《Tower of Black Eyed Angels》 Episode One: Moon. Z. Current Floor: Z The Dilemma: The last thing Andy remembered was going to bed drunk with an opoid-dependant woman named Tracy. Since his wife died, Andy hadn¡¯t had too much joy aside from raising his daughter, Abby, and the occasional night out. The babysitter offered to keep Abby overnight, so Andy thought what the hell, he deserved it. But when Andy woke up the next morning, he found himself on the ground floor of a windowless building with Tracy, who was withdrawaling from opiates, and only Polaroid pictures serving as clues to their escape. Inventory: Andy: A wicked hangover. Shame. Nicotine withdrawal. What¡¯s that fucking smell? Tracy: Withdrawal from benzodiazepines and opiates. Fucking rage. Waking up, and the bed was gone. Sparks trickled from cut-angle fluorescents half-bolted to the ceiling. Their flashes hammered into my hangover. I gagged as I took in the rancid stench of mothballs. ¡°Tracy?¡± I called out. That was her name. I¡¯d followed her from The Depot downtown to some house on the north side of Jacksonville. She was white with blonde cornrows. Had it really smelled this bad? I felt like I would have remembered. I coughed, sitting up and covering my mouth. ¡°Tracy! Oh, Jesus fuck.¡± My hand came away bloody, but it wasn¡¯t the cough. A crimson web of broken glass sat beneath me. I tried to stand and fell into a pile of empty boxes. There were what looked like coffee stains on the floor. The light flashed. My head pounded. ¡°Jesus fuck,¡± I said again as I clutched my head and stumbled toward the door. But I stopped. My left hand, the bloody one, had soldiered through the pain of traversing my pants pocket lip to where my Lucky Strikes should have been. My left hand knew well that we were not leaving this room without cigarette tucked into corner of mouth. The fear was like a tonic for my hangover, sharp clarity shooting from stomach to brain. I spun, kicking boxes, rechecking pockets, crawling on hands and knees, the rectangular image firm in my mind: red, black, white, Lucky Strike. I growled and kicked at a box. ¡°She stole them,¡± I said, two fingers to my lips. ¡°She stole my cigarettes, and ¡­ the bed.¡± I turned and pointed to the glass mess. But why would she fill the room with boxes? And I didn¡¯t remember the fluorescents. I was wasted when Tracy took me to bed, but I remembered what the room looked like¡ªit was just after that I couldn¡¯t quite put together. I lifted my shirt, running my hand along my lower back to check for all the cut lines you see in the movies, or those train track scars that mark you as ¡®harvested¡¯. I undressed, redressed, swept the room again for smokes, then my eyes landed on the door. Just open. Left open. I could feel the tight grip of nicotine withdrawal coupled with a sudden cold fear gridlocking my chest. I was not at home. I was not in the room Tracy had taken me to. I was not in the house Tracy had taken me to¡ªsomehow I knew this to be true. I regretted shouting Tracy¡¯s name for a full minute. And then the laughter came. ¡°You fucking idiot,¡± I said, thumb and pointer finger pressed into eyes. ¡°You were drunk. You could be in the back room of the fucking Bowl Inn.¡± I¡¯d come to in stranger milieu, God only knew, so, like, the only thing I had to fear was the owner opening up shop and calling the cops, and a cold walk to the Circle K on North Main for some smokes. I inched the door open, peering through the crack. Not a hallway I recognized¡ªmore of the same collapsing boxes, stained floors and blinking fluorescents with plenty of shadow between. I stepped out, keeping my back to a wall as I went. There were no windows. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. ¡°Andy?! The fuck you take me, you bitch ass?!¡± There was the sound of puking, pounding and stomping and banging on walls, and maybe some of the same box-tossing I¡¯d done back in my own room. I came to the door. There was a little unicorn sticker on the knob, the kind my daughter Abby used to give my wife when she got home from chemo. I jumped back as something hit the other side of the door, pushing it open toward me. A box spilling Polaroids was the culprit, and further into the room were the deeply mascara¡¯d eyes and tight yellow cornrows of Tracy. She hunched like a rodent, breath inflating and deflating her thin form. ¡°The fuck are you doing here?¡± I said, scanning the length of her. Tight white shirt, jean booty shorts and red Chuck Taylors. She bent down to pick up a piece of broken glass and hurled it at me, missing. ¡°Where the fuck are my Newports, bitch?¡± she said. ¡°What? No, no, no, you took my cigarettes, bitch. Jesus, you look like¡ª¡° ¡°More than Newports in there, and you know it. That¡¯s why you ain¡¯t givin em back¡±¡ªshe was doing that finger thing that white girls on the north side did, where they, like, kind of point at you from every possible angle and jerk their heads around like a snake or a chicken or both¡ª¡°but if you don¡¯t give em, and soon, motherfucker, I¡¯m gonna fuck you up, hell yeah, fuck you up, send you back to wifey with claw marks. Hey! The fuck you think you goin?¡± I left her there, trying the other doors across the hall, each with their own sticker, one with a giraffe, another with a tadpole, a genie on the last. I bent down to pick up a Polaroid from a box just inside. The picture side was an old oil lamp. I flipped it over and found a typewritten message: Subject Genie has started to show signs of early development. Will not remain this creature long. The moon nears. There was no one in the room. ¡°¡ªfuckin bitch ass motherfuck, I said¡ª¡° ¡°Tracy, you are so hot, but your teeth are very big, and they, like, really show, if you will, when you do that fucking pointing thing,¡± I said as I turned on her, clutching my head. She¡¯d found her way out of her room and stood just behind me in the hall. ¡°I ¡­ shouldn¡¯t have said that, I¡¯m sorry. I need a fucking cigarette,¡± I said. ¡°They¡¯re gone. Here.¡± I pushed the Polaroid to her. She burrowed into me with those raccoon eyes. ¡°Look at this,¡± I went on, ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯re at the Bowl Inn.¡± ¡°The fuck is the Bowl Inn?¡± ¡°Bowing alley.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t¡ª¡° ¡°I know¡ªyou don¡¯t bowl, Tracy. Just read the back.