Eleven Twenty-Three, page 21
But the bodies—
They were discarded in every direction when we drove back from my mother’s immolated apartment. There were children lying in pools of blood in the middle of the road, only inches away from the parents that broke their necks or bit off their faces or strangled them with their boot heels before pulverizing their own head into the ground immediately afterward. There were gunshot wounds to heads, missing necks, and at one point we passed an old man sitting in a lawn chair whose eyes had somehow been burnt out of their sockets. There were enlarged tongues hanging limply from the mouths of poison victims. There were more fires than before, which meant half a dozen random, usually naked or near naked survivors wandering around in the cold, their arms and faces and legs blackened and peeling off of their bodies like the rotting skin of discarded fruit.
Tara had come along with me and left the others in Hajime’s car. She was there to make sure I was okay, but never said a word or even raised her eyebrows in the form of a question the entire drive home. She was preoccupied. When she wasn’t recoiling from the terrible visuals unfolding just outside of my car, she was staring uneasily at the briefcase attached to my wrist and sinking into two-minute bouts of desperate weeping over her now-dead mother and father.
The second eleven twenty-three had taken its toll.
“So what’s the plan?” Hajime quietly asks the group now, breaking us out of our scared shitless reverie.
I’m sitting at Tara’s kitchen table again, sipping from watery coffee and smoking a cigarette while gazing through the window at the changing traffic light. Seemingly every square inch of my body aches and groans. The handcuff from the briefcase is already digging into my wrist. My skin feels hot. Tara is seated next to me, her face red and chapped and her lips shedding layers of skin that she quickly bites off with her front teeth.
Mitsuko and her husband Mark stand by the bar, passing a small pipe between them and taking hits of weed with too many stems in it. Mark looked genuinely glad to see me alive when we came through the door an hour ago. Apparently hopes were low and everyone assumed I was dead. Ever since then, I find myself looking in his direction, nodding uselessly.
Chloe could care less about anything right now. She has been all but catatonic since she watched her father Bill clench his eyes shut at 11:23, open them a moment later, and calmly go into the bedroom to stab his wife Nancy about forty times with a pair of scissors. He was giggling so hard that he could hardly keep his hand steady enough to open up his own arms afterward, she said. Right now she’s sitting on a bar stool watching infomercials that are randomly interrupted by black screens and messages like “Let no tears be found upon your corpse’s face” or “Escape the disintegration of the new millennium.” She occasionally glances over at me and blinks, an admission of nothing.
Julie stands in the kitchen hovering over an ancient Tylenol bottle that she pries open and reaches into for a Xanax. Jasmine asks if she can have one and Julie hands her two. They smile almost imperceptibly to each other and place the pills on their parched tongues. Both girls turn to face me and I notice that Jasmine’s t-shirt has been ripped at the shoulder and her jacket is spotted not with blood, but with something green and black and so foul-smelling that I can detect it even from here.
“What’s the plan?” Mark repeats. “Don’t we need to know what’s happening exactly before we start making decisions on the best way to handle it? I mean, all I’ve seen is a bunch of totally random people lose it today twice.”
“At eleven twenty-three,” Tara says in monotone from the table. “It happened at eleven twenty-three both times.”
I sip my coffee, making numerological connections. I’ve encountered the number 23 before while bored and surfing the Internet at Kennedy High School.
The writer William Burroughs once related an incident in Tangier in which a sea captain named Clark bragged that in all his 23 years at sea, he’d never had a single accident or lost a single crewman. That very same day Clark’s vessel sank, killing everyone aboard, including Clark. That night while ruminating on the captain’s poor luck and how cruel irony could be, Burroughs just happened to hear a radio broadcast reporting the crash of a certain Flight 23 back in America. There were no survivors. As if these separate synchronistic incidents were not enough, the pilot of the doomed airliner was also a man named Clark.
And so the 23 enigma was born.
“What is it?” Jasmine is asking. “Like an alarm going off or something?”
“We don’t know why or what it is precisely that’s going on,” Hajime says. “But it did happen at eleven twenty-three. The first time I’m not certain about but the second time I checked and on the clock in my car it was eleven twenty-three when Mitsu—when everyone lost it.”
Mitsuko offers her brother a half-smile of gratitude. He nods.
“So we could probably assume that it will continue to happen every time it’s eleven twenty-three,” Mark says. “Right?”
“For now I certainly would,” Hajime agrees. “This means that in about eight hours it’s going to happen again and there’s no way to know who it will affect. It could be anyone in this room, and probably will be. It could be me or Tara or Mark or Julie—and don’t forget about all the other people in Lilly’s End that we may have to contend with.”
“How long did it last?” I mutter. “How long was everyone out of it? This afternoon it seemed like a long time but it probably wasn’t. Just a few minutes maybe.”
“It couldn’t have been too long,” Mark says. “When everything calmed down I looked back at the clock and only about thirteen or fourteen minutes had gone by.”
“Maybe it lasts eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds,” Tara says, looking out the window. “Maybe that time is everything.”
“But why?” Mitsuko asks.
