The Light at the End (5 page)

…and suddenly it was Rudy’s face that she saw, his typical arrogant sneer plastered across it like the pancake makeup he used to make himself more ghastly white than even God, or whatever, had intended him to be. Rudy, with his cold eyes as black as the tips of his Magic Markers, mocking the world with every glance.

And in that moment, she knew that Stephen was right.

“Oh,
shit!
” she whined, slamming her fists down on the counter. “
Why
, God? Why does this always have to happen to
me
?” Once again, the anger overwhelmed the sorrow. “It’s not
fair
!” she yelled, not thinking about her two dead poets, though their faces ran together in her mind to form one perfect, grinning skull.

She was thinking about what a phenomenal guilt tripper God is, pointing his fat little finger, bringing sweat to palms that in no way deserved it, laying on trauma like the worlds biggest Jewish mother. Was it her fault that Glen was too weak and self-absorbed to survive? Was it her fault that Rudy was too much of a bastard to put up with for one minute more? Was it her fault that they’d gone and purchased such nasty fates for themselves?

NO, God damn it! NO!
her thoughts screamed, almost audibly. Her eyes snapped shut, squeezing out hot tears that she was barely aware of, she was so royally pissed.

Without thinking, she reached a trembling hand into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Vola Bola Cella. She’d been saving it for a special occasion, and by God, this had to be it. After all, it wasn’t every day that your lousy ex-lover got eaten alive by rats, or whatever the hell happened to him. She let the door slide shut behind her absently, not even bothering with a glass, just popping the sucker open and taking a long, cold pull off of it.

The wine was sweet, strong. It went straight to her head like a helium balloon. She teetered slightly on her feet, steadied herself with effort, took another hefty swig, and waited for the second rush to tear through her system.

When it subsided, she felt much better. The shaking had quieted: the voices and pictures had backed off; the kitchen looked normal again. She smiled wanly at nothing in particular and moved back to the living room, where ol’ Dan Fogelberg might as well have been back in his record jacket, for all she’d heard of him.

“Oh, damn,” she said, shrugging. She took another hit of Vola Bola, set the bottle down, and cued up the album again. This time, with a couple of belts in her, it was no problem. She giggled a little, mostly at how high she had suddenly become, and sauntered casually over to her desk.

Before her, the various facets of her project were arrayed in consummate order. To the left of the typewriter, the first nine pages of her thesis were facedown and neatly stacked; half of page ten was jutting out of the typewriter, awaiting completion; to the right sat an index-card file with more than a hundred entries, all clearly and sequentially catalogued. Next to that was the filing cabinet that held the lamp, the ashtray, the box of heavy white bond paper, and a host of reference books (philosophical tracts,
Webster’s New Universal Dictionary
, the current
Writer’s Market
, etc.). And on the bulletin board above the desk, an outline of the thesis and the book that should result from it… plus a check list of the myriad essays and articles that she planned to spin off from there, slanted toward everything from
New Age
magazine to
Psychology Today
.

Josalyn Horne was nothing if not methodical in her work; and though she was possessed suddenly with the devilish urge to just tear it all up and scatter it around the room like confetti, she knew that the next five hours would find her poring over it, refining it, and whipping it into shape, as methodical and orderly as ever.

“If I’m not too ripped,” she qualified aloud, then laughed and amended it: “I damn well better not be.” Still, she moved to retrieve the bottle from it’s place beside the stereo before sitting down at the desk, taking just a sip this time, and turning to the opening page of her manuscript.

NIHILISM, PUNK, AND THE DEATH OF THE FUTURE read the bold print at the center of the page.
Catchy title
, she kidded herself, and then lapsed into absolute seriousness. She stared at the title for almost a minute before taking another long pull from the bottle and lighting her first cigarette of the session.

This is the payoff
, she told herself silently.
My meal ticket. My baby. My rite of passage.

If I pull it off, I won’t have to worry about needing a good man… assuming, of course, that there is such a thing… to take care of me. Because I’ll be taking care of myself.

And if I ever actually do find a good man
, she added,
I’ll be able to do it on my own terms. Or at least be able to negotiate the terms. And, God, what a precious, rare commodity that is.

She raised the bottle in a one-way toast, glass clinking against thin Manhattan air, and took another short swig. Then she set it down, resolutely this time, and tried to focus on the words poised awkwardly in mid-sentence, halfway down the length of page ten.