¡± ¡°This some college bro bullshit,¡± she said, whipping the Polaroid at me. It bit into my chest with a corner and fell to the floor. ¡°You one of them fuckin Jeffrey Dahmers, got me fucked up in some building you own cause you some slick fuck washing your skin off every mornin in some, like, fuckin glass palace shower, like, windows and shit so you can see skyscrapers or some shit?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a movie, not Jeffrey Dahmer,¡± I said. ¡°Shit ¡­ you do have a fuckin overbite. Just like that Jeffrey Dahmer fuck.¡± I picked up the Polaroid, stepped out of the room and spread my arms wide to the cold of the sprawling hallway. ¡°I¡¯m lost as you,¡± I said. ¡°Last thing I remember, you were pushing me onto the bed. We were drunk ¡­ wait.¡± ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s right, wait.¡± ¡°You never drank.¡± Tracy shifted her feet, itching at bare arms. ¡°I took you to my buddy¡¯s,¡± I went on, ¡°I was drunk.¡± ¡°Why you college bros always callin your friends buddies is beyond me. Sounds faggy as shit. ¡®I was at my buddy¡¯s. Me and my buddy were takin a piss in the cold and we pissed on our hands to keep warm. Me and my buddy were fuckin this chick.¡¯ Like, are your dicks piled, or are they, like, fuckin side by side?¡± She laughed, which turned into a cough, then five sneezes which she punctuated with a ¡°Motherfuckin shit.¡± ¡°And I bought you a dub,¡± I said as Tracy bent double and puked. She nearly stumbled into shadows just outside the nearest fluorescent¡¯s glow, but corrected herself, jumping back into the full light and crouching down. ¡°Then you went to the bathroom, and Henry said you better not be fixing in there, and I said, ¡®We¡¯re just partying.¡¯¡± I turned, clutching my chin, drunk memories sliding all over each other as I tried to grab them. ¡°But you weren¡¯t just partying,¡± I said as Tracy wretched again. ¡°You were getting fixed. That¡¯s what¡¯s in your Newport pack, I¡¯ll bet.¡± ¡°Yeah, bitch,¡± said a croaky Tracy, wiping her mouth. ¡°Now where the fuck is it?¡± She shivered. ¡°And my points. This shit ain¡¯t funny no more.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t take your shit,¡± I said. ¡°How long¡¯s that last, like three days?¡± I waved a hand at her. She scowled. ¡°Dunno. Ain¡¯t never been sick.¡± The implication made me feel a bit sick and a bit sorry. I walked back over to Tracy¡¯s room, checking the doorknob again, just to be sure. ¡°Unicorn,¡± I muttered. ¡°What?¡± she said. I waved her off. She wretched again. I bent down to look at some of the Polaroids spilling from the box Tracy had thrown in the doorway. There were various pictures of what looked like a hospital room, and though the two beds were vacant, they were stained as if with sweat or piss. A unicorn was on the wall. A unicorn and a horse. I looked around, suddenly very afraid. Tracy¡¯s six pace distance from me was too far. ¡°Come on,¡± I said. She shook her head, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. ¡°I need a fuckin minute.¡± I considered a different path, decided there wasn¡¯t one, and decided it was better to just go in all the way, like a cold pool. I rushed in and my skin turned to goose flesh. I rifled through boxes until I found a Polaroid of a trumpet with writing on the back: Subject requires benzodiazepines and opioids to function. When Subject Unicorn wakes, she will need medicine from level Y or withdrawal may prove fatal. Will remain this creature for the foreseeable future. The moon is far. Light shot from the corner of the room as if the flashing fluorescent bulb had found new life, or Tracy had found a switch and flicked it. A thick hum pulsed in my ears like mounting pressure on an airplane. The smell of dead mothballs intensified. I looked up, dropped the Polaroid, and screamed. There, where wall and ceiling met, was a pale-glowing orb the size of a basketball, its pocked surface resembling a face that followed me as I tripped over boxes trying to escape. Wub-wub-wub, it hummed "What the fuck?" I said in falsetto, scrambling to my feet, eyes never leaving the face in the moon. It had black eyes, ears too big, a full, feminine mouth, and ¡­ tusks. Wub-wub-wub. "What the fuck is this place! Where the fuck am I!" The moon shut off as quick as it came, and I ran from the room, finding Tracy on the floor in a rectangle of flashing fluorescent light and hoisting her over my shoulders. She drooled sick on my shirt and she reeked of stomach. I didn¡¯t care, because the only thing more terrifying than that moon following and watching and humming from some remote corner was the thought of being this creature, in this place, alone. Episode Two: Walls Current Floor: Z, Y The Dilemma: The last thing Andy remembered was going to bed drunk with an opoid-dependant woman named Tracy. Since his wife died, Andy hasn¡¯t had too much joy aside from raising his daughter, Abby, and the occasional night out. The babysitter offered to keep Abby overnight, so Andy thought what the hell, he deserved it. But when Andy woke up the next morning, he found himself on the ground floor of a windowless building with Tracy, who was withdrawaling from opiates, and only Polaroid pictures serving as clues to their escape. Previously: Andy woke up on floor Z of a mysterious, windowless building. He was wearing different clothes than he went to bed in¡ªa white shirt, jean shorts, and low-top red Chuck Taylors. He found a woman named Tracy and Polaroid pictures with notes on the back. One of the Polaroids in Tracy¡¯s room said she is dependent on benzodiazepines and opiates and her withdrawals may prove fatal, but there is medicine on floor Y. Andy carried Tracy away in search of a way to the next floor. Inventory: Andy: A wicked hangover. Shame. Nicotine withdrawal. The smell¡¯s worse now. Tracy: Withdrawal from benzodiazepines and opiates. Fucking rage. This bitch. Tracy groaned and puked again as she bounced. We passed more rooms with stickers on their knobs that I did not stop to look at. All doors stood ajar, but I heard no sounds, and hoped not to. I did not want to go into another room where the moon''s awful light could stick to my skin again. It was somehow worse than the headache glow of the fluorescents¡ªalive, like a crawling infestation or virus. The moon nears. The moon is far away. The Genie''s moon neared while the Unicorn''s, Tracy''s, was far. What was mine? What creature was I? Why had the moon come to me in Tracy¡¯s room? Tracy shook, probably seizing. You could fucking die from benzo withdrawal if you didn''t come off them right. ¡°Shit, put me down,¡± Tracy said, but her heart wasn''t in it. She sounded like half a person, the other half somewhere inside a chemical on Floor Y. I passed several pink Z''s on the wall. Bottom floor? That gave me a pinched kind of hope, like maybe floor A had an exit. Maybe. ¡°But where are the fucking stairs?