Frank and Hector sped back to Hector's home, lights and siren in full array. Hector quickly changed into plainclothes while Frank placed a call home. He figured there would be a chance to catch Jaimie; usually around this time on Saturdays she would be getting ready to go out for the evening. But she did not answer. He left a message, then hung up to find Hector had donned a pair of khakis, a sport shirt and long trench coat, giving Gloria an 'I have to work late' story, and to not wait up. The frown on her face clearly stated that she would be up anyway regardless of how late he returned. This scenario was probably routine in the Rodriguez household, just as it had been during Frank's marriage to Diane.
They left just after ten, taking the cruiser through the streets at a moderate pace, giving themselves enough time to think about their options, and what they could do when they eventually arrived at Atmosphere.
"We'll have to let the events unfold themselves," Frank muttered, staring at the poster he ripped from the telephone pole advertising the nightclub. "Its all worked out that way so far."
Hector glanced at the sheet in Frank's hand. "If it weren't for the picture, I'd have to chalk up the name of the club to coincidence."
"But it is there. So what do you think?"
"I have no fucking idea."
"You know, it ties in to the whole music thing. The club, Sanskrit's essay on binaural beats, the missing kids' interest in music, Village clothing."
"I know, I know. I'm just having trouble swallowing it all."
"Also, there's something else we failed to discuss. Something obvious." He looked over at Hector.
"The girl?"
Frank nodded. "Her murder. It now ties in. She was actually a boy. A young adolescent male. Just like the rest."
Hector said nothing. Frank's all knowing detective personality could tell that his former Captain was now as obsessed with this great mystery just as much as he was. And his weaker rational third—well, it could tell that Hector was also scared. Just like himself.
He led the car down 11th Avenue, parking at the curb in front of a strip of closed shops. A miserable drizzle sheeted from the muddy sky, coating them in a frigid chill. This section of town didn't just sleep at this time of night. It died, and not a soul or even a rat or pigeon seemed to venture into these desolate parts after sundown. There may have been some form of life here, but it stayed shuttered behind the strip of wretched doors. Frank shuddered at the thought of those unfortunates cowering beyond the stained walls of these dark buildings.
"Train yard's that way.
They paced through the pounding night rain across 11th Avenue into the perimeter of the train yard. Frank felt for his gun, hoping to remain anonymous once inside the club, keeping his fingers crossed that there wouldn't be a metal detector, or that he wouldn't frisked.
"Lots of open land here," Hector said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Perfect place for the Yanks to build a stadium."
Frank saw something ahead. He put a hand on Hector's arm, commanding him to stand still.
Two obscure forms crossed the yard about a hundred yards ahead. They stepped over at least five sets of tracks, climbing through the connected cabs of those occupied by trains.
Frank and Hector moved forward, picking up the pace, careful not to trip over any rails. Reaching a lone passenger car, they stopped and leaned upon it, eyes glued to the pair of bodies, the cold wetness soaking from the surface of the tempered steel through his jacket. The bodies they eyed shifted in and out of the shadows, over the last set of rails to a loading dock where they climbed four steps to a landing bay door. One of the two people gave the door a few hard raps. The metal grate flew up and a large silhouette appeared. After a short exchange, they were admitted.
"Let's go," Frank said, stepping away from the train.
He only made it a step. The train doors flew open and from within a group of men—ordinary looking men, not bald, not teen-aged, wearing jeans and sweatshirts—jumped down and abruptly grabbed hold of Frank and Hector.
They pointed guns at them.
"Come with us."
Frank and Hector were quickly led into the train. Once inside they saw that the train car was not really part of a train, it held none of the ordinary decor a usual train would house, seats, overhead storage racks, a bathroom. Instead, this lone car acted as a cover to something else, something top secret perhaps.
At least fifteen men were busy at work, seemingly keeping tabs on the going-ons around the train yard. A dozen or so computers sat atop as many desks, each one displaying information to a single occupant. Television monitors had been set up displaying what appeared to be a pinpointed area of the train yard. At the moment the monitors visible to Frank showed nothing but quiet, darkened landscapes, except one which followed three young males pacing zombie-like toward the loading dock.
A man dressed in jeans and polo shirt confronted them.
Frank leaned over to Hector. "FBI," he whispered, eyes glued to the agent.
"Exactly," the man said, his voice deep and gravely. "And you—police. So what do you gentlemen know about this nightclub?"
Hector was about to speak when Frank grabbed his arm, silencing him. "We were invited."
The FBI agent grinned. "I don't think they'd need you for anything."
