Eleven Twenty-Three, page 28
Tara’s still crying when she looks each of us in the eye before lowering her head and saying, “I don’t even care. I don’t care what happens. We can all just fucking die for all I give a shit.”
“No, Tara. We can all just escape. Remember? Nothing’s changed. We’re out of here before Wednesday.”
“Hajime and Mitsuko were right all along,” she sighs, shakily lighting a cigarette. “We’re not leaving here. We’re already dead. In fact, if I turn—”
“If you turn then what, Tara?” I ask sharply.
“Then just let me do whatever to myself. I don’t care.”
She sinks into the couch and buries her head in her hands, a strong girl entertaining thoughts she never would have had, not in a thousand years, before that funeral Saturday morning. Worse, this is Tara on two Xanax. Regardless, as I survey the faces of my companions and listen to the shrieks and occasional crack of gunfire outside this house, I think it’s safe to say that the ones not conjuring up those kinds of ideations are in the vast minority.
“We’re leaving before Wednesday,” I repeat uselessly. “By Wednesday we’re gone. We’re starting over again.”
“We probably won’t even see Wednesday,” Hajime interjects, leering at me pretentiously. “It’s extremely optimistic for you to believe we’ll survive until then, Layne. Might I remind you it’s only Sunday night?”
“It’s eleven eighteen, Hajime. Can we please have this conversation later?”
“Well maybe, maybe not, Layne—”
Just then, three quick gunshots cut through the night. My spine shudders and I clench tighter on the briefcase handle. A moment later, the blast of a shotgun.
“This isn’t smallpox,” Julie says. “It’s hopelessness personified. We’ve got to get out of here soon, or not at all.”
I give Julie a grateful nod and look back at Tara, her face still buried in her hands, and then at Hajime, who lights a cigarette and clears his throat for the next rebuke.
“I’d rather throw a party Tuesday night than die knee-deep in palmetto bushes and mangrove roots, eaten by some ferocious god-damned dog or shot in the face by a soldier my own tax money employs,” Hajime declares, glancing at his watch, the stupid bastard.
“Either way, you’ll still be dead by Wednesday afternoon, Hajime. But you know what? I’m done with trying to convince you. It’s stupid. If you want to be rounded up just like those other pieces of shit out there that you’ve always shunned for their complacency, then go ahead. Do it. But just know that on Wednesday morning, you’re just as pathetic and altogether fucked as anyone else in this town. You know, I’ve always believed you when you said that we were better than our surroundings here, Hajime. You convinced me that we were somehow special, a little brighter and a little more together than the other few thousand people in Lilly’s End. But you know what?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You’re not any smarter, braver, or enlightened than the other bumpkins that get buried in an unmarked grave come the end of the week. You’re a lazy fucking hypocrite, Hajime, and it’s finally going to catch up to you this time and get you killed. You’ll be just another dead Asian kid that no one in the real America knew or gave a shit about.”
“Layne—” Julie begins.
“So there it is?” he says, cutting her off.
“Yes. There it is. You can’t join your own revolution because you’re too busy looking it up on Google and throwing out vague references to it at parties. You’re clever, Hajime. Talented, too. But not in any kind of useful way. You’d rather throw some paint on a canvas and pretend you’ve made a difference than actually make one. God, you’re just like a high school kid.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re going to have to put your semen in me, does it?” he says, looking faux-worried. “I know I’m not as impressive as Olivia, but that—”
I immediately lose it.
Before I even realize it, I’ve taken two oversized steps forward and punched him in the chin. Hajime stumbles backward on the blankets covering the floor. He lands in a puddle of old blood and spends a long time rubbing his jaw, slowly opening and closing his mouth. When he finally looks up at me, there are half-tears under his eyelids.
“If I’m a lazy hypocrite, what does that make you, Layne?” he asks. “Tell me.”
“Guys, it’s eleven-twenty,” Julie tries to tell us. “Again, may I suggest that maybe you two talk about this later?”
“I don’t know what it makes me, Hajime. I do know that if I die here, at least it will be on my own terms. At least Tara and I are going to try and defy the quarantine. We’re at least going to try, Hajime. You know the word ‘try,’ right? I’m sure you’ve heard it before, even if you’ve never actually done it. Before all those corrupt governments you talk of get overturned, how many people have to die for their cause first?”
“There’s no cause here, Layne, and you know it,” Tara says. “We’re at our still point.”
My stomach sinks and I feel lightheaded. When I glance up at the ceiling, it’s dotted with stars.
“Stop trying to wear superhero-sized shoes, Layne,” Hajime says. “It doesn’t become you. Besides, I can’t recall a single time that Clark Kent fucked the married Asian girl instead of Lois Lane. Can you?”
“You—are a bastard,” I manage, but am having trouble breathing.
“What is he talking about, Layne?” Tara croaks while massaging her throat. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” he repeats. “Well, if you consider Layne cheating on you with my sister nothing, then by all means, Tara. It’s nothing.”
“Eleven twenty-one, guys,” Julie reminds us, focusing solely on her watch.
“What?” Tara says, simultaneously shocked and close to passing out. “You did what, Layne?”
