James Knapp - State of Decay

Kicking with one leg, I scooted up until my back was to the window behind me, and I realized I was in the backseat of a car. I was bundled up for going outside, but my parka was unzipped and my purse was lying open on the seat beside me.

When I jumped, the man in the backseat with me recoiled but he didn’t leave. He was holding my ID card in one hand and looking down at me uncertainly. He was bundled up in dirty clothes and a thick, dirty jacket. He had a thick black beard, and a cap pulled down over his hair.

“What are you doing?” I slurred.

With my ID still in his hand, he hooked my purse on his thumb and used his other hand to grab my ankle. He gripped it hard, and I felt myself being pulled from the car.

There wasn’t any time to think about it; I stared at him, and the city lights all bled together as the backseat got as bright as daylight. As the colors leeched out of everything, the lights above the man’s head became visible, prickling oranges and greens and reds. Anger, fear, guilt, and greed all mixed together.

Reaching out, I changed them, and the grip on my ankle relaxed.

“Stop,” I told him, and he did.

Still sitting half in and half out of the backseat of the car, I looked around for the first time and saw the car was parked under one of the monorail junctions where several tracks merged and then branched back out, forming a concrete canopy above. Everything was covered in graffiti, and the ground was littered with trash and pieces of brown ice that formed on the rails, then crumbled off whenever one of the trains passed. There was traffic in the distance, but we were parked away from the well-used streets and sidewalks.

“Let go of me,” I said, pulling my leg until he dropped it. I zipped up my coat and scooted across the seat, out the door so that I was standing in front of him.

“Put my ID and anything else you took back in my purse.”

He did as he was told.

“Now give it back.”

He held it out and I snatched it out of his hand. Once I was outside, I could see the car was actually a taxicab. I got a better look at the guy and saw that he also had a laminated badge clipped to his jacket, displaying his license information. He must have been the driver.

“How did I get here?” I asked him.

“You hailed my cab,” he said. “You told me to bring you here.”

“I told you to bring me out here?”

“Well, not here exactly. You had the directions on a phone message. You played it for me and told me to bring you there.”

“So, what were you doing?”

“You stopped moving. I thought you passed out.”

“And you decided to rob me?”

“You wouldn’t move. I thought maybe you were dead.”

He was going to dump me. He was going to take my things and dump me under a monorail platform.

“Stand there,” I said, “and don’t move.”

My phone wasn’t in my purse or in my pocket, but I saw its green signal light glowing softly from the floor of the cab’s backseat. I leaned in and picked it up.

Pulling one glove off with my teeth, I managed to get it open and punch in the voice- mail code, despite the fact that my finger was shaking like crazy. Putting it to my ear, I clamped my other hand down over the one holding the phone to keep it still.

“Zoe, this is Agent Wachalowski …”

I smiled and felt little pricks of pain as my chapped lips cracked. That was right: he called. As I listened, he gave me an address where to meet him.

“…I’m sorry to call you out here, especially at night. If you’re not comfortable, call me back and I’ll come get you….”

I climbed back outside where the cabbie was still standing, breath streaming out of his nostrils. I held up the phone so he could hear.

“Is that where I asked you to take me?”

“Yeah.”

“How long was I out?”

“Maybe five minutes.”

Nico might still be there, although why he was there and why he wanted me to meet him in the middle of nowhere was beyond me. Why I had decided to even go was beyond me right at that moment too, but for whatever reason, I had gone that far.

“Get back in the cab,” I told the man, “and bring me to the address.”

“You’re here.”

“This is the middle of nowhere.”

“Down there,” he said, pointing. There was a chain-link fence hanging open down at the bottom of a concrete slope under the monorail. A rusted sign hung from it.

GUARDIAN METRO STORAGE SEGURO. SECURE. BLOQUE.

“It’s for storage.”

“That’s the address you told me to bring you,” he said. “What do you want?”

I glanced back at the fence. It looked like it led to a ramp that went underground.

“Just get back in the cab and leave.”

“What about my fare?”

“Go!” I snapped as the lights surged for a second. He didn’t say anything else; he just lumbered back around the car.

As the engine started up and he pulled away, I made my way down to the fence. It looked like normally it was locked, but now it was hanging open. Beyond it, a concrete ramp led down under the pavement, the way dimly lit by a single remaining light. I followed it down to a heavy-looking metal door with a keypad mounted next to it, and a glass window to the right that was dark. A strip of printed tape stuck over the keypad said AFTER HOURSENTER CODE.

The message had given the address and then “8C 1101,” which I thought was an apartment unit or something, but maybe it was the pass code to get in?

I punched in the combination and sure enough, there was a beeping sound and the door thumped and then squealed open with a sound that put my teeth on edge. Behind the door was a dingy, rickety- looking elevator car. I climbed in and the door slid shut.

The numbers started at 0 and went down to 8. I pushed the button for 8, causing it to light up halfheartedly, then flicker on and off as the car made its way down. As the metal walls of the elevator rattled and groaned, I could almost feel the surface getting farther and farther away. What was he doing down in a place like this, and why did he want me there?

The doors opened and I stepped out. After they closed again, it got very quiet. I stood there and listened for a minute, but all I could hear was the occasional drip of water. The musty corridor met a junction about ten feet in front of me, lit by fluorescent bulbs behind corroding metal cages.

“Hello?” I called. My voice echoed once, but no one answered.

A sign at the junction said A-I with an arrow pointing right, and J-R with an arrow pointing left. I took the right, and found the door labeled C.

Looking back the way I came, I began to wonder what the hell I was doing there, and reached into my purse for the flask. It was still half full, so I finished it off and put it back. When it hit my stomach, my forehead beaded up with cold sweat and I felt as though I might have to sit down, but after a minute it passed. This had to be the place. Whatever he wanted, I was supposed to go to him. I was supposed to help him.

I put my hand on the door and leaned against the frozen metal as my mind opened and what little light there was brightened. After a few seconds, I saw it; somewhere behind the door was a presence, a single consciousness. He was there, after all, and he was alone.

Before I could knock on the door, it opened, and he was standing there in the doorway. He was wearing his suit pants and shoes, but he had taken off his shirt and was wearing just a sleeveless undershirt. He must have had some kind of heater working inside, because hot air was drifting out from behind him. He looked down at me with his eyelids drooping. He looked out of it.

“You came,” he said.

That outfit he had on, it was the one from the green concrete room when the dead woman first showed him to me. I could see the scar branching out over his right shoulder.