Frank fought back the jab, biting his grin. He was severely angered at this obvious cover-up, but made an effort to keep his emotions at bay.
"Let's keep this simple, gentlemen. Your path ends here."
Frank felt a chill run down his spine, as if someone had loaded a weapon and aimed it at him. Given the circumstances, he didn't doubt the possibility of imminent elimination. "We were invited," he repeated, keeping his inflection as colorless as possible. He moved very slowly and deliberately to his pocket as to not allude that he might be reaching for a weapon, and pulled out the object, displaying it proudly yet cautiously to the FBI agents.
They all cowered at the sight of it, their faces turning a pale shade of gray. The agent at the forefront stepped back, but only an inch, a thick vein in his forehead popping out. "Where did you get that?"
Frank placed it back into his pocket. "The bald man gave it to me." He prayed this made sense to the agents, whom Frank suddenly realized actually possessed knowledge of the entire mystery he and Hector had been attempting to unearth for the past two days.
The agent remained silent, and was about to speak when a slight stir broke out at one of the surveillance monitors. "Mullin—come look at this."
The agent questioning Frank turned around and paced briskly over to the monitor.
"There's hundreds of them."
"Who the hell are they?" Mullin asked, the vein in his forehead growing bigger.
"No clue. They've got torches. They're coming this way."
Mullin raced to the rear of the train car and grabbed an assault rifle from behind a curtain draped across a storage area. "Get everybody together!" he yelled, storming about like a madman. Suddenly the place came alive, and Frank and Hector stood in the midst of it, confused, feeling as if they had suddenly become invisible.
Amidst the fray of emergency preparation someone yelled, "What about the two cops?"
Mullin glanced carelessly towards them, clearly more occupied with the sudden emergence. "They have a unit. Let them go."
Magic words. The door from where they entered flew open and Frank and Hector were bluntly pushed out. They fell down four feet to the rainy-wet ground, hands breaking their fall.
"God damn son-of-a-bitch!" Hector lay on his stomach, head raised slightly. His cheeks had wet dirt on them.
"You all right?" Unhurt, Frank got to his knees and checked on Hector. His ex-captain was mumbling a storm of swear words.
"I hate the FBI. God-damned sons-of-bitches think they own the world."
"Keep your voice down. C'mon."
They stood and instinctively jogged from the trailer towards the loading dock, away from the brewing trouble.
"What did they see? He said hundreds of them." Hector was wiping his bruised palms on his trench coat.
Frank looked around but did not see anything. He thought he heard a thunderous roar in the distance, and half expected to see a flash of lightning in the rainy sky, but nothing fell into his sights. "You hear that?"
Hector nodded, warily. "Sounds like a crowd."
"Let's not waste any more time."
They walked to the loading dock. To the entrance of Atmosphere.
They had assembled in great numbers. Lester gazed at the hundreds of homeless people standing around him in virtual prayer before the great leader of the troops, Jyro.
"We go in tonight!" Jyro screamed from his makeshift platform constructed of milk crates and hemp. The troops returned the plea with a maniacal, chorused wail.
"We fight until death!"
"Yah!" The roar deafened Lester.
"We march, and will not return until victory is ours!" He pointed behind towards the train yard.
"Yah!"
Lester waited for the cue and then Jyro, in all his massive black glory, raised his arms up in the air and screamed, "The rebellion has begun!"
The troops marched forward, following their leader.
Frank and Hector climbed the four rusty grated steps to the platform of the loading dock. Frank's weak, passionless personality wanted so dearly to break out from the bonds holding it back, but his detective third and irrational third had joined forces, assuming control of his very being, creating a new, stronger will within him, a will that desired nothing more than to seek out the answers to this elusive mystery that had left him nearly lifeless, that wanted to destroy anything in his path until he unearthed the very answers he sought.
From here they could hear a remote booming emanating from within the walls of the warehouse: a series of sounds too syncopated to be thunder, too synthetic to be anything created by nature. It was music, the droning beat of hard techno beats and ambient rhythms, spilling out from within the walls of Atmosphere.
Just as the two nondescript figures had done, Frank walked up to the landing bay door with the word Atmosphere messily spray-painted upon it, raised a fist and knocked.
The door immediately slid skyward on its tracks and a man appeared.
Bald, dark sunglasses. But an unfamiliar man, this one possessing a tapestry of tattoos on his arms and a variety of face piercings. "You have an invite?" he asked in a monotone, almost mechanical tone of voice. The lenses of his dark sunglasses seemed to penetrate Frank, all the way to the bone, the look seemingly saying, what are you doing here, old man?