“He’s full of shit, Tara—”
“I’m full of shit? So that night last summer after the beach and Dubliners didn’t happen, bro? Is that right? Well, Mitsuko might have something to say about that, if we ever see her again.”
“Please tell me didn’t,” Tara pleads, already turning red and losing her ability to form coherent sentences. “Please, please tell me never happen, Layne. Not with her. Please tell me. Please.”
The room falls silent. I grind my teeth and glare at Hajime, praying that he dies in two minutes. Tara and even Julie now wait for me to say something.
“Tara, I—”
“Oh my god. You did.”
“I—”
“You son of a bitch!”
“I’m sorry, Tara. I don’t know what to say. It was a mistake—”
“Yeah, it must have been a huge mistake,” Hajime scoffs, but quickly winces at a sharp pain in his stomach. “That’s why you called her the day you got back from China, right? To tell her how much of a mistake it was?”
“You’d better hope you don’t turn, Hajime,” I warn him. “Because this time, it won’t be me who stops the knife.”
“Then let it happen, Layne. Go ahead. Let your best friend die because he exposed you for the liar and asshole you most clearly are. That won’t haunt you for the rest of your existence.”
“I’m already haunted, Hajime—”
“Eleven twenty-two…”
“My parents are dead,” Tara sobs. “My sister Chloe is dead. Everyone is dead, Layne. They’re all dead. We should never have come back here in the first place, because now we might be dead soon too. And to top it all off, you did this? Did I wrong you or something in a past life? Is that it, Layne? Because I certainly didn’t do anything to deserve having you fuck that conniving little bitch.”
“Hold on,” Hajime says. “That’s still my sister you’re blasting, sweetie.”
“Tara, I didn’t know we’d be in this predicament someday when it happened,” I say. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake, okay? Everything that happened with Mitsuko was a big mistake. Hajime’s blowing the entire ordeal way out of proportion. I fucked up, okay? I admit it. But we can’t worry about that now.”
“Please don’t let anything happen to me,” Julie pleads with us. “I realize there’s…some drama…but…please…don’t let…”
Julie doubles over, clenching her stomach. Tara rubs her temples but then lets both her arms fall to her sides. She breathes shallowly through her nose and Hajime spits out something pink onto the floor.
“Layne?” my girlfriend says, barely audible.
“Yes, Tara?”
“If we do somehow survive this…you and I are through. Once we’re out of the End, we go our separate ways. You understand?”
I say nothing and instead focus on a random spot of blood on the white wall behind Tara’s head. I try to maintain my balance.
“Do you understand?” she repeats.
“Yes, Tara. I understand.”
“You’re not a hero, Layne,” Tara says. “You’re just another asshole looking for redemption. You’re a goddamn cliché. And newsflash: you’re never going to prove yourself to anyone. Your past can’t just be edited out of existence. You of all people should know that.”
But the true past is never written down in the first place, the tiny evil voice tells me. It’s really not that difficult.
And by the time the thought is complete, it’s eleven twenty-three.
Both girls stampede toward me.
Tara tackles me first, launching me back several feet onto the couch. She’s snarling and foaming at the mouth already, screaming at the top of her lungs while she maniacally grabs at my chest. Julie scampers toward us and falls to her knees, surveying my exposed thigh for only a moment before sinking her teeth into the fabric of my jeans. I wail in agony, frantically shaking my leg and trying to kick her off.
Hajime just stands there several feet away, watching the attack.
“Hajime, for God’s sake, help me!”
The saliva and foul-smelling acids slithering out of Tara’s mouth cascade down my forehead, my cheek, and onto my lips, inside my throat. I cough and try to overpower her, but Julie holds down my legs and bites into the denim again. This time I see the faint outline of red go through the fabric, and the panic sets in.
“Hajime, please!”
He just stands there, folding his arms, watching me struggle with Tara in my lap and Julie at my feet, both girls floundering like rabid dogs.
“Hajime—”
I manage to swing my arm widely, taking the briefcase with it and striking Julie in the jaw. She topples over for only a moment before collecting her bearings and coming back for another round.
“Didn’t you just say you were going to let me die if I turned, Layne?” Hajime asks. “Oh, how us pretentious kids live and die under the flag of irony, huh?”
Tara’s eyes are completely vacant, her pupils dilated, all humanity and even the faintest hints of ever having been a member of an evolved species now gone. She digs her nails into my arm. She kicks into my groin. I lose my ability to breathe and realize that I’m exhausting my scant strength fast.
“That briefcase sure did you a lot of good,” he says. “It’s pretty much incapacitated your right arm, but supposedly it’s keeping you from going crazy. Is it a fair trade right now?”
I kick Julie away with my left foot. She sails backward and lands on her ass, still snarling. It only takes her a moment to clamber to her feet again. This time she approaches me deliberately, methodically, almost smiling. Tara sees her coming and tries to pin my arms back, leaving my chest and head completely exposed. They’re working together. Whatever is inside them is legion.
“Hajime, please—please—do something,” I whisper, tears running down my cheeks, a collage of my life’s disappointments and failings flashing before my eyes at such speed that I can’t even begin to learn anything from them.