¡± I said. I passed a room with light that looked too natural and rushed on. I turned and turned until I realized that I was going around in one big square, passing the unicorn room again. Tracy groaned. A door down the hall creaked open. I waited for the diseased crawl of moonlight to spill from the room, but there was only the continued back and forth of the door as if a wind had blown it. Tracy''s weight was becoming too much and I''d have to put her down soon. I went to the door and realized it was my own original room, a little horse sticker on the doorknob. ¡°Fucks sake,¡± I said. ¡°Fucking moon, fucking place, fucking rooms.¡± I got all my fucks built up, resolving to face the moon again if I had to, even if it made me insane. My room looked almost exactly the same, boxes tossed in a nicotine-fiending frenzy, bloodstain on the carpet under a web of broken glass. I clenched my left hand, suddenly aching with the memory of wound. The only difference in the room was a black rectangle of ascending stairway cut into the wall, a gunshot from the entrance to the room. ¡°Tracy, you seeing this?¡± ¡°Ungh.¡± ¡°Right,¡± I said, and I shifted her to my left shoulder. My right was killing me. I remembered Shelly, how light she''d felt in those last days. Tracy had a similar sick weightlessness, but regardless, hefting any adult body does a number on the joints. With Shelly, those aches had been a blessing, the last blessings before I knew I''d have to put her away, in the ground, and never ache with the burden of her ever again. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°Fuck it,¡± I said, giving the room one last scan for my cigarettes before ascending the steps. There was a pink Y beside the door, and a Polaroid with an elephant next to it. Finding nothing on the back, I let the picture fall to the floor. The stairway was dark and when I made it to a landing that curved into another stairway, I tripped and dropped Tracy. ¡°Fuckin shit ass motherfucker!¡± ¡°Shit, sorry¡ª¡° ¡°You broke my fuckin ribs!¡± ¡°Where are you?¡± I said. ¡°Right fuckin here.¡± ¡°Where¡ªow!¡± Pain surged in my shin. ¡°Fucking bitch!¡± I said. ¡°The fuck you say? Only one bitch on this stairway, and he a thievin, lyin, dress his bitches up in hipster clothes mother¡ª¡± I picked her up roughly and threw her over my shoulder. ¡°I like you better when you''re sick.¡± ¡°Yeah? Well I like you better¡ª¡° ¡°I thought your rib was broken.¡± ¡°Ribs.¡± ¡°Uh-huh.¡± ¡°Oh fuck,¡± she said, her voice shaky. She dry heaved. ¡°Put me down, oh put me the fuck down now!¡± I felt a cold tickle across my neck like the point of a needle drawing a thin line. I assumed it was Tracy, but the shivering sensation brought to mind images of my daughter playing alone in a gray room I did not recognize. ¡°We have to get to the next level. Just get sick on my shirt.¡± ¡°Put me down!¡± I ignored her, tried shifting her so her stomach wasn''t rubbing against my shoulder, then took the stairs two at a time until we got to the next level. Same story there, boxes filled with Polaroids ransacked on stained gray carpet lit with flashing fluorescents. But the smell was much worse, like the unscrubbable putrid that our old cat Miles had left behind in the guest room when he¡¯d finally kicked, smiling with curds of rotten milk weighing down his whiskers. Shelly called him her Milksop, Milksop Miles because as soon as you put down your glass his tongue was in it. Abby called him Milky. I¡¯d still smell it months, even years later, walking through the hall. Just a hint, but enough to tickle and send a path of spikes down my spine because just after he died, the following week, the doctor found the cancer scouring the surface of every lymph node in my wife¡¯s body. I called him Smiley Miles in my mind after that, because in the back of my mind, his death, and that stink that wouldn¡¯t wash or bleach or Lysol away, had somehow crept into Shelly and guzzled her life away. Smiley Miles. Smelly Shelly. Dead Shelly. Angry Andy and motherless Abby. Next to the stairway''s threshold was the letter Z with an elephant Polaroid tucked between letter and wall. I lay a squirming, protesting Tracy down on a clear patch of floor and picked up Polaroids, shuffling through them, though I found none like those on floor Z. These had, like, numbers, computer language. My eyes flicked up to the corner of the room. No moon. Not yet. ¡°You wanna stay here or come with me?¡± I said. ¡°Don''t want you carrying me, shit. Broke my ribs.¡± ¡°Fine. I''ll be back.¡± But then I remembered something. I turned to the door with the letter Z and the elephant Polaroid next to it. In my room, the stairway had appeared. Had the room changed? Or just the wall? It was crazy, I know, but if the room had shifted, it could again, couldn¡¯t it? And take Tracy with it. ¡°On second thought, you''re coming with me.¡± She held up a hand as I approached. ¡°I''ll fuckin walk.¡± She spit, clutching her side as she stood. I moved to help her, but she ignored the effort, then nodded without looking at me, eyebrows raised. Out in the hall, the other doors were locked, but there were windows on them, the blurry kind that make shadows of whatever is on the other side. There were pictures on every knob. More animals, some I didn''t recognize. This hall, however, did not wrap around in an endless loop, thankfully, and we reached what looked like a nurse''s station where tired women might hand out meds to eager patients of a psych ward or rehab. There were no nurses, of course. Tracy went rigid, arching her back like a fractious toddler until I dropped her. Her eyes filled with light and she vaulted the counter, tearing open drawers and cabinets with metallic slides and bangs. She rattled an orange bottle, popped off the top and tossed three blue pills in her mouth, swallowed dry with what looked like some difficulty, then fingered out one more of the pills and placed it on the counter. She crushed it slowly under the pill bottle, using her fingernail to scratch off what powder clung to the bottom, plugging one nose hole while she snorted the blue hump with the other. Her head came up hard and she sniffed violently a few times before she resumed her search. ¡°Fuck it then,¡± she said as she unpopped the top of another bottle, this one holding red pills. She popped three in her mouth but did not swallow, instead spitting the goopy red mess of them back into a fold of shirt that she then used to rub the coating off completely. She looked around on the desk, found a piece of paper with some information about the subjects on the front, folded the three now-white pills into it, then hammered at them with the bottom of the pill bottle. The snorting of these brought a deep breath of relief, and a slackening of Tracy''s shoulders as she stood and held one nostril. ¡°Jees and fuckin Mary,¡± Tracy said, and she laughed as she let her hands make fists at the small of her back. ¡°Goddamn.