Frank pawed the object from his pocket.
The bouncer stayed silent. Frank's heart pounded in syncopation with the muddied music. Then, stepping aside, he said, "Follow the arrows."
Frank slipped the object back into his pocket and entered, Hector glued to his back.
They entered an empty dark room, the reek of mold immediately assaulting them. A series of small iridescent green arrows ran across the cement floor and they slowly followed them, one careful step at a time, their faint illumination the only source of light. Frank's timid personality squeezed through a bit, contriving terrifying horrors lurking the dark's bounds: the ghosts of the dead, the suicidal Latino boy, Patrick Racine and the other boy in the alley, their mouths gaping, black blood oozing from the torn holes in their naked bodies, each one crawling from the darkness with mangled arms and twisted legs...
They spotted a door in front of them, a glowing green arrow on it pointing the way. Frank looked at Hector, wanting to say We don't have to do this, we can turn back now, get the hell out of here and let those FBI boys handle it all. Hector pushed pass him and groped for the handle.
The door pulled open.
And the building was there.
Surrounded by a link fence, the dome shaped structure sat like a giant insect, six great spines on its back reaching to the night sky, its bulk the size of a small stadium. "Jesus..." was all Frank could manage. Never in his life had he known this structure to be here. When was it constructed? Who built it?
Music seeped from its black shell, pulsing, throbbing, mesmerizing; the ground beneath their feet vibrated, a booming bass. They paced forward across a dissemination of dirt and crumbled cement, through an opening in the link fence towards what appeared to be a door. Frank and Hector both reached their hands out at the same time and touched it, its vibrating surface as smooth and as black as the surface of the object in Frank's pocket. This time Frank grasped the handle on the door.
They entered Atmosphere.
Three more bald men stood in a small foyer, clad in leather and wearing sunglasses. Frank quickly displayed the object. The one in front nodded and stepped aside, permitting them access.
They followed the music down a short hall and through a curtain into a room of great proportion. They stood there rooted, astounded at the amazing sight encompassing them, a great interior whose domed roof ran maybe a hundred feet high, like that of a planetarium, hundreds of lights, a multitude of colors, flashing from the ceiling in a brilliant stroboscopic storm, exploding intermittently amidst one another—all seemingly dominated by the music. Six huge columnar supports stood interspersed throughout the room, towering up to the ceiling like monolithic stalactites in some deep dark cave. Frank imagined them continuing on through the roof and into the air, hence the six towering stacks outside. At the ceiling, a single cobalt ring of neon encircled the top of the columns like halos, a shower of fog raining down the sides in dreamlike cascades. Hundreds of young adults—young men—gyrated about the columns on the dance floor, their bodies thrashing in seizure-like motions, in time to the pounding drums and synthesized raptures.
All of them: young men, pretzeled together in an orgy of dance.
Slowly and quietly, Frank and Hector paced around the perimeter of the dancers, eyes peering and necks craning, trying but mostly unsuccessful in avoiding the wildly swinging arms and legs escaping the spasmodic horde.
"What do you make of this?" Hector finally yelled through the raging din.
Frank shrugged his shoulders, quite unsure himself.
So what do you make of this Frank?
For the first time since he and Hector joined forces nearly thirty-six hours ago, Frank saw himself as the leader, the one in control. He was now guiding Hector, not the other way around. There would be no more discussions, no more persuading. He wouldn't have to convince his ex-captain of their next move, to try and sway his elementary thoughts. This was it, and he would be in charge.
Throughout the unfolding of the investigation, Frank had clearly held the stronger insight, had had some crazy yet conceivable ideas. Yet, with great frustration, he had allowed himself to be guided by Hector's train of reasoning, his by-the-book police logic. But now things would be different. It was he—or better yet, a new Frank who was half true detective and half compulsive-irrational—who held the upper hand, here in this assumed domain of the...of the what? Aliens? Cult?
Whomever, whatever they were, only a continued probe would reveal for certain, and this probe would be Frank's.
Taking advantage of an opening in the chaos, he slipped through the crowd, guiding Hector towards the bar. They squeezed into a spot next to a young man with a trail of metal loops running along the entire edge of his ear.
Following the instinctual calling of his detective personality, Frank peered around at the variety of men here, their bodies acting ahead of their minds. He reminded himself of what Sam Richards had said about Harold Gross acting solely under a severe hypnotic daze. Were all the men here captured by this extreme outside force?
He stepped from the bar and walked along the edge of the crowd, further into the heart of the club. He found a set of steel stairs leading up and followed them, Hector in tow, passing two young men whose arms and tongues were tangled together in an unknottable embrace.