After a while, she began to write. And kept it up, doggedly, for the specified five hours, before shutting off the old Smith-Corona and cashing in her chips for the night.

That night, she did not dream.

In the tunnels…

The old Number 6 train rumbled away from the light of Union Square Station, dragging itself painfully into the darkness uptown. The usual number of passengers were on board, doing their midnight ride; atrocity tends to attract as many people as it scares away. Much to the disappointment of morbid thrill-seekers, nothing spectacular was going to happen to them. They would get where they were going, and that would be that.

A few of the more astute commuters would notice the abandoned station, smothered in darkness, that hung to either side of them as they rolled down the tracks between. If they were quick, or particularly observant, they’d notice the signs on the walls:
EIGHTEENTH STREET
, bold-lettered in white against the long black rectangles. They’d notice the debris on the platforms, the general state of disrepair, the fact that nobody’s made a habit of getting on or off there for a long, long time.

They wouldn’t notice the figure that lay sprawled in the corner of the uptown platform, surrounded by rusting trash receptacles. They wouldn’t see it writhing in the grip of a nightmare, twitching like a man on a gas chamber floor. They wouldn’t see the rats that were gathered around it, caught between hunger and an almost religious awe.

They wouldn’t know that it dreamed.

Meanwhile, halfway across the Atlantic, something awakened in the cargo hold of a freighter bound for Europe, It smiled like an old man who’d just proved once again that his bowels still worked. It stretched. It sighed.

It climbed out of its coffin.

To its ears, the sound of the ocean was a beautiful thing. Such power. Such mystery. Such agelessness. It felt a kinship with those pounding waves; its life, too, was moved by the moon into patterns of endless recurrence.

The thing in the cargo hold scanned its surroundings with grinning, luminous red eyes. It estimated that there might be 80 to 120 people on board. They should last the voyage.

Although it expected to be very hungry tonight. Traveling did wear on one so.

And after all,
it thought,
anyone who’s lived 800 years is entitled to a little excess.

“Your Kind Of Messengers, Inc. Can I help you?” The phones were ringing off the hook, and the sweetness in Allan Vasey’s voice was almost purely a matter of routine. Had to be nice to the customers, man. At all costs. You had to keep them happy. In fact, just this morning, he’d pinned a bogus memo up over the dispatch desk: it said
BE POLITE, OR WE’LL KILL YOU. Signed, The Management.
At least two of the people who came into the office weren’t sure that it was a joke.

“Jesus Christ, I never seen such a rush!” Tony yelled from the chief dispatcher’s seat. He seemed upset; but Allan knew that Tony wouldn’t have been happier if you laid two lines of coke out for him and gave him a fifty-dollar raise. It had been a miserable slow summer for the business, and any action was good action when you’d been staring at a dead switchboard for nearly a month.

Your Kind Of Messengers, Inc., occupied a renovated storefront on Spring Street, in SoHo. Despite its bare-bones economy, it was a fairly cheery place: large bay windows for the sun to shine through, plants on the ledge, good people working both the phones and the streets. The dispatch phones sat in a line on the western wall, directly opposite the messenger checkout counter, with the customer-line desk between.

Chester and Jerome were bogged down with calls from clients: law firms, P.R. firms, publishers, fashion designers, art galleries, advertising agencies. It seemed like every client on the books had been waiting all summer for this morning; the sudden volume was staggering. Allan had no choice but to assist them, leaving poor old Tony to dispatch it all.

The only messenger in the office was a new guy. He stood at about 5’9” in his roller skates, wore a light tan jumpsuit that contrasted sharply with his black messenger bag. He eagerly watched the runs pouring in, waited for his share of the pie. Your Kind Of Messengers worked on a commission basis: the more you worked, the more you made. He was ready for some money.

Allan hung up the phone and absently massaged his brow. A headache was coming; he could feel it building up behind his deep-set brown eyes. He let his hand slide down his face, tug briefly at his neatly trimmed and mahogany beard. He glanced at the economy-sized bottle of Tylenol next to the phone, decided against it for the moment, then snatched up a pair of tickets from the desk and handed them to the roller-skating messenger.

“Here’s two for you, Doug,” he said. The messenger smiled appreciatively. “Not too bad for your second day, huh?”

“It’s great,” Doug replied, taking the runs and copying the information onto the sheet of paper in his battered clipboard’s grip. “Love it.”

