Ryan Jahn - The Last Tomorrow

But Eugene doesn’t think a switchblade knife and a shirt with blood on it will be enough to do the job. That police detective, Bachman, saw him at the murder scene, saw him drop one of the murder weapons. A knife and a few splashes of blood won’t convince him that someone else did the murders. Without a story to make them mean something, a knife and a shirt are just random items. Even if the police searched this room and found them, Eugene would remain the most likely suspect. The police have a story for him. They have motive, and they have him at the scene. They search this room, what do they have? A switchblade knife like a million other switchblade knives and a few drops of blood that could be the result of careless shaving.

He closes the suitcase. He needs more.

He looks to the small leatherette case. He unlatches it and pulls open the top, revealing a black Royal typewriter. He looks down at its QWERTY grin.

What were you expecting, the queen of England?

For some time he merely stands there unthinking. Then turns in a circle, looking around the room, not quite sure what he’s looking for. Then once more looking at the typewriter it comes to him. He needs a piece of paper. He walks to the desk and finds a few sheets of hotel stationery there. He peels off the top sheet and rolls it into the typewriter. He stares down at the keys for a long time, puts his fingers against them. The gloves provide a distance he doesn’t like. It makes him feel disconnected from what he’s doing. He misses the feel of cool plastic against the pads of his fingers. He begins typing, simply banging out the first words that come to mind:

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth and the earth was without form and void and darkness was upon the face of the deep and God hovered over the surface of the water.

He looks down at the words hammered into the paper. The ribbon needs replacing. The letters are light gray and difficult to read. The ‘t’ is angled to the right, making it look like a malformed ‘x’. The ‘h’ sits higher on the line than the other letters.

This, he can do something with. He knows it. But he needs a story and he has no idea what that story will be.

Could he simply call the police and let them know this room is here? Would they create their own story? This typewriter is the typewriter on which his blackmail note was hammered out. He left the note on his table at home, so the police are certain to have picked it up. The switchblade knife in the nightstand is of the same kind as that which was used to stab the cop who he is suspected of murdering. The blood on the shirt cuff is evidence that something happened. It is, at least, if you add in the other evidence. And the police should be able to match the blood type to one of the victims. Would a simple phone call be enough? He thinks there’s a chance it would.

But there’s still a problem, and not a small one. Even if Louis Lynch takes the fall for his own murders, the Man will never let Eugene live.

He needs to think of a way to finish this once and for all, but his mind is blank. There was a time when he was good at creating stories, but that time is gone.

Then something does come. It isn’t a full story, but it might be enough to get him started. If it goes wrong it might end in his death, and there’s a good chance it will go wrong. Unlike Evelyn’s plan, this one is no hammer. But it’s the only thing he can think of that might also end with him walking away free and clear, neither wanted by the police for murder nor wanted murdered by the Man.

And doesn’t he deserve that?

He’ll have to do some ugly things. Merely thinking about what he’ll have to do makes his stomach ache. But the only people he’ll be hurting are those responsible for putting him in this situation in the first place, and if anybody deserves to face harsh consequences for what’s happened, it’s them.

He pulls the paper from the typewriter and folds it up and puts it into his pocket. He’ll burn it later. He puts the lid on the typewriter case, latching it, and pushes it back into place. He’ll need to use it again, but not yet. He’ll have to return once he knows more about how he’s going to approach this. For now he has other things to take care of, the first of which is getting out of here.

He looks around the room, making certain everything is back the way it was when he arrived, then steps into the corridor and latches the door behind him. He walks to the elevator, takes it down to the lobby, leaves his address at the front desk with the message that Evelyn should come see him as soon as she gets in.

He heads out into the night.

He wishes he could think of another way out of this, but he has no choice. He’s been put in a corner and this is his way out.

He kicks his motorcycle to life and pulls out into the street. He heads toward his motel room, where he will await Evelyn’s arrival.

THE ABANDONED WAREHOUSE

1

In the dream, they finally catch up with him. He isn’t sure how. He’s been walking down and down constantly for months — years, decades — and no one went past him, but one of the cannibals managed to get below him anyway, managed to get in front of him and block his downward journey. This lone cannibal now stands in rags before Eugene, slump-shouldered but full of vitality and madness. His skin jaundiced, the color of a fading bruise. His eyes bloodshot, the eyelids red-rimmed and raw. His hands are black. His beard thick with filth and glistening with oily moisture around the mouth. He grins, revealing yellow teeth from which the white gums are receding bloody and swollen. He reaches into a leather satchel and removes a human heart. It throbs in his hand. He holds it out to Eugene. Thick strands of blood run off it, dripping from ragged meat-hoses, splashing to the concrete floor.

‘It’s the boy’s,’ the cannibal says. ‘We saved it for you.’

‘No,’ Eugene says, shaking his head. ‘Thank you, but. . but no. . no.’

He turns around, heading back up the stairs. He doesn’t know where he’ll go. He simply knows he must get away. The cannibal doesn’t follow him, but as he reaches the next landing he hears the others only a floor above, and they’re heading down.

They’ve pinned him in. Somehow they managed to pin him in. He looks to his right and sees a door. He can’t go up and he can’t go down, but he can go through the door. He pushes into a corridor, the door slamming shut behind him. He walks down the corridor despite the fact he knows there’s nowhere to go.

The overhead lights flicker.

The door behind him opens and closes, followed by the shuffling of feet.

He looks over his shoulder.

The cannibals walk slowly after him, the one with the heart in his hand leading the way.

He looks forward once more and continues his retreat. He walks to the end of the corridor and steps into the last door on the left, the only place to go. It’s an office like all the other offices. There’s a desk against the wall with a typewriter and a telephone on it. A chair pushed up to the desk. A sheet of blank paper rolled into the typewriter.

He walks to the window and looks out.

The sky is gray. Lightning flashes in the distance. Sheets of clouds block his view of the ground below. He still has no idea how close he is to the bottom, no idea what floor he might be on. He wonders if he’s any nearer escape than when he began. He supposes he must be. The ground is down there somewhere and he’s been steadily heading toward it.

A voice behind him: ‘There’s only one way out.’

He turns around.

The cannibals stand in the doorway.

The one with the heart in his hand holds it out toward him. Behind the beating heart he grins with yellow teeth.