He reached top but another bald sunglassed bouncer blocked the way. The bouncer raised his hand up, palm facing Frank. "You have a pass?" His voice was deep and phlegmy, monotone.
Frank once again fished the object from his pocket.
The bouncer immediately stepped aside and let Frank pass. No questions asked. But he did not allow Hector to pass, stepping between them. "You have a pass?" His statement sounded identical to the first, so much that it could have been a recording.
Frank peered back at his ex-captain, not wanting to speak out in fear of alerting their non-hypnotic states to the bald men. Hector tossed a slight nod at Frank, then turned and headed back down the stairs. Mentally, Frank heard Hector say, "Go ahead Smoky, I'll be all right. You go and find out what the hell is going on here."
Now, also for the first time since the investigation began, Frank Ballaro was alone.
He turned a corner to the right and found himself gazing down a long doorless hallway, cobalt wisps of illumination floating within like specters, seeming to emanate from no true source. The walls were glossy and black, like the exterior of the building. Like the the object in his pocket.
He followed the hall for perhaps twenty-five feet, all the way to an impasse. He stopped then twisted his neck and peered back. The bald bouncer stood there, sunglassed sights staring at him. At once Frank felt extremely uncomfortable, as if he were being set up, that perhaps a gang of thugs were planning to leap out at him at any second to make him 'disappear'. He took a deep breath, trying hard to keep his newfound combo-personality from bowing down to duress.
When he faced forward again, the impasse had disappeared, giving way to an entrance.
Frank widened his eyes, making efforts to adjust his gaze as the darkness ahead loomed. He stepped forward and a great round room sucked him in, large but still smaller than that of the main dance floor he left behind. The walls and floor were sleek and black like everything else, devoid of anything noticeable except for a series of gray screens encircling the perimeter.
"Sit..." The electronic voice startled Frank, its monotone frighteningly similar to that of the bouncers.
"What's this about? Who are you?" Frank yelled, his voice echoing in the chamber.
"Sit." Frank took a step forward. The screens lit up, a dull fractal swirl of blue and silver hues moving with lava-like slowness upon them.
"Sit." The lights brightened as the words reverberated. Frank, seeking only the truth, finally complied and gently squatted on the floor. He slid his hand inside his jacket and sought the comfort of his gun, just in case. Discomfort and fear ran in line with curiosity here in this surrealistic world.
"Place the object on the floor in front of you," the voice demanded.
With his free hand Frank fished it out. As uncommonly gratifying as it felt to have had it, he was equally eager to be rid of it now. He placed it on the floor and again asked, "Who are you?"
A small slot formed beneath the screen directly in front of him and a black snake-like tube slithered out, wet and glistening, yet strangely crustaceous, twisting like an eel as it approached.
Frank tightened his grip on the gun. Bile climbed to the back of his throat. His finger sweated upon the trigger.
The appendage stopped at the object. Its puckered tip kissed the air and Frank watched as it weaved in and about the six spines on the top of the object before attaching itself to one of them. Suddenly the screens changed color, from red to blue to purple, and then a brilliant spectrum of colors spiraled about. He watched with fascination, his breath lost in a confusion of feelings and fear.
The colors quickly faded to gray. The tube detached itself and shot back into the wall like a recoiling tape measure. "The unit has been evacuated. Harbinger, take the unit, seek out new suppliers."
Harbinger? Frank clamped his hand over his mouth in thought. Speak no evil. "What are you?" It was barely a whisper.
Another slot in the wall opened, this time above the screen. A dissemination of blue laser light burst out and washed over Frank's body from head to toe, then blinked out. It was as if he had been scanned...
"Subject lacks necessary chemical agent. Unsuitable for harvesting."
Frank stood. "Chemical agent? What in God's name is..."
A face appeared on the screen. Well not as much a face as it was a blur. But the eyes were there, large, black, prominent, orblike, taking up almost half of the oval outline of the head. It flickered slightly as it spoke, and Frank could see a small blur of a mouth open as it spoke.
"How did you find us?"
"I'm a detective. I find things. What is going on here? Who are you?" Frank took a step forward, gazing up at the face on the screen, his feelings of fear indifferent to that of his curiosity. His wary third, hiding in the shadows, showed its face a bit, wondering if this whole scenario might all be some great lunatic show, if the mysterious object before him had been some sort of backstage pass, granting him access behind the scenes. But his stronger detective personality thought differently, knew in fact that this whole spectacle was some huge excursion into a previously unexplored world, a bizarre new macrocosm in which he had become an unwitting participant in its resolve.