¡± ¡°Better?¡± ¡°Shit yeah,¡± she said. ¡°You got pockets? There''s more.¡± I helped her get the other bottles, Xanax, Amytal, Tenuate, and two of morphine. I was happy to take a Tenuate, and Tracy took one too. I pointed at her. ¡°You don''t need to sit down after that?¡± ¡°No, I feel fucking fine. Now where the fuck did you date rape me to? Clothes are a weird touch. You know kinks and shit are extra.¡± ¡°Extra?¡± I said, then realized what she meant. I chuckled darkly. ¡°Uh, I didn¡¯t hire. You wanted it.¡± ¡°You was drunk. And you not bad lookin, but I''ve had enough of that shit in my life that I don''t exactly seek it out recreationally.¡± My eyes went wide. ¡°Just hit you, huh. Just like that.¡± ¡°You didn''t tell me I was paying for ¡­ for that! We were just¡ª¡± ¡°Partying? Maybe to you,¡± she said, sniffing and looking around. ¡°I''ve never hired a fucking whore! I could have gotten it somewhere else.¡± ¡°Looks like you did. And looks like you wanted it. Anyway, let''s get the fuck outta here.¡± ¡°Yeah, I''m not sure it''s easy as that. We''re on level Z. Last level was Y.¡± I did not tell her about the moon. ¡°So we find the stairs,¡± she said. Episode Three: Tusk Current Floor: Y The Dilemma: The last thing Andy remembered was going to bed drunk with an opoid-dependant woman named Tracy. Since his wife died, Andy hasn¡¯t had too much joy aside from raising his daughter, Abby, and the occasional night out. The babysitter offered to keep Abby overnight, so Andy thought what the hell, he deserved it. But when Andy woke up the next morning, he found himself on the ground floor of a windowless building with Tracy, who was withdrawaling from opiates, and only Polaroid pictures serving as clues to their escape. Previously: Tracy and Andy made it to floor Y through a stairway that appeared in Andy¡¯s original room. Andy wasn¡¯t sure if the room had changed, or the wall, so he stayed near Tracy for fear of losing her in another shift. They found a nurse¡¯s station where Tracy found many drugs and cured her withdrawal symptoms, stuffing bottles in pockets and handing some to Andy for him to carry. Andy realized, for the first time, that he had accidentally hired Tracy as a prostitute the night before they woke in the building. Inventory: Andy: Tenuate, 26 pills left. Morphine, 28 pills left. Amytal, 28 pills left. A wicked hangover. Nicotine withdrawal. Shame. Tracy: Xanax, 24 pills left. Morphine, 25 pills left. A pretty decent fucking high, she¡¯ll admit. Perhaps some sexual feelings toward Andy, likely just a fart. I put a hand on the counter and rubbed my head again. The flickering lights were really hurting my eyes, and I wished the Tenuate would hurry up about kicking in. ¡°Someone knew you needed drugs.¡± Tracy nodded her head. ¡°God. God knew, and my savior provides.¡± ¡°No, I mean ¡­,¡± I laughed. ¡°Got ya,¡± she said, poking my chest. I noticed her smile gave her a beauty unburdened by the malady of drug addiction, but I also knew the smile was brought on by drugs. ¡°The Polaroids in the boxes,¡± I said. ¡°You remember?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± she said, and she was looking at my chest now, where her finger still touched me. ¡°They told me where I could find drugs for you. They said if I didn''t, you would die.¡± ¡°Felt like I was dyin,¡± she said, biting her lip and letting her hand fall. ¡°Right,¡± I said. ¡°The papers also said things like, ''Subject Unicorn¡¯¡ªthat''s you, Subject Unicorn, and I''m a horse, I guess¡ª¡®Subject Unicorn is not showing signs of development yet, and ¡­ and the moon is far¡¯. But on this genie guy''s papers, it said the moon was near, that the subject was showing early signs of development.¡± ¡°You sound like a fuckin tweaker, man. That Tenuate hittin already?¡± It was not, in fact, hitting. ¡°I don''t know if you fucking fully comprehend what''s going on here,¡± I said, waving a hand to the dim, corrosive light of the hallway. ¡°Someone took us. And judging by the size of these two floors alone, they took a lot of somebodies, and likely a lot of somebodies did the taking.¡± She waxed interested listener, finger to her mouth. ¡°That''s a lot of somebodies.¡± ¡°But why would they take me and a whore?¡± I said. ¡°You could drop that noun,¡± she said. ¡°Did somebody close to you die recently?¡± ¡°Nope.¡± Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. ¡°Then what?¡± I said. ¡°We gonna look for a way out or keep talking about bullshit?¡± We walked on, down the hall, and as I stepped into a patch of darkness between fluorescent bulbs, I felt like a spaceman who''d lost the cord connecting him to the ship. And I thought for a moment I saw a tall something there in the shadow, something long and clawed that creaked like a tree in hard wind as it moved boned hands and boned limbs, and a smell like mothballs and fish, like twenty dead cats, and a freezer, no saliva, bone dry, seeped into me, not through my nostrils, but my stomach. Its mouth open just slightly and a tusk patient but wanting moving in the darkness between us to touch my shirt, to tug on it so soft and unfelt, the kind of movement you make only to inspire hormones in prey for flavor or a feeding of another kind, like psychopaths playing with food and gaining sustenance from fear and reaction alone. Psychopaths do not require food. The bones barely rattled. I jumped away, bumping into Tracy who did not curse, but clawed at her temples in the same moment as me, and we both stood there in the shadows, foreheads together, kind of swaying there and muttering pain under our breaths like the mentally ill, just hu-huh-huh, ¡°Hurts.