Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a good idea, her getting into a car with a stranger, what was she thinking, but then a door opened behind him and a large, well-muscled man came into the area. “Is this him?” the man asked Dr. Hayes.

“This is Martin ,” she replied, a hint of reprimand in her voice. “Martin, this is Craig. Craig is one of our volunteers. He’ll be riding along with us, if that’s all right.”

“. . . more the merrier . . .” He was feeling very . . . shiny. And dizzy. And woozy and weak. This might actually be fun if he was eating a pizza and watching Yellow Submarine .

Dr. Hayes went out to get the car and Craig took hold of Martin’s elbow. “What say you and me step out for a little air, Martin? How’s that sound?”

Sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me is what he thought; what he said was:

“. . . okay . . .”

Outside, he almost tripped over the body of the camera creature that now lay in the middle of the sidewalk, its body smashed and broken in half, one brass eye blown from its socket, trailing wires, connectors, and blood; its lower half had been split open, spilling a grotesque snarl of intestines: cogs, gears, looping tubes, and something that looked like raspberry jelly; one of its wolf’s-legs had been wrenched too far forward, the bone broken, one jagged edge pushing up through the fur; and the remaining wing, barely attached now except for a few strands of sinew and wire, jerked and shuddered. Scattered elsewhere were sections of beak and splinters of wood and other things that had once been part of its body; things mechanical, things organic, things that looked like a glistening amalgamation of the two. Some of it had spattered against the windows and walls of the buildings, and was now slowly crawling down toward the pavement, leaving a slick dark trail in its wake. Martin felt both nauseous and sad as he looked at the demolished pulp of the creature’s remains.

Something had torn it apart in a rage, then thrown it from the rooftop.

Martin looked up and saw the six-year-old boy he’d once been sitting on one of the fire escape landings, grasping two of the horizontal railing bars, pressing his face between them and sniffling. His eyes were red and puffy. His expression told Martin everything he needed to know: It wasn’t me, and it didn’t fall.

“What happened?’ Martin asked aloud.

“Dr. Hayes went to get your car, remember?” replied Craig. “You just take it easy, we’ll get you all taken care of.”

Martin ignored him. Up on the roof, passing under the glow of the streetlight, he caught sight of something massive and closed his eyes; though he’d glimpsed it only for a second—part of a shoulder? the back of its head?—whatever: it was fifty miles past ugly. It had made a deep slobbering sound, radiated an air of threat and corruption, one that Martin could feel even now, covering his face and hands in thin patina of dread and

. . . rot.

Yeah, that was definitely the word for it: rot .

Then Dr. Hayes pulled up in Martin’s car and Craig was pushing him into the back seat, sitting next to him as Dr. Hayes pulled away and asked Craig if he’d brought it, and Martin wondered what they were talking about, then Craig said yes and pulled a small bottle of something out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to Martin as Dr. Hayes asked how long ago he’d taken the first dose of pudding and pills, and Martin said he wasn’t sure, maybe forty minutes ago, probably less, and Dr. Hayes said all right, he needed to drink that right now, please, and Martin realized that he was thirsty, so he brought the small green bottle to his lips and chugged it—it tasted like castor-oil crap but he didn’t care, it was cold and wet and felt good going down—then he thanked Craig and handed the bottle back to him and lay back his head, closing his eyes, trying to shake off the feeling of decay and corruption that still clung to him, trying not to think about the little bit of the thing that he’d been able to see, wondering where the little boy would go now, and for a few moments ( minutes? . . . hard to tell) he just enjoyed the ride, responding to questions every now and then when Dr. Hayes asked them, telling her his doctor’s name somewhere in there, then his stomach rumbled and he got that funny swelling feeling in the middle of his throat that quickly rose into his mouth and he managed to say, “I think I’m gonna be—” before Dr. Hayes pulled over and Craig threw open the door and Martin fell out on his hand and knees, vomiting up what felt like everything he’d put into his stomach since he was three, vomiting with such force that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see his shoes come flying out, but it was done soon enough, it was finished, and so was he, he knew it, and next thing Craig was helping him back into the car, wiping off his mouth and chin with a handkerchief, and they were off again, and when they arrived at The Center everyone there was very nice and very helpful, Dr. Hayes talked to them, and Martin signed something about agreeing to the rules and treatment, he gave them all the contents of his pockets and they told him the items would be returned to him after he’d been processed, then Dr. Hayes gave him a shot and one of the staff took him back to his room that had a single bed, a chair, an empty student desk with a clip-on lamp, and the staffer helped Martin into bed, and for the first time in his life, he was, literally, asleep before his head hit the pillow. It was a deep, solid sleep, born as much from complete exhaustion as it was from the tranquilizer given to him. He did not dream; he would not have remembered even if he had. And so passed the only peaceful night Martin Tyler would know in Buzzland.

2

He was awakened at eight a.m. when a burly attendant did not so much knock on as pummel his door, shove it open, flip on the too-bright overhead lights, and bellow in a sing-song yet impatient voice, “Time to get up , come on , breakfast in five minutes,” before walking on to repeat the ritual elsewhere.

Martin swung his feet down onto the floor, and for a moment sat staring at the light-colored tile there. Hadn’t he read something once about how places like this used neutral-to-soothing colors? Nothing that would agitate someone? Bland but not boring. And why was he pissing away brain cells pondering the decorating scheme?

This floor needs to be stripped and re-waxed , he thought. A good buffing wouldn’t hurt things, either.

He swallowed, was barely able to work up enough saliva to complete the action, and realized he had a major case of cotton mouth. It also felt like his stomach had imploded—Christ, he was hungry.

Breakfast in five minutes.

He stood, pulled in a deep breath, and took exactly three steps toward the door before his right leg buckled and his left decided that looked like the thing to do and joined it, which is why he was sitting on his ass in the middle of the floor when Sing-Song the Impatient came by again.

“Having a little trouble finding your legs this morning?”

“No, I found them just fine. It’s getting them to cooperate that seems to be . . .” He couldn’t think of any way to finish that, so didn’t bother trying.

The attendant—whose name tag identified him as B. WILSON—came into the room and helped Martin to his feet. “Want me to lend you a hand getting to the dining area?” “If you don’t mind.” And as the attendant was helping him up, Martin asked, “What’s the ‘B’ stand for?” “Bernard. But everybody just calls me Bernie.” “But you prefer ‘Bernard’, don’t you?” The attendant looked at him. “Actually, yes, I do. How’d you guess?” “‘Bernard’ sounds like a good, strong name. ‘Bernie’ sounds like some weasel bookie whose math is always questionable.”