“Why what?” her brother says. “Why that exact number? It kind of looks familiar to me, but who knows. Ask one of the gas mask men standing on the outskirts of town. Maybe they know and would be kind enough to fill us in.”
“Which leads to our second major problem,” Tara chimes in. “Layne tried leaving from both the north and south ends of town, and also the far west side past Mangrove Path. There are soldiers posted and helicopters—it looked like the 48th Parallel out there. They’re saying this is a quarantine and that it’s for our own safety.”
“Thirty-eighth Parallel, Tara,” I correct. “Well, they’re definitely not letting anyone leave. I watched them open fire on a group that tried to make their way past the barricade. It’s hopeless on the roads. I’m pretty sure they’d be using heat seeking equipment in the helicopters.”
“But you don’t know?” Julie says, filling a glass with water from the faucet.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t know. We should look into it further. But I did see boats offshore and lots of mean men in uniforms and dogs barking, so—”
“So what you’re saying is that we’re not leaving. Right?”
“Not for the moment, no. We are obviously dealing with a faction of our own government here—”
“Who must be wielding unfathomable power and influence, if they’re able to seal off the town, cut our phone lines, sever our Internet servers, take over the airwaves, and keep the news stations at bay,” Hajime says. “So to be honest, all political statements aside, I don’t know what we’re expecting here, guys.”
The room goes quiet after Hajime’s assessment and everyone lets the gravity of the situation settle in. Mitsuko takes a hit from the pipe and begins coughing fitfully.
“So what the hell?” she chokes. “Forget about the dark government shit for a second, Hajime. What do we do about the impending situation eight hours from now?”
“What can we do, honey?” Mark says. “We can’t stop time. If this whole disaster revolves around it being eleven twenty-three, we’re going to have to just accept that in a few hours, some of us in this room are going to go crazy and probably try to start some shit.”
“Or just kill themselves,” Tara whispers.
“We have to contend with that too,” Hajime adds. “When those affected can’t find a victim, they immediately turn on themselves. We saw it at the funeral this morning.”
“You mean yesterday morning.”
“Whatever, Tara. Spare me.”
Lit cigarettes. Julie asks for a hit from the bowl. Chloe turns the television off, sighs.
“That’s bullshit!” Mark suddenly yells, stomping away from us and into the living room. “That is fucking bullshit!”
“Yeah, well, what do you want to hear, bro?” Hajime asks steadily, exhaling smoke through his nose. “I didn’t think we would need to sugarcoat it for you.”
“Then we are in a completely hopeless situation, guys,” he says, pacing. “Do you realize that? You don’t know who it’s going to be that goes after you, so you can’t just go around and tie them up or put them in a straight jacket at eleven-fifteen or something. And then, even if you manage to get away from someone who’s trying to kill you, as soon as you get out of their reach they kill themselves? Is that what’s happening? Is that really the situation?”
“It looks like it,” someone says from the kitchen.
“Then it’s pointless to even try and fight it. This town is dead where it stands.”
“I’ve been calling it the still point,” Tara says.
“How can you say that?” Mitsuko asks her husband, stunned. “How can you make some sweeping judgment call like that when I’m still standing here now? When Layne is still standing here now?”
“Because next time, honey, it may be me going after you. That’s why. It may be your own brother over there. It may be Tara or Jasmine or Layne. It could be all of us at once. Don't you get it? Even if you manage to escape from me and I don’t gouge your eyeballs out, then I may smash my head into a wall instead. If any one of us escapes and isolates themselves from anyone else, then we can’t be there to protect them when they turn it on themselves.”
“That’s what makes this impossible to deal with,” Jasmine says, getting it now. “You can’t isolate yourself from the ones you care about, but you can’t be around them when the time comes either. It’s a totally hopeless scenario. Your husband is right.”
“It’s a paradox,” I whisper to myself, glancing down at the briefcase.
“So what then?” Tara says, standing up from the table. “I listened to this same rant a few hours ago after Layne had seen the blockades outside of town, so I’m really not in the mood to hear it again. Layne is still here. Mitsuko is still here. This…situation…can be dealt with. It can. We just have to learn the ins and outs. Then we can form a plan to get out of here. This is our hometown, guys. Who knows it better than we do? There’s definitely a chance.”
“Yeah, you go draw up the schematics on that,” Mark says, waving her off. “I’m going to sit on this big comfy couch and ruminate over just how ass-raped we are.”
He plops himself down on the sofa and inspects one of the bruises his wife left on his arm.
“It’s almost four in the morning,” Julie says quietly. “If this thing is going to happen in a few hours, I’d like to pretend like I can sleep first. I’d rather deal with this tomorrow—in the daylight.”
“You mean today,” Tara corrects again.
“Tara, don’t be a bitch,” Julie warns.
“I’d be apt to agree with her about the sleep thing,” Jasmine nods.
“What if the power goes out?” Mitsuko asks. “What if it goes out and we wake up and it’s already time?”
“I’m not worried about that,” Julie says. “I don’t think this girl will be sleeping much tonight. I just want to lie down and not talk for a while.”