¡± The tusk of the creature was ever near, but unseeable. ¡°What¡ª¡° ¡°What is it?¡± I tasted silver and I salivated, though I was very thirsty, and something seemed to swim inside my head, and push buttons, and sharp currents jumped from nerve to nerve, and my stomach felt at first sick, then it flipped with the excitement of going over a hill at top speed in a car, then it felt heavy and full. Something was rummaging. Finding buttons and pushing them. I jerked back again, cracking my head into Tracy''s. She screamed and fell to the floor, out of the shadow and into the light, her nose bloody. And then it was gone again, the rummaging and the button-pushing and some vague images of Abby crying with an American Girl doll tucked under and arm. ¡°What the fuck?¡± Tracy said. ¡°Did you feel that?¡± I said. ¡°Your head knocking into me? Fuck yes.¡± ¡°No. The ¡­ the thing,¡± I said. I turned my head to where it had been, knowing, and yet in complete denial of the fact that something had indeed been there for a moment, but now was gone. ¡°This place is getting to me,¡± I said. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s not shit,¡± Tracy said as she stood, wiping her nose on her shirt which was now badly stained with both blood and the coating of morphine. My eyes landed on the milky curve where her bare abdomen met her jean shorts. I turned away. And saw a figure down the hall, lying just outside the fluorescent reach of an open door''s glow. Something real, something that could help. A person. I ran for it, pills rattling in pockets, hoping that maybe this was some ransacked facility, that this was a former or current employee that could tell us where we were. I heard a small whine escape the man. ¡°Hey!¡± I said. ¡°Thank God! I have a daughter and I gotta get out of here¡ªwe gotta get out of¡ª¡° But as I approached and saw the pink flesh of his long ears, the blue-green veins sticking up like varicose worms threading through red pulsing arteries, a slick sheen reflecting the fluorescent rectangles, the fin of his hand reaching sluggishly onward, away from the room where a rabbit sticker waved from the doorknob, I realized this was no man, or at least, it was man no longer. I took a step back. Tracy sidled up next to me. ¡°Uh-uh!¡± she said, jumping behind me, putting her hands on my shoulders. ¡°Hell the fuck no! Kill it, Andy. Stomp his Easter bunny zombie ass!¡± What was it the documents had said? Something about ''Subject will not remain this creature long. The moon nears.¡¯ The moon. Nears. I grabbed Tracy''s arm, pulling her around the fleshy rabbit-man''s naked, sprawling form. In the room, I saw the tossed boxes, and ¡­ a pack of green and white cigarettes right beneath the diseased light of the moon in the top corner of the room. It was huge, bigger than a man, taller than the ceiling, and somehow still fitting inside. I stepped past to get out of its sight. Wub-wub-wub. Tracy halted, jerking out of my grip. Wub-wub-wub, the moon droned. ¡°My Newports,¡± she whispered reverently, pointing into the room, eyes flicking nervously from the rabbit-man to the cigarette pack beyond. I wondered why, of all else, she seemed the most troubled by the rabbit-man. I decided to use it. ¡°Tracy, you see that fucking rabbit?¡± I said. The thing deflated with a soft whine and she flinched. ¡°Don''t fucking go in there,¡± I said. ¡°That moon¡ª¡° ¡°Fuck that moon,¡± she said, though her eyes shined with its light and what I thought was some kind of buried fear-turned-anger. She inched forward, squeezed her eyes shut, then leaped into the room, leading with a loosely tied red Chuck Taylor, drops of blood falling from her nose onto the rabbit-man. I was left in the hallway with the slick, quivering flesh of the rabbit, the fluorescents, the pockets of darkness between, the wub-wub-wub pressing into my ears, and an unwillingness to follow Tracy. I wanted a fucking cigarette, too, are you kidding me? But Abby was at the sitter¡¯s still, and God knew what time it was, and I didn''t even want to admit to myself that days could have passed. How would that explain the hangover when I woke up in the box room? I kept asking myself. It was my only reassurance. I always got a sitter if I was gonna go out, and only on Friday nights, and her sitter was my cousin with kids of her own that all got into onesies when Abby stayed the night and they watched movies and drank soda and ate pizza rolls. Me and Abby had our own dates, going out to the movies, eating at Ihop, playing at the park even when it was cold and barren. Our park was Duncan, where the historical Governor Duncan''s mansion was, and you could tour its preserved colonial-era walnut stair and cast iron everything with an appointment, and I''d taken Abby once because she kept bothering me about it. Abby was six. Six fucking years old, lost her mom just when she started forming those core memories so she was always bringing up these remembers? of Shelly that I was trying to forget¡ªyou know, because they were good ones. So yes, I went out on Fridays. I was single, had no intention of finding a new mom for Abby, not yet anyway, and sometimes I needed to tie one off and get laid. And that¡¯s why I was here in this building, Abby''s only remaining parent in some psychotic funhouse. I had to fucking get out. I could not afford to go running for cigarettes and get trapped by the moon in the room. ¡°Woah, what the fuck?¡± Tracy said as she emerged from the room, giving the rabbit a wide berth. ¡°Man, you gonna fuckin make it? Palms to my eyes, I rubbed tears away and made sure no more came before I looked up. ¡°Fine. Still got a headache, and¡ªum ¡­,¡± I pointed. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Your head.¡± I tapped my forehead. Tracy looked around, her cornrows not quite whipping, but something like it. ¡°What about my fucking head?¡± She lit a Newport. It smelled wonderful, but I couldn''t take my eyes away from her. ¡°You mean the bloody nose you fuckin gave me?¡± ¡°No. Your forehead,¡± I said. ¡°Have you always had that mark?