"Subject does not carry the necessary chemical agent."
"Chemical? What chemical?"
"Chemical agent is genetically preponderant in young aggressive males."
"What chemical agent?" Frank's heart slammed against his chest.
Silence.
Then: "The naturally occurring element testosterone is not unlike our fuel."
Frank at once felt all three personalities turmoiled under a similar stress: that of uncertain fear. All along he pondered the alien theory, that somehow the possibility of visitors from another place might exist as a reality. Now, as the proof of his alarming speculation came to light, the reason for their extreme measures also spilled out. That they—whomever they were—were trapped here against their wishes, and that their only means of escape would be to refuel. According to the now feasible essays by Sanskrit, their initial efforts had been to modify the earth's atmosphere in effort to create an environment suitable for their very own existence. Their efforts had failed (thank God), their secondary methodology indicating some degree of success.
He stared up at the screen, legs starting to cramp from squatting. The surreal face there melted away into colors, and then back again, the entire effect a great swirling conglomeration of living, breathing tinctures. "Atmosphere," Frank said, not really knowing how to determine the significance of the word other than to simply utter it.
"It defines all understanding of the human race."
The human voice came from behind, and Frank startled at its intrusion. He rose up, the face on the screen still swirling from non-existent to barely solid, then spun around and immediately felt his stomach knot with loathe.
Bobby Lindsay.
Frank opened his mouth to speak, but could only stammer.
Bobby Lindsay stepped forward, and for the first time since his arrest he wore no sunglasses and had a thin growth of stubble on his skull. "I could ask why you're here, but that much is obvious."
"Lindsay, what is all of this?" Although Frank's fear and anger tore him to shreds, his curiosity held him together. "What defines the human race?"
"Understanding of the human race. Don't misconstrue the truth, Ballaro." Lindsay paced a silent circle about Frank until he reached the glowing screen. He stood in front of it, the landscape of intermingling colors and shapes providing an evil tapestry behind the boy. He pointed to the screen. The strange head-like entity appeared for a moment, then swirled away into an amorphous shape. "The Giver. His understanding of the human race. That object before you is an Atmosphere, but then again, everything here is."
"You're not making any sense, Bobby. You never did."
"Think about it, Ballaro. You must know a great deal about this place, about the Giver, to realize how significant the Atmosphere really is. The Giver came here through the Atmosphere, almost redefined it. It hid beneath it for a long time, utilizing its scope to scan us and our language. Haven't you turned on your radio and heard the pulse? That pulse, it is all hearing, all knowing of our ways of life. And it exists solely through the radio. And the radio, well, it's everywhere."
Frank thought about what Lindsay was saying, and even though he appeared mad, it made sense. If this Giver as he called it had initially scanned radio waves at its location beneath the hole it caused upon its entry into the atmosphere in an effort to learn of the human culture, it most assuredly would have picked up a great deal of programming on the sudden, unexpected event. Almost constant programming in fact, and not just from public radio channels but also from within shortwave communications from scientists who had eagerly moved to investigate the sudden phenomenon.
Frank placed a hand on his gun. The music in the walls grew louder.
"Don't move Ballaro, this is my domain." Bobby stepped forward, inches from Frank. He leaned down and grabbed the Atmosphere from the floor. "I am your Harbinger, and you are my Supplier."
Frank watched in terror as the object that had once been in his pocket started changing shape. Bobby rubbed it feverishly, black eyes staring maniacally at Frank, the blackness upon it changing into a spectrum of liquefied colors like those upon the screen. The screen grew brighter, the face now gone, giving way to thicker, more vibrant hues. The object melted from Bobby's grip, dripped to the floor like spilled syrup and seeped onto Frank's legs, quickly ascending them to his crotch. He stood there, frozen, afraid to touch the slithering mess. A warmth spread into his penis and testicles, a sexual-like warmth that he hadn't felt in many years, ever since Diane last pleasured him many years ago.
But of course it had no stimulating effect on him.
Frank was impotent.
The voice of the Giver emanated, its electronic timbre echoing amidst the muffled beating of the music. "Subject is unsuitable for harvesting. Recognize failure."
The mucky thing that had once been the object slid from Frank's crotch and flowed like a great blob of liquid mercury back into the hands of Bobby Lindsay. Frank watched in horror as the smile on Bobby's face, at first wide and proud, suddenly disappeared and gave way to a scowl of fear and pain. The object, still in its liquid form, started to spread, over his hands and wrists, like wash of driveway sealant. Bobby panicked, crazily shaking his hands up and down in effort to loosen the growing lump. No good. It swallowed his forearms, to the elbows. He rolled to the floor, started screaming in pain, as if he was on fire, trying to douse the flames.