“Julie and I have enough room for everyone, I think,” Tara says on cue. “There are blankets and sleeping bags in the hall closet, and Layne can grab pillows from Miranda’s room. We have a foldout couch here, the recliners—”
“Maybe we should go home,” Mitsuko says to her husband. “What do you think?”
“No,” Hajime says. “Not tonight. You can go back to your place tomorrow if you want, but tonight everyone is staying in the same place. And it’s not up for debate, Sis.”
“Well…there it is,” Mark says. “Do you want to take the fold-out in here, honey?”
I shamble off to Miranda’s room and slip inside. I try to close the door behind me but the briefcase blocks it and I have to pull the bulky thing completely into the room. There’s still blood coagulated on the floor and on the otherwise very comfortable-looking bed. The room is lit in blue and the little gimcracks and trophies and stuffed animals seem to weep pensively to themselves. I grab the pillows that aren’t speckled with blood (and one with only a small stain on the corner) and immediately evacuate the room, knowing that no one will sleep here tonight. The door closes against the briefcase again and in my exhaustion mumble a non-existent swear word. I think it’s a cross between “shit” and “cunt.”
“Chloe is going to sleep in our room tonight, okay?” Tara says when I meet her in the hallway.
“That’s fine,” I nod. “Let her share the bed with you.”
“We can all fit in there if we need to, Layne. You don’t have to be so valiant. Besides, don’t you think you need some sleep? It’s been just a bit too real today.”
“I’ve already slept. I was asleep when my mother died, remember?”
“That’s not the kind of sleep I was talking about, Sunshine. Look, are you going to be one of those guys that’s hell-bent on blaming themselves for something terrible they had no control over, in addition to always making worst-case scenarios out of every situation that arises? Is that what this is? Because if that’s the case, I’d just like to know now so I can find a new source of emotional support. My parents died too, Layne. Remember?”
“I tell you what, Tara. The day that we escape from this mess and are sitting on a plane bound for somewhere far away from the End, I will grant myself full clemency from what happened tonight and always see the glass as half-full. Until then, let the self-loathing begin.”
“Do you intend to bring that damn case with you into bed tonight?” she asks, looking down at the handle clenched in my grip and the coil hanging limply between the metal plating and my wrist. “If you do, then go ahead and grab another sleeping bag, because you are taking the floor.”
“Let’s just see what happens the next time it’s eleven twenty-three,” I mutter. “If I still lose it like tonight then I’ll get someone to take it off.”
“And if you don’t? I mean, I definitely think that thing is bad news and you’re just as liable to turn later as anyone else. But hypothetically, what happens if somehow the text messages were right and that briefcase spares you from succumbing to whatever it is that’s making people lose it?”
“If I don’t go crazy but everyone else still does, you mean?”
Tara nods.
“Then I’m probably going to die anyway and it won’t matter. Let’s just wait and see.”
I head back into the living room and hand the two salvaged pillows to the couple, both of whom are attempting to unfold the bed from under the couch. Mitsuko inspects her pillow, spots the small bloodstain on it, and immediately trades Mark. Jasmine follows Julie to her room to share a bed and we can hear their whispers like mice scratching inside the walls. Mitsuko groans and looks at her older brother.
“Where are you going to sleep?”
“In the recliner,” he says. “But not yet. I’m going to stay up for a bit.”
“You’re going to be tired tomorrow,” Mark says.
“Before today all I did was sleep. I have reserves.”
Mark notices me standing uselessly in the middle of the living room, looking at Hajime and back to Mitsuko and Mark and then down at the floor, at my singed shoe laces. Mitsuko and her husband climb awkwardly into the pullout bed, the metal supports creaking and clunking underneath them.
“Layne—are you staying up too?” Mitsuko asks. “It makes me nervous for you to stand over me while I’m unconscious and everyone is killing each another. Label me paranoid, if you want.”
“Yeah, man, you should get some sleep,” Mark suggests.
I take a deep breath, gaze idly past the confines of the house to the darkness outside.
“Layne? What’s the deal, man?”
I swallow, my eyes tearing up.
“I can’t sleep right now,” I tell them. “In fact, I find it a little ridiculous that you can. But don’t worry. I’ll ruminate over killing my own mother elsewhere, if it troubles you.”
Mitsuko pushes herself up on her elbows in bed, studying me.
“It’s almost amazing,” she says.
“What?” I ask. “The insult you’re about to throw at me?”
“No, it’s just that it’s almost amazing to me that you still have the capacity for melodrama, Layne. Almost admirable, even.”
“Well thank you, Mitsu—”
“But then again not at all.”
05:28:24 AM
I escape the choked up snores, bedroom whisperings, and secret speeches of the old yellow house and slip out onto the porch as dawn approaches. Hajime is bundled up on the balustrade and has his head rested against the wood frame. His breath steams and the neighborhood is quiet in a way I didn’t know existed anymore. I sit down on a rocking chair, light a cigarette, and sip from a tepid can of Coke while staring at him. At how pale he looks.
“Before that funeral yesterday this town was a nursing home,” Hajime says. “Now look at it. Less than twenty-four hours has passed and we’re the morgue next door.”