¡± Episode Four: Hawk, Bat, and Mole Tracy bummed me a cigarette after some grumbling about my puss-ass being unwilling to go in and get the smokes, and how she stepped over that pink meat to get them, and I owed her some fucking favors, and this was a new pack besides, and none of her junk was in it. When I asked for the Zippo she¡¯d found lying next to the cigarettes, she very cutely asked Would I like her to fucking smoke it for me too. I thought to mention my having carried her to a medical station to get well, but once the nicotine hit, and hit hard, I wasn''t bothered by Tracy. And as if the nicotine buzz had encouraged it along, the Tenuate was kicking in too, curbing my headache and bringing a robotic sentimentality with its usual purpose. Even the dead-cat stink no longer bothered me. Without addressing the issue verbally, Tracy and I avoided shadows, even walking along small lines of light between fluorescents when we could still see our surroundings, just to be sure. She made no fuss over the white circle on her forehead when I showed it to her in the zippo''s reflection. Tracy seemed a connoisseur of all things repression unless it was a blatant, surface issue that could easily be handled with anger, bullying, or those snake/chicken head movements and the accusatory north side finger, the wand and preemptive weapon before all hair was pulled and all bitches were slapped. There were pink Y''s on the walls every ten steps or so. We found no more open doors, but when we winded the meandering hall to its end, we found a dark hole of stairway with an X and and elephant Polaroid beside it. ¡°I don''t want to go up there,¡± I said. ¡°I know,¡± Tracy said. For a moment I thought we''d had our first true moment of commiseration until she said, ¡°But that''s cause you a fuckin pussy bro.¡± Then she went up the steps, disappearing into the black. I''d made it up the first set of steps when I thought Tracy was going to die from benzodiazepine withdrawal. The stakes here were less, my fear too recent. ¡°Just run, Andy, fucking run and don''t stop even if you feel ¡­¡± I couldn''t say ¡®rummaging¡¯ out loud. I ran, remembering the curve from the first set of stairs, preparing for it, and tripping when there was only wall where the landing and the curve should have been, all the pills in my pockets pattering to their bottle¡¯s bottoms like the last drops from tree to roof after heavy rain. I landed on my ass and shouted, not from the pain¡ªI could hardly fucking feel it¡ªbut because of the dark, and the overwhelming feeling that something was on the steps with me, and that it would start its rummaging, its bone-clacking, its light touch on the tip of a strand of hair. It got cold. I could not get up. My thoughts turned to Abby, on the playground at school, kids poking at her, asking why she''d gotten a tummy, and Abby didn''t understand why she had a tummy now, how could she? She''d just been eating sweets because everyone let her have sweets because, no big fucking deal or anything, but both her parents were fucking out of commission, assumed dead, and so the foster family who''d taken her indulged in only one kindness¡ªif you could call it kindness¡ªfor such girls as Abby, and that was an open cabinet of sugar where all the hits were ready to play, help you feel for just one second a little better about it all, and how nobody hugged you anymore, especially not today. Look what she''s been through after all, she''s so fragile, what if it makes her cry? Truth is, a hug would make her cry. She''s crying now, about her tummy, and though she doesn''t understand, the way the kids look at her tells her it''s not praise. And no, the cousin didn''t take her, the cousin has kids as it is, and the cousin in fact just got shut down as an unofficial, under-the-table kind of daycare, because a two-year-old almost choked on a rubber ball two weeks after ol¡¯ Andy went missing, and Mom and Dad are gone, and there''s nobody else but distant relatives who don''t want anything to do with another damn kid. Rummaging. Digging holes. The singular clack of bones like hollow whittled sticks in an empty vale. The tusk brushing my shirt and sick shivering fanning out from the fissure. And then there was light. Like a Valkyrie in night, she flew from the black above, a flickering halo surrounding her fist, a small ember glowing with a pull on her Newport, illuminating lips pulling back from teeth as she slashed the Zippo down toward the creature that was no longer there, the tusk that no longer lightly caressed my chest, and I felt warmth again. But still could not move. Did not want to move. Wanted the rummaging, because now that it had taken me there to see my daughter, I could not come back. ¡°Hey!¡± Tracy shouted. ¡°N-n-n-n¡ª¡° How could I leave her again now that I knew what was happening to her out there? Maybe the creature could send a message, tell her I was coming, that as soon as I found the exit I''d be coming to take her back, away from the wretched family drawing a paycheck on her existence. ¡°Come on, man, ah shit!¡± The lighter went out. I smiled. ¡°Please. Take me back to see her. Sh-show me what she''s doing right now. Can you show her I''m here, that I''m coming? That I love her, that I¡¯m sorry, like really fucking sorry?¡± This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Flick, flick, flick. ¡°Come on¡± Tracy said. ¡°Please?¡± I said. I shook with tears and anticipation. Flick, flick, flick. Tracy found my bicep and her nails bit hard into it. ¡°Ow!¡± ¡°You don''t come on, it''s gonna be your fuckin face next. Or I''ll leave you to it.¡± Flick, flick, flick. Light filled the space. I looked into Tracy''s raccoon eyes. ¡°She''s out there. It ¡­ it showed her to me, Tracy. It can do that. It knows where she is.¡± I could feel my face twisting with emotion. ¡°It knows where she is.¡± Tracy put her free hand on my cheek. ¡°I know, Andy. And if you wanna get to where she is, you gotta come with me. I don''t know if you remember how lighters work, but at some point this shit gonna run out, then all you''re gonna have of her is the rummaging.¡± ¡°Don''t say it,¡± I whispered. ¡°You want to get out and find her?