The colors on the screen swirled fantastically, the voice speaking out. "Subject is suitable for harvesting."
Frank turned to run, had taken a few weakened steps when an exit suddenly appeared in the sleek jet wall. He quickened his pace towards it, stumbling, wanting to find Hector.
He heard another scream.
The scream of a girl.
Then he saw Harold Gross, first his bandaged head appearing through the ghostly doorway, and then the upper half of his body, now clad in hospital garb. He seemed to be struggling with something. He looked towards Frank and smiled a wide, incredulous grin that clearly stated, What the fuck are you doing here?
Then he pulled her in, one hand on her hair, the other wrapped around her neck, clearly choking her.
Frank's heart dropped, and in all his life nothing had ever daunted him as this did: his daughter Jaimie, his whole life, his very blood and soul, in this place, in the arms of a killer. In this moment of dread, fleeting images passed where he questioned some terrible conjectures; new, daunting mysteries like: how in God's name did Harold Gross escape the hospital? How did Jaimie end up in his grasp? What did Jaimie know about this place? Why was she here?
As serious as those questions were, they needed to take a back seat to the immediacy of the situation at hand, and how he planned to save her. He prayed inside— not to God, but to his three personalities and how they motivated him to traverse through this entire mystery unscathed, how they led him into and through each and every situation without so much a strained effort on his part. Everything had had a way of unfolding itself to his own benefit since the very beginning, and he prayed that it wouldn't stop now.
He kept his eyes glued to his daughter, her eyes tightened into tear-laden slits. He saw her mouth tremble in great fear but could not hear her cries through Bobby Lindsay's tortured screams and the pounding music emanating from the walls. "Don't worry baby!" he yelled, trying to assure her and himself that everything would be okay.
Harold Gross stopped his forward momentum, seemingly stunned at the sight behind Frank, a multitude of bloodied bandages dangling crazily from his face. Still holding Jaimie tight, he yelled, "What the fuck is this?" , then tramped forward, dragging the struggling girl with him. "I bring you a gift, and you let him supply? I want to supply."
With no warning he threw Jaimie to the ground and ran towards Bobby Lindsay, who was now nearly shrouded in a gelatinous veil of black slime. He yelled something incoherent at the Giver, its colors swirling frenziedly, then began to tear at the liquid Atmosphere ensconcing the screaming Bobby, whose arms reached out beneath the surface of black slime like tree branches lifting up from the surface of a tar pit. The Atmosphere responded, quickly sucking Harold into the fray. A loud slurping noise discharged, as if it were drinking him, and then a new set of screams followed.
Harold Gross finally got his wish. To supply.
Frank ran to Jaimie and held her in his arms, absorbing her sobs. Over her shoulder, he watched in horror as two siphon-like hoses formed from the body of the Atmosphere and encased the two men's abdomens, each lengthy tube whipping wildly about like eels out of water.
When the muffled screams beneath the exterior of the Atmosphere finally stopped, it automatically snapped out of its gelatinous form back into the familiar object Frank had come to know: small, black, shiny, six perfect spines emerging from its rounded surface. It tottered on the floor's surface like a dropped lid, then came to a stop, two tattered bodies twitching on the floor next to it.
Beneath the screen the small aperture appeared again, and from within the appendage slithered out and attached itself to one of the spines emerging from the Atmosphere. A whining noise ensued, and when it stopped, the voice of the Giver echoed in the dark, blue-lit chamber.
"The unit has been evacuated. Take the unit, seek out new Suppliers."
"Fuck you," Frank said, then quickly ushered Jaimie from the room.
Outside the black walls of Atmosphere, another war of sorts manifested, a dozen or so men with guns opposing a few hundred wilding street people with torches and minds gone askew. Bullets flew, some hitting their mark, others soaring astray into the night. From the opposing direction, an arsenal of weapons struck their targets: flames, rocks, pipes, anything hard andwithin a hand's reach. In the end, when all had been said and done, many lay dead, even more injured, the side with the numbers prevailing.
Lester, amongst the numbers, was also amongst the injured, a bullet leaving a charred path through his lungs. He lay gasping for air in the battlefield, looking peculiarly at a lone train car that had been upended. As its vision disappeared behind a wash of film across his sights, his life passed before his eyes. At that very moment his illness escaped his mind, and in return it left memories of the Lester that had once been loved, and had loved in return, a gentle caring man who had had a family, a job, and a sense of wisdom for life and all it had to offer.