Allan turned back to his phone. The customer line had mercifully stopped ringing, for the time being; only the messenger lines were lit, seven flashing buttons on hold. Seven guys, calling in from all over the city, waiting for something to do.

He picked up the receiver and punched in the first button. “Your Kind. Who?” he said.

“This is Vince,” answered the little voice over the phone. “Listen…”

“Where are you, Vince?”

“Uh… Grand Central.” Vince sounded impatient. “Listen, don’t you guys have any work? I mean, I’m gettin’ tired of being told to…”

“Hold on, Vince,” Allan said, pushing the hold button. If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was idiots like that to contend with. Vince’s light blinked cheerily, like a Christmas tree bulb. Allan punched in the next line.

“Your Kind. Who?”

“Hunter, up at Columbus Circle.”

“Hey, boss! How ya doin’?”

“Alright.” Even on the phone, Joseph Hunter was a man of few words… most of them surly. “Let me talk to Chester.”

“You got it, champ.” Allan put him on hold, called across the room. “Hey, Chester! Hunter on seven-oh!”

“Wait ‘til I finish with this jerk,” Chester called back, holding the phone away from his mouth. Then he turned back around and said, “Vince, you always got an excuse for everything. You know that? Always got a fuckin’ excuse.”

Allan couldn’t hear the response, but he knew that Vince must be laying it on heavy. Chester’s broad shoulders were slumped in resignation, his head shaking back and forth slowly, eyes rolling in the dark face. He flashed a pained glance at Allan. Allan nodded and mouthed the words
I know, man
. Chester straightened in his chair and cleared his throat.

“Hey, man. I don’t wanna
hear
that!” Chester cried, exasperated. “I wanna know why it took you two hours to get from Manhattan Harbor to 57
^th
Street, you know? I mean, did you get out of the van and just push it up the street yourself?”

You could hear Vince from across the room.

“That’s bullshit, bro’,” Chester intoned. “That’s bull… no, man, I
don’t
have anything on my desk… I… listen, pad’nuh. If I
did
have anything, I wouldn’t give it to you. You are the slowest motherfucker I ever seen!” Jerome got off the phone, looked at Chester, looked at Allan, and started to laugh. “Now… hey.
No
, man! Now you just drop by the office with your manifest. I wanna make sure that people been
signin’
for this shit, you ain’t just been dumpin’ it in the river or somethin’.”

“Hunter on seven-oh,” Allan reminded him gently. Chester nodded and squared his shoulders.

“Come into the office, Vince… no. Come. In. To. The. Office. Vince. That’s all… no… goodbye, Vince…
goodbye
, Vince!” He slammed down the phone and turned wearily to his compatriots.

“Man, if there’s one thing I don’t need,” he moaned, “it’s Vince.”

“Vince is the worst,” Tony contributed, turning from the phone for a moment. “A real scumbag.”

“You know what he said?” Chester exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “He said they had him carrying coffins! I mean, what the hell does that have to do with anything? Why did it take you two hours to get halfway across town? Two hours! Can you believe that?”

“Hunter on seven-oh,” Allan said for the last time.

“Soon as I get another driver, Vince is
gone
,” Chester concluded, insistent. “That boy is O-U-T.” Then he picked up the phone again and punched Joseph’s button. “Hunter?” he said. “Hey, babe. You don’t know how good it is to talk to somebody sane…”

“That’s what
you
think,” said a voice from the doorway. Allan turned and saw Ian walking into the dispatch room. Ten o’clock in the morning, and Ian was already dripping with sweat, pasting the long hair to his head and staining the blue work shirt in innumerable places. His messenger bag dangled at his side from the shoulder strap; his clipboard was already in hand. “Hey, who’s the spaceman?” he jibed, glancing at Doug.

“Hey, Ian! How’s it goin’, boss?” Allan called, flashing a toothy grin. Then he addressed the question. “That’s Doug Hasken, ace skating messenger.”

“Pleased ta meetcha,” Ian said, grinning. “Are you for real?”

“You bet,” said Doug.

“What happened to your clipboard? Looks like it got fired out of a cannon.”

“I use it to direct traffic,” Doug quipped, emphasizing this with a swinging motion. “Cabs, especially.”

“Him, I like,” Ian said, turning to Allan. He flashed a wildass grin and continued. “Hey, I just thought I’d drop by, since I was in the neighborhood and my beeper went off.”

