“I don’t know that it’s . . . it’s so much I want to die,” he said. “It’s just that I really don’t think I’ve been alive for a while, just sort of . . . breathing and taking up space, so . . . if there’s a third alternative that I’ve . . . overlooked, I’m all ears.” “Why do you feel this way, Martin?”
Nibby, isn’t she? He looked down at his hands. Where was the grocery bag?
He looked up again. Barbara Hayes was holding it. When had he given it to her? He should have given her the spoons. She couldn’t chow down on the pudding without the spoons. Well, he supposed she could, but it’d be kind of messy, and she didn’t look like the messy type and . . . hadn’t she asked him something?
“. . . were both sick for so long,” he heard himself saying. “If I wasn’t at work, then I was driving one of them to or from their doctors or treatments, straightening up the house—did I tell you that I’m a custodian? And a pretty good one. I always kept their house clean, their medicines organized—got some of those pill containers so I could put each day’s dosages into separate compartments in case one of them lost track of what they were supposed to take and when and . . .” He looked directly into her eyes for the first time. “You know, if you’re looking for a reason, just one, some Holy Grail of reasons . . . I can’t give it to you.” “There usually isn’t just one reason, Martin.” “Barbara?” said the receptionist; then, to Martin: “I apologize for interrupting you.” “. . . s’okay . . .” The receptionist turned back to Dr. Hayes. “They’re expecting you.” “Thanks. Martin?”
Woozy . . . damn but he was getting woozy. “Yes?”
“Did you drive yourself here?”
“Sort of . . . I mean, yes. I mean, I wasn’t really driving here, I was gonna go to . . . piss on it—my car’s outside. I left it parked over by the light.” “May I have the keys, please?” He handed them to her without question or argument. “Do you mind if I take you someplace, Martin? Someplace where there are people who can help?”
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.