Room 7
1:00 AM the Next Day
The
man in the black suit pours himself a drink. It’s tequila, from agave grown
outside Damana. He is careful with alcohol. His father – and yes, even men like
him have fathers – was an alcoholic. He shouldn’t touch the stuff at all, but
he needs something to help him relax.
It’s
been a long day. The woman in the black suit has refrained from the kind of
idle chitchat that makes long drives up and down their massive country
bearable. She’s angry with him.
He
is always careful not to wish to go home to Damana. Wishes like that can lead
to pining, and that can distract from work. He is confident they will achieve
containment, but he does not know that he will be the one to catch the thing.
Designation:
Templar One.
Origins:
Question mark.
Nature:
Unknown.
Threat:
Very High.
Sentience:
Unknown.
Contagious:
Unknown.
It
is this last unknown that made the woman in the black suit so angry with him.
The man in the black suit did not watch Eris Oceans as she stumbled into the
desert, to die of heat stroke or dehydration. In a way, she had already died
before they even found her.
The
man in the black suit takes a sip from his glass. He has already put the bottle
away.
This
is not the way that things usually go. Most of the people he finds in the wake
of one of these incidents are able to go on and live fairly normal lives. The
luckiest are the ones who remembered nothing, at least consciously. A little
neurosis is a small price to pay for a life free of cosmic horror.
The
man in the black suit takes off his jacket and hangs it on the hook the motel
has kindly provided next to the bathroom. He pulls the knot of his tie loose
and draws it slowly out of his collar. It is made of silk, and feels smooth as
it runs along his fingers. It is black, just like his jacket and pants and
shoes. He removes the shoes and peels off his socks, placing them neatly on the
bed.
He
slowly unbuttons his shirt. He removes it and hangs it up over the jacket. The
fluorescent bulb illuminating the sink hums, and he stares at himself in the
mirror. The light is not flattering, but he has no need of flattery. He looks
into his own eyes and stares for a solid minute.
He
thinks about who he is, how he became what he is, and how he came to do what he
does. The woman in the black suit is younger than he is. She is young enough to
be his daughter. He expects that she will come to understand eventually. Poor
Eris Oceans is dead – this many days in the desert would ensure that. Her
companion is dead as well – of that, the man in the black suit can be certain
beyond any doubt. These deaths are monstrous, to be sure, but unavoidable.
And
the woman in the black suit will come to understand that eventually, though it
might be years before she accepts that truth. For what it is worth, he hopes
that she sleeps well tonight, though he doubts she will. She is in the next
room over. He has no idea whatsoever what she is doing in there.
The
man in the black suit runs his hand along his cheek, feeling stubble poking
through. His hair has grown longer than he prefers to keep it. And his eyes are
tired. He looks paler than usual. The color seems to have drained even from his
eyes.
He
has driven fourteen hours today. He is going to sleep soon.
He
removes his pants and folds them, laying them across the top of the chair. At
this point, he re-checks the lock and bolt on the door. He ensures that the
blinds obscure the entirety of his room. He examines the smoke detector and any
vents in which there could possibly be some sort of surveillance equipment. He
does not expect to find any, and ultimately he is not surprised.
He
returns to the sink-counter, with its square of tiled floor beneath it and
harsh mirror-light. He removes his underwear and places it on the bed behind
him, next to the socks.
The
man in the black suit pulls the crumpled paper bag from under the sink. Slowly,
ritualistically, he unfurls it, allowing him to reach into its mouth. He pulls
the knife and the towel from out of it. The towel still smells like bleach.
The
knife is an old one, and it is probably time to take it in to get the handle
re-bound. The sheath is also starting to fall apart, but he takes excellent
care of the blade.
He
sets the towel and the knife on the counter that stands just outside the
bathroom, where the sink is. He then pulls other items from the bag – a
whetstone, a lighter, a bottle of pure alcohol, some larger adhesive bandages, and
a suture needle with thread.
He
sharpens the knife. He does this for several minutes. He cleans the knife now, pouring
the alcohol along the blade. He then wets the towel with alcohol and rubs the
usual place on his abdomen.
He
has some basic medical training. He knows where to put the knife so that it
does not damage any important organs or sever any major blood vessels. He has
done this many times before. You should not worry for his physical safety.
He
takes two deep, calming breaths, and he pushes the point of the knife into the
spot on his abdomen. It is sufficiently sharp, and a bead of blood drops down.
It does not hurt yet.
He
takes another deep breath and then slowly, carefully, pushes the knife in
farther. First it is cutting skin. Then it is pressing through muscle. He
nearly winces, but he has practiced enough to know that this would make things
far worse.
The
knife is now over an inch into his body. He focuses on the pain. He conjures,
in his mind, the face of Eris Oceans. He sees her, worn and bloody and missing
an eye. He sees her identification photo – a record of the woman she once was.
The pain becomes excruciating.
He
forces himself to imagine her, hearing her voice not as the small and
high-pitched trauma-victim mouse-sound, but as that of a healthy adult woman.
“She
is dead,” he says, whispering, but loud enough for himself to hear.
He
pushes the knife in further, a very deep, animal part of his mind screaming to
stop, to relieve him from the pain.
He
does not listen to it. He stares into the mirror, the harsh fluorescent light,
with its slight green tint, making the bright red blood look almost brown or
black. He stares into his own eyes as the knife cuts deeper into his flesh.
“Her
name was Eris Oceans.” He repeats this like a religious chant.
His
eyes have gotten red. He can feel blood – that which is not spilling onto the
tile floor beneath him – rushing to his face, swelling it. He is almost there.
He
turns the knife now, ever so slightly, not enough to shear the skin, but the
pain flares through him.
And you killed her.
And
now a teardrop forms in his right eye. It rolls down his stubbly cheek and
cascades down his chest and finally to the floor.
He
takes a deep breath. His shoulders feel weak, and they shake a little as he
does so.
Gingerly,
he removes the knife. There is a great deal of blood – more than he ever
expects. The incision is about an inch across. He clamps the towel to his
stomach. He then removes it and cleans off the wound with the alcohol. He
sterilizes the needle and then begins to sew up the cut.
The
physical pain continues as he makes stitch after stitch. But before long, the
wound has been closed. He ties off the thread and cuts it with the knife.
He
cleans the wound once again, barely noticing the sting of the alcohol. He
places the bandage over it and then begins to clean up. He washes the knife
clean and ensures that it is perfectly dry before he returns it to its sheath.
He places the items back in the paper bag – all except the towel.
This
towel has been cleaned several times. It has served him well. But the bleach
smell has seeped into it from its repeated washes. He takes one of the fresh
towels from the motel and puts it in the paper bag.
Tonight
he’ll offer to get the woman in the black suit something for dinner – something
of a peace offering, perhaps. Regardless, under the pretense of getting food,
he will also transport this towel somewhere out in the desert, where he will
burn it.
(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2015)
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