“You ready to do some work, buddy?” Tony asked, holding up a handful of tickets. Ian’s eyes widened, and he nodded in mute astonishment. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven runs for you, buddy. I’ll tell ya, we’re goin’ off the wall in here.”

“Seriously,” Allan said, massaging his forehead again, “this is the busiest we’ve been all summer. If it would just keep it up…”

“I could get that condo in Florida,” Ian cut in, “instead of sucking gravel for lunch every day.”

“It’s just the economy,” Allan went on. “If you want to know how the country’s doing, just check out how many runs are going out. We’re one of the best economic indicators there is.”

“Who is?” Jerome wanted to know. “You and me?” He was a handsome, fair-skinned black man with a decidedly effeminate air about him. For Jerome, every week was Gay Pride Week, and he didn’t care who knew it.

“Nobody’s talking to you, Mary,” Tony informed him gruffly.

“I told you not to call me Mary. My name is Jerome.”

“Anything you say, Queen Mary.”

“If nobody’s making any money,” Allan resumed, unflustered, “
we’re
not gonna make any money, ‘cause they’re not gonna be sending anything anywhere.”

“Well, somebody’s doin’
something
,” Ian asserted, busily copying the runs onto his manifest, “because I am definitely making some money today.”

“Enough for a couple of six-packs on Friday night.” Allan sidled up to the counter conspiratorially. “Maybe go back down in the dungeon again?”

“You know,” Ian said thoughtfully, “Poot the Barbarian hasn’t hacked up anybody in…”

“Three weeks,” Allan completed the sentence for him. “And I’ve added a couple of new rooms, a few more magic items…”

“Ah! Renovating, eh?”

“You won’t even recognize the place.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Jerome was feigning petulance. “You have a dungeon in your basement, or something?”

“Yeah,” said Ian. “It’s green, and slimy, and…”

“Do you tie people up there?” Jerome asked, eyes brightening. “Do you hold them in chains?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mary?” Tony commented over his shoulder.

“I’d like to wrap
you
up in chains,” Jerome countered, “and flog you silly.”

“I bet you would, bitch. I bet you would… Hey, Ian! You gonna sit on those runs all day, buddy? Let’s go!”

“Right!” Ian started writing hurriedly again. “So it’s Dungeons and Dragons on Friday night. My place again?”

“It already looks like a battlefield, so I don’t see why not.” Allan winked, and they shared a grin. “Think we can get Mr. Hunter to play?”

“Is he still on the line?” They turned simultaneously to look, but Chester had just hung up the phone.

“Now, that guy is
good
,” Chester proclaimed. “I don’t hafta worry about Hunter. He’s okay. He does his work. But fuckin’
Vince
…”

Everybody started rolling their eyes. Chester was going to be on a Vince-trip all day, and it was only ten after ten.

“All he kept sayin’ was ‘
Coffins
, man!
Coffins
!’ I mean, who cares about coffins?”

Allan and Ian looked at each other, two minds that liked to play with the fantastic. Two sets of eyebrows raised at the same time. A matched set of evil, obsequious leers.

“Our master,” said Allan, rubbing his hands together in toadyish abandon.

“Count Vampiro,” said Ian, with fawning adoration in his voice.

“What a lovely bunch of coconuts we’ve got to work with around here,” Tony griped, lighting up a cigarette. “I kid you not, buddy.”

“Don’t these guys ever do any work?” Doug asked Tony. Tony shrugged.

“No,” said Jerome with perfect diction. “They’re too busy serving Count Vampiro.”

“Nobody’s talking to you, Mary… Ian! Get outta here, buddy! Doug, you too!”

“I’m going!” Ian grabbed his clipboard, stuffed it into his bag, and ran for the door, Doug skating up in hot pursuit. Allan watched them, and a weird flash of trepidation struck… a shapeless fear, with no identifiable cause, that suddenly loomed up inside him like a monster from his imaginary dungeon.

A sense of impending doom.

He started to say something, but the door slammed shut behind them. Allan stood there, frozen, the bad rush just sitting in his chest like a rotting thing.
Was it for me, or was it for them?
he wondered, staring at the closed door.
Or was it just random paranoia?

He was dimly aware of Chester’s voice, going on and on behind him.

Saying, “
Coffins
, man! Can you believe that?”

As a chill moved up his spine like a snake.