¡± I nodded. Her warm hand was bringing me back to my stalwart amphetamine-alertness. I wasn''t sure I''d ever cried on speed before. ¡°Come on,¡± Tracy urged me. I reluctantly followed. The steps, it turned out, curved left and not right. The glow ahead had a different tone than the fluorescent flicker I''d grown accustomed to. Tracy let the lighter go out as we neared, and she took her half-cashed Newport out of her mouth and tucked it into the corner of mine. I pulled hard and coughed the smoke out. The different light I''d seen on the steps was an emerald-glowing skyway stretching far to a middle intersection and then continuing on to the other side where a giant building¡ªwhich I could not see the top of¡ªloomed in billowing indigo mist. I saw the other paths led to the same monolithic structures, all just as infinite as the building we''d come from. Hanging in the air directly above us were the pink, fleshy, eyeless bodies of more anthropomorphic horrors in Cirque Du Soleil stasis surrounded by Polaroids too far away to make out. Above the many rabbit-men and elephant-men and bird-men¡ªyes, bird-men¡ªwere more emerald skyways, two, I counted, before that indigo mist obscured the rest¡ªbut from the height of the buildings I guessed there were more, like the eternal reflection of two mirrors set vis-¨¤-vis. Tracy betrayed a gasp. Below was only black. ¡°Were there more steps?¡± I said. The Y on our original building had that same elephant Polaroid tucked into it. Avoiding the shadow spilling from the steps, I moved to pluck the picture free and chanced a meager glance inside the maw. The shadows seemed to call to me: Abigail. I kind of skipped back to Tracy. She had eyes only for the floating fleshies above, lighting another Newport, popping another morphine, hesitating, then another two. She swallowed dryly. ¡°I''m not going back in to find out. And you ain''t neither.¡± I stared into the black stairway. ¡°What the fuck,¡± I said. ¡°We gotta stay out of the fuckin dark. Almost had you.¡± ¡°It knew my daughter''s name, Tracy,¡± I said. ¡°It knew where she was, what she was going through. The kids make fun of her tummy because she eats too many sweets because she lost both her parents and she''s all alone and the foster family doesn''t give two shits and neither does the state, and¡ª¡° ¡°Hey!¡± Tracy said, crouching to meet my downcast eyes, snapping fingers in my face. ¡°You can''t fuckin believe it, man! You can''t fuckin believe it. You''re some motherfucking food to that thing, aight? Food. That''s all.¡± She raised her eyebrows and folded her arms like it was plain as her nose. ¡°The shit you sayin sounds just like some shit my old man used to say to get me to stick around. You gettin fuckin played by the dark, motherfucker, and that''s all there is to it.¡± I could not believe her. But I tried. I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the pill bottles, tossing a couple more Tenuate down my throat. If you can¡¯t believe it, take drugs. ¡°You better watch that comedown,¡± Tracy said. ¡°Just as bad as the fuckin rummagers.¡± We walked. There were no guard rails to either side of the emerald skyway, which brought on a great sense of vertigo, and at times it seemed the path narrowed, and I swayed. Tracy had a cat-like poise about her, and I enjoyed seeing her in literally a different light. ¡°Thanks,¡± I said. The space, despite its size, was dead, and my voice dropped right to the floor. ¡°I do owe you.¡± ¡°Yeah, well you can make it up by helping me find another light.¡± She briefly glanced above to where two fleshies¡¯ hands were almost¡ªalmost¡ªreinacting Michelangelo¡¯s Creation of Adam. Her chin snapped down. We reached the center where the paths crossed and I thought of an X, the level we were supposedly on. ¡°Which fuckin way,¡± Tracy said. I considered with Tenuate-enhanced vision and Tenuate-enhanced indecision. ¡°I always go right,¡± I said. ¡°Avoid all stop lights.¡± Tracy turned on me, and I thought she was going to call me a fucking idiot or something, but all she said was, ¡°Me too,¡± then went right. I followed after. ¡°You ever been somewhere so big?¡± she said, looking up. ¡°I don''t know if I''ve even heard of a place this big,¡± I said. ¡°I kinda stuck around Jacksonville after high school, was raised here¡ªthere, I mean¡ªand the closest thing I got to ¡®big¡¯ was Austin, Texas where I went to a ¡­ big hospital.¡± Tracy grunted. ¡°Chicago gets big. Standing at the bottom of the Sears Tower, you get the fuckin jumps in your guts, but that¡±¡ªshe pointed up to the black structure ahead of us¡ª¡°is pretty fuckin far from jumps in your guts.¡± ¡°Oh yeah? Tracy''s got a feeling. What is it?¡± ¡°Fucked up,¡± she said. I could see from the doorway that the steps went down as well as up. Next to the doorway on the black building''s wall was a pink W with a hawk Polaroid stuck behind it. Tracy and I shared a look and I pulled the Polaroid free: Four paths to ending the creatures you were. The moon nears on all sides within the Tower of Black Eyed Angels, but on which face will its light shine? Take comfort, creature. This building is for the hawk. The building across is for the bat. The third is for the star-nosed mole. The building where you were birthed is for the elephant. Episode Five: Flip ¡°Tracy, give me another cigarette.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the speed talkin, baby boy. You just had one.¡± ¡°Give me a cigarette, Tracy.¡± ¡°Bitch, do you see a fuckin Arab selling swishers and forties somewhere, cause if you do, please include a bitch.¡± My head didn¡¯t itch, but I rubbed fingers along my scalp back and forth until it hurt. ¡°They¡¯re so big. So fucking big,¡± I said, lips tightening into a thin line as I thought of Abby in the foster home. I touched the cold black marble of the building with a fist. I smelled the smoke before I saw Tracy¡¯s hand hovering below my head with the Newport. ¡°Thanks,¡± I said. ¡°That¡¯s alright,¡± she said, ¡°but just remember got fifteen left after that one.¡± The smoke felt good in my speed-tightened lungs. I wanted paper and pen so I could work out my thoughts about the four buildings. ¡°Which one?¡± I said, blowing out smoke, watching tendrils of it twist around a fleshie that looked a bit like a toad. Tracy sat down on the emerald ground. ¡°You ok?¡± I said. ¡°Just fuckin lightheaded,¡± she said, crossing her red chucks over each other. She brought her shirt up to her nose which was dripping blood again. ¡°Shit hurts.¡± ¡°Even with all that dope?¡± I said. She cocked her head like Are you fuckin kidding me? ¡°Honey, I¡¯m a shooter. Shit¡¯s like Aspirin for me.¡± I snorted. ¡°Yeah ok.¡± ¡°You think I¡¯m shittin you?¡± ¡°I know you are. Your pupils are pin dots.¡± I made a closing manacle with my thumb and forefinger. Tracy clicked her tongue. ¡°If the other options are moles or bats, I¡¯m going with the hawk,¡± she said. ¡°Elephant¡¯s out.