He also remembered a time a long ago when he first entered this world with all hope to become a normal human being.
And with his last breath, he would leave it the very same way.
Frank and Jaimie fought corridor after corridor, each lengthy path identical to the next, its glossy black walls illuminated with a soft touch of blue. Instead of relying on their sights, they followed their ears, listening to the music, utilizing their hands to determine the growth of vibrations in the walls. Finally a storm of dancing lights came into view at the end of one tunnel, and they raced out, finding themselves on a platform twenty-five feet above pure chaos.
At first the scene looked much like it did when Frank and Hector had first entered the club: dancers writhing about, heads bobbing crazily, arms and legs tangled in spasmodic furor. Sheets of blue laser light bulleted out from various locations in the walls, each one pinpointing a specific dancer in the fray. Frank remembered the light that had washed over his body in the room of the Giver, and realized now that the dancers were also being scanned.
Subject suitable for harvesting...
Dear God, Frank thought. It's a mass harvesting of testosterone for fuel.
Then he saw beyond those still dancing, who themselves appeared oblivious to the carnage sharing the room with them. Bald sunglassed men, hundreds of them—the Giver's servants—mingled amidst the crowd. Some held the vile black objects in their hands, blindly seeking partakers, others had already found their subjects and watched with rapturous content as the teens surrendered their testosterone—and their lives. Screams erupted, some of pleasure, some of pain, many howls cutting through the incessant beat of the music. Blood coated the dance floor and continued to pool from those just beginning to supply, the dancers slipping and sliding through the sloppy surface, giant fingerpainting-like streaks forming beneath their feet, some losing their footing and splashing down into the gummy mess, all unaware of the impending menace.
And then the objects: hundreds of them it seemed, many in original solid form within the hands of the bald men, others taking on new terrifying conformations in the possession of the teens. Some ate through their stomachs, others encased entire bodies in a black shrouds. They moved, bubbled, gurgled, dripped, all seemingly possessing lives of their own, feeding on their victims.
From within the outer walls of the great den of iniquity, a multitude of writhing cable-like appendages emerged, each one poking about the massacre in effort to track those post-harvest objects reverting to original form, like post-holocaust animals seeking scraps of food. Once an object had been duly located, the appendages attached themselves to its choice of six spines on top, collecting the prize.
Pressing Jaimie's face into his chest, Frank stared dumbfoundedly into the anarchy, trying to absorb it as a whole entity rather than itemizing each daunting ingredient: bodies strewn everywhere, torsos shredded, blood, bile, and gristle forever seeping, pools flowing into one another, a great sea of pestilence formed in their marriage, steam rising, coppery odors, feces and urine commingling within, pure hell rising into a coagulation of rot and corruption, gurgling moans escaping throats gone dead, last breaths discharged from lungs now crushed, snake-like extremities prowling the cracks, slurping, sucking, swallowing.
Frank slowly crept along the catwalk, Jaimie inching along with him, each holding their sights from the pit below. Frank could feel the dampness of his daughter's tears through his jacket, tears caused not just from fear, but from the burning union of stenches rising up from below. In this moment when life seemed so distant, where the gates of hell had granted them full access to the devils fiery domain, Frank could listen to nothing but his heart. None of his personalities, the strong truth-seeking detective, the timid common-man, nor the irrationally impulsive tough-guy could ever prepare for such a hellish adventure. The man that now existed was pure Frank Ballaro, nothing more, nothing less, and it would be his heart alone that would assure safety for his daughter.
They edged around nearly a quarter of the room's circumference, the whole time screams of savage pain and howls of triumph rising up to torment their ears. Soon a stairwell leading down came into view. A few feet from the bottom of the stairs, just beyond a pair of disemboweled bodies, hung the curtain that Frank and Hector had originally entered through.
Suddenly a great horror struck Frank.
Hector.
Frank led Jaimie to the top of the steps. "We have to go down now," he said, as gently as he could, trying desperately to not let her hear the tremble in his voice.
Jaimie started to freak. She pulled her face away from his chest, her cheeks red, wet, and swollen. "Please," she cried, her head fearfully shaking back and forth. "I can't, I can't!"
She tried to pull away from her father, but he held on for dear life, dragging her down the steps. She stumbled along, screaming, her tantrum an uncontrollable storm. They reached bottom. Here the stench of blood and shit was ten times the worse, and Frank had to hold back his gorge. It was here that he also heard, even through the raging din of music and hellish wails of pain and pleasure, the voice of the Giver. But not just one voice. Many voices, a chorus of hundreds it seemed, all the same evil monotone.
