Cracked lips stretching.

  "I said, 'Hey . . . pretty lady . . . need a lift, or did you lose somethin' in there?' She thought that was funny. She got in and we drove."

  "Where'd you do it, Jimmy?"

  "Somewhere . . . lots of lights. A view."

  "Hollywood hills? Above the strip?"

  "I guess. Hey man, it's hot in here."

  "Answer the question. Hollywood hills?"

  "Okay, man! Hollywood hills! You happy? Get off my ass!"

  "We're not done yet."

  "I'm done! You're driving me fuckin' crazy with all your questions."

  Biting skin off bottom lip. Tas
ting blood.

  "Tell me more."

  "Whattya mean more? Whattya want . . . you wanna hear about all of 'em one more time?"

  "Yeah."

  "Like who?"

  "Anybody you want. You got a big list, remember?"

  "So whattya want? Guys? Fags? Kids?"

  "Upset about something?"

  "I know all this shit! I know how it went down! I know what it looked like and smelled like. I saw the faces . . . heard the begging. So fuck off!"

  "I'm here to find out if you really did it, Jimmy. That's why we've been doing this for three weeks and you know it. You tired? So am I. So, you give me the details . . . we can get this over with and you're in a nice quiet cell."

  "Fuck you, man! I answer no more. I know all this shit. I'm tired. I need sleep. We've been through this. I know every name, every off-ramp, what they were wearing, how they were found! How many pieces I cut 'em into. You can't mess with my head. I know. Now give me a fuckin' Coke! I want my fuckin' Coke!"

  "How did you kill Thomas Dremmond?"

  "Senior or junior? I killed 'em both, remember? Nice try. Told you about it day before yesterday."

  Knuckles rubbed into bloodshot eyes.

  "How'd you do it?"

  "Fire. Torched him. Like I told you. I'm tired."

  "How about Donald Belli?"

  "Cut everything out."

  "Which way was he facing?"

  "Fuck you! Toward Highland Avenue, okay? We've been through this!"

  "Maria Vera. How?"

  "Coat hanger. Body left sitting up. Get me a fuckin 'Coke!"

  "Not easy being famous is it?"

  The man in the tie looked at Jimmy. Stared. Thought.

  "Alright. . . I'm convinced. Get out."

  The needled arm reached back. Grabbed a torn duffel filled with bloody clothes. The rotted smile looked at the man with the tie.

  "Tell them what you told me, you'll be famous. Keep it exact. Here's change for a drink."

  The brown teeth grinned. The retarded young man with the duffel got out and walked toward the police station. Mind bloated with hideous facts, now memorized; now his.

  The man in the tie watched him enter, then pulled away.

  Drove toward Texas, almost getting the urge when a Cadillac cut him off.