Julie positions herself next to me and stares for what feels like a long moment. Her pupils are black, her mouth curled into a vicious inhuman grin. She exposes her teeth and leans in, ready to tear into my throat. I can feel her body pressed against me and her breath hot and rancid on my neck.
As I wait for the first indescribable wave of absolute agony, it becomes clear that Julie and Tara really are about to kill me. Then they will kill themselves while still under the control of the eleven twenty-three. The final seconds of my own life will be spent in the debilitating throes of an all-too-real nightmare, while Tara and Julie simply ease into the afterlife following a hazy skewed dream, having no idea how they died or how pitiful and embarrassing their last moment truly was.
Here, suicide is better.
“This makes us even,” I hear Hajime say.
Just then, there’s a shifting weight on the couch, and I catch only a glimpse of Julie somersaulting through the air. The house shudders when she strikes the wall and lands with a dull thud against the tile. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hajime working Julie into a half-nelson, unable to squirm free or harm herself. I take a cue from this sudden development and use the briefcase as a shield between me and Tara. Then I shove her away, hard, and she topples backward onto the floor. Before she realizes what just happened, I grab her by the belt and flip her onto her stomach. I flatten the case against her lower back and then kneel on it, forcing my weight against her spine. My girlfriend jerks and spasms beneath me, but I simply increase the weight and pin down her arms. She’s paralyzed.
Hajime keeps Julie in the headlock. She twists her head violently to the left, then the right, trying to bite at him. He doesn’t budge, and I am momentarily shocked at how strong and efficient this wiry Japanese man actually is. It’s almost as if he’d been specially trained to deal with this kind of insane behavior.
Tara slams her face into the floor. When she pulls away, she leaves a small bloodstain on the wood. I have to let go of her arms and keep her head pulled back, unable to move. She tries to reach around and grab for me, but can’t. Her nails slice graze my arms and side, leaving slivers of red. She sneers and barks underneath me. I don’t budge. Hajime takes note of our rudimentary control over the situation and genuinely laughs a little.
We stay in these weird contorted positions for another seven minutes. Until it’s over. Then the girls go lax in our grips, and we allow them both to slump comfortably into unconscious. There’s a long moment where Hajime and I just stare down at Tara and Julie. We don’t say anything, and instead try to collect our thoughts and breathe.
“Well,” he finally sighs, looking at his watch. I look at mine too, troubled.
“Well.”
“Why couldn’t we have been that cool and composed the other times? It might have saved Mark his bottom lip.”
“I’m not sure,” I answer, gazing at Tara, who is completely dead to the world underneath me. “Maybe different circumstances? Or the fact that they’re just not as physically strong as we are because they’re, uh—you know—”
“Women? Yeah, probably.” He stands up, mindlessly brushes the saliva deeper into his clothes. “We’re both okay. The girls are okay, though probably due for a major migraine when they wake up.”
“Julie’s going to want some Percocet,” I say.
A long pause.
“But anyway—I think I’ll be going now.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay, man.”
“Good luck with your whole escape thing.”
“Good luck with…whatever you end up doing.”
He heads into the other room, comes back a moment later with some of the bags he brought with him. But not all of them.
“I’m going to go and check on Mitsuko and Mark,” he says, barely audible.
“That’s a good idea,” I attempt. “I hope they’re all right.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Hajime stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, shaking and slightly transparent and completely gray-skinned, before finally moving toward the front door.
“Hey. Hajime.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for helping me.” Pause. “I didn’t deserve it.”
“You’re right, you didn’t. But it wasn’t too bad for a lazy hypocrite, huh?”
“You know, when I said that, I—”
“Save it, Layne. Tara was right. You’re not getting redemption. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Tuesday afternoon party to plan.”
And just like that, he is gone. I can hear his car start outside and a moment later headlights peek through the blinds before retreating into the night.
Darkness. Two unconscious girls at my feet. A quiet house. A town pleading for a quick death. A nation misled. An unfaithful boyfriend. An end-of-the-End party that no one should attend but without a doubt will. A world that no longer knows us, and maybe never did. I blot out the world, exhausted, and try to recall a single moment in all my silent past that wasn’t narrated in illegible, transparent subtitles.
Document Four
“Ghosts become fugitives and the palmettos grin like patiently waiting beasts in the shadows of a third-world jungle.”
Lilly’s End, Florida
Population at 08:46 AM EST on Monday, December 10, 2007: 1,597
“We accept the verdict of the past until the need for change cries out loudly enough to force upon us a choice between the comforts of further inertia and the irksomeness of action.”
- Learned Hand, The Spirit of Liberty
“We sit by and watch the barbarian. We tolerate him in the long stretches of peace, we are not afraid. We are tickled by his irreverence; his comic inversion of our old certitudes and our fixed creed refreshes us; we laugh. But as we laugh we are watched by large and awful faces from beyond, and on these faces there are no smiles.”
- Hilaire Belloc, The Path to Rome
“Johnny’s in the basement, mixing up the medicine.
I’m on the pavement, thinking about the government.