Subject sufficient for harvesting...
The unit is full...
Seek out new suppliers...
Over and over and over, the voices continued, as if in stuck in some wicked, inescapable overload.
Frank eyed the curtain, still hanging and remarkably unblemished. He thought quickly of seeking out Hector in the fray, but chose to rescue his daughter instead, praying the whole time that his ex-captain had had the sense to flee this God-forsaken place.
He took a step towards the curtain, Jaimie hanging on his shoulder.
All of a sudden something unforeseen happened. The curtain tore away and from beyond an army poured in, led by a great black man with a bandana tied to his skull. He raised his arms and yelled in triumph, the throngs of homeless rushing around him into the fray like a swarm of ants past their stoic queen. Some carried pipes, others torches or baseball bats, and all others anything that would function as a weapon. They entered in a hypnotic frenzy of sorts, attacking anything in their way: bald men, unprepared for attack and primarily defenseless; injured teens, taken out of their misery; and then, the appendages, slithering back behind the safety of the alien walls. More blood flew, bodies fell in a congested Armageddon of sorts, piling atop one another, most of whom alive and slipping in the blood of the dead.
The Giver's voice boomed out, a new phrase, now, over and over.
Subject insufficient for harvesting. Recognize failure.
Finally the mob thinned at the entrance, and the only thing separating Frank and his freedom was the giant leader of the troops.
He struggled forward on weary legs, guided solely by instinct and his desire to save Jaimie's life.
The giant looked down on them, steadfast and cocky. Insane.
Frank remembered his gun, and would use it if he had to. Jaimie shuddered uncontrollably.
He put his hand on his weapon.
The black man leaned down, spoke softly in Frank's ear, breath hot and rancid. "Who is your God?"
Behind them, an explosion. A wall went up in flames at the far end of the dance floor.
Frank peered up at the great man, the ripeness of his body evident despite the harsh odors filling the room. Behind, a cluster of screams erupted from the pit. "There is no god."
The giant smiled and laughed, displaying his gold tooth, running a gentle finger through Jaimie's hair. "For if there was a God, he would save you, my child." Then, he stepped aside, granting them access to the exit. "Remember old man the one who spared your child's life," he exclaimed in self-proclamation.
"Come Jame," Frank whispered, looking up as thankfully as he could given the trying circumstances. He ushered Jaimie forward, staggering past the giant through the corridor and finally outside beyond the walls of Atmosphere. They ran through the fence and into the dark warehouse, taking each step with heed. When they finally stepped foot on the loading dock they found a battlefield in the trainyard, bodies strewn everywhere, the FBI surveillance vehicle on its side. In the distance, lights and sirens approached. Behind, another explosion.
Then, a shout. "Frank..."
Frank turned to see Hector approaching from the left, a wash of blood across his trench coat. "All hell broke loose and I had to get out. I'm sorry." He shot Jaimie a peculiar glance, the weary look on his face clearly conveying that his mind would accept just about anything at this time.
"Don't ask. Let's get out of here." Frank pulled Jaimie with him, her footsteps stagnant, tears perpetuating their storm on her face. "I would have done the same thing, Hect."
"Dear God, Frank—what is all of this?" Hector asked, nearly out of breath.
"There is no God." Then, "It was them."
Suddenly a rat appeared, squeaking, a wash of blood dappling its whiskers. It stopped a few feet from the three of them, its little beady eyes staring up at them, seemingly saying, "Come near my warm meal and I'll bite your little human fingers off."
Frank pulled out his gun. "Fuck you."
This time he blew the rat away.
Nothing more was said. They paced as briskly as their fatigued legs would take them, over the tracks and across the train yard, watching as a horde of police vehicles raced in. Lights, sirens, shouts.
They reached the street where Hector's cruiser was still parked. Nearly collapsing from exhaustion, they leaned against the car and watched the indelible activity from this safer distance.
A series of explosions sounded, and then something incredible happened.
Atmosphere—the entire nightclub—rose up in the air, a great black pod with bolts of lightning darting about its surface, elevating to a miraculous height. Beneath, a multitude of lengthy tentacle-like strands trailed behind, ripping out of the ground, dragging up clumps of earth and cement until they all came free and slithered back into the base of the great floating system.
And then the great ship Atmosphere slowly inverted completely around until the six cylindrical spines faced downward towards the earth instead of skyward. The ends glowed a tremendous shade of luminous blue, and then in a flash of a moment it disappeared into the heavens, a great bullet of light, taking away all those still trapped within its domain.