¡± ¡°Elephant¡¯s out.¡± I nodded, facing the hawk building, then turning the Polaroid over to read it again. ¡°Says this is all one tower, the Tower of Black Angels, but looks like four.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t trust those fuckin pictures,¡± Tracy said. ¡°The pictures are how we found your medicine,¡± I pointed out. Tracy inched to the side of the emerald path and peered over. ¡°Nothing. Black. No bottom,¡± I said. ¡°Which one you want?¡± Tracy said. ¡°Which building?¡± ¡°Mhm.¡± ¡°I wanna know what they mean,¡± I said. ¡°Well, no shit,¡± Tracy said. I considered her a moment. ¡°Tracy, does a trumpet mean anything to you?¡± The cock-sure set off her shoulders fell forward, and she looked at first lost then pissed, like, very pissed. ¡°The fuck you just say?¡± ¡°Trumpet,¡± I said, ¡°it was on one of the Polaroids in your room.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t mean shit,¡± she said, turning away. ¡°Let¡¯s flip for it.¡± I threw my hands up. ¡°Flip what?¡± ¡°For heads or tails, bitch.¡± ¡°Right. You have a fucking coin then?¡± She pulled the Newport pack free of its snug home in her pocket. She shook them, and it made too much sound for my comfort. They were dwindling. ¡°Heads or tails,¡± she said, pointing to the front and back of the pack. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°This is fucking ridiculous.¡± She met my eyes. There was something in those emerald irises buried in black mascara, eyes the same color as the path, that told me she meant this flip, meant it true, and that it would be true, that somehow our decision to flip was like a contract and we would get a 50/50 shot. I held up three fingers. ¡°The side,¡± she said. ¡°You know how unlikely it is for it to land on the side,¡± I said. ¡°I do,¡± she said. There was a chilling quiet to her voice. She still wouldn¡¯t let up with her eyes. She beat me with them. ¡°Ok,¡± I said. ¡°Jesus, this is crazy.¡± ¡°It is,¡± she agreed, tapping the front of the pack. ¡°Hawk.¡± She tapped the back. ¡°Bat.¡± The side. ¡°Star nosed mole.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t fuck up and drop them,¡± I said, ¡°why don¡¯t you come a little closer.¡± She didn¡¯t, throwing the pack up, holding my eyes as it spun in the air. The four black buildings seemed to lean in like invested participants, the fleshies floating with the Polaroids like spectators to the gamble. The pack landed on the path with a cardboard click and snare roll of the cigs inside, on its bottom side, one of the sides we hadn¡¯t accounted for. ¡°Oh, for fuck¡¯s¡ª¡± Tracy cut the air with a hand, shutting me up, then standing very still with both hands in front of her. The pack stood like that too long, then fell forward, flat on its face. The back faced up. ¡°That¡¯s the bat then,¡± I said. Tracy turned to look at the looming building directly across the way. ¡°Sure the fuck is,¡± she said. ¡°Don¡¯t like rabbits. Sure as fuck don¡¯t like bats.¡± ¡°You think that¡¯s what it means?¡± I said. ¡°You got a better guess?¡± I thought of tusks. Then shook my head. ¡°Come on, white boy,¡± she said, but she was smiling. She picked up the Newports, shoved them back in her pocket. The path was almost a mile to the middle by my guess. There at the crossing of the emerald X was the loneliest, surrounded on all sides. I wondered what was in the indigo mist we breathed in. Tracy jumped and plucked one of the Polaroids floating in the air¡ªone of the Polaroids far from any fleshies¡ªstudied it, then tossed it over her shoulder, hitting me in the stomach. It was a picture of a woman with strawberry-blonde curls, the same kind of tumbling embers that my wife Shelly had passed on to Abby, but the woman was neither of them. Not quite. She looked like somewhere between them in age, and in features. I stopped, and it took a few moments before Tracy realized I wasn¡¯t following. ¡°What you stop for?¡± Tracy said. I turned the Polaroid over. There was no writing. ¡°Just some bitch,¡± Tracy said, walking back to me, then she put a hand to her mouth. ¡°Oh shit. You know her?¡± ¡°Uh, no,¡± I said, tucking the picture into my pocket with the hawk. ¡°Sorry. Let¡¯s go.¡± Tracy raised her brows, shrugged, then turned around. I kind of wished I¡¯d kept that trumpet Polaroid so I could like, throw it at her right then. She was cheery for some reason, almost skipping. And was that ¡­? Yes, that was humming. ¡°What the hell do you have to be so happy about?¡± I said. We were approaching the bat building now. She looked over her shoulder, briefly glancing down at my hands. ¡°You throw that picture out?¡± ¡°What¡¯s the picture got to do with anything?¡± I said. ¡°Fuck all,¡± she said. ¡°I hum. It¡¯s a habit. Y¡¯know, like how you smoke too much and bite the skin on your fingertips.¡± ¡°You smoke,¡± I said. ¡°Sure do,¡± she said, looking up. ¡°But not like you. Here the fuck we are. You ready?¡± I scowled at her as I passed and plucked the bat Polaroid from the pink W to the right of the entrance. It had the same message as the hawk Polaroid, only differing in its reference to the positioning of the buildings. ¡°Should we have lit cigarettes when we go on?¡± I said. ¡°For extra light?¡± ¡°Fuckin fiend,¡± Tracy said, but she pulled two out and lit them, handing me one. She tapped her pinkie and thumb together on her cigarette hand, playing with a cornrow¡¯s twisted end with the other. ¡°If it gets you again¡ª¡± ¡°Nothing¡¯s gonna fucking get me, alright?¡± ¡°If it gets you again,¡± Tracy went on, ¡°fuckin stab it with the cherry. But stay right next to me. I¡¯ll hold the lighter in the middle.¡± My mouth suddenly became very dry with one mentholated drag like knives in my throat. How long since I¡¯d had a drink of water? I nodded. We went up. When we made it to a landing, shadow swallowed even flame, and an ever-present buzzing rose to near-deafening heights to compete with the putrid of the elephant building. My throat tightened and it took some tongue-waggling and swallowing to summon a coating of spit for lubrication. Moist and dripping, soft and supple, something brushed my right cheek. ¡°Tracy,¡± I said. I reached a hand out to my left and found what I thought¡ªwhat I hoped¡ªwas an arm. I jerked my face away from the wet thing. ¡°It¡¯s me,¡± she said. ¡°Are you ¡­ are you touching my cheek?¡± I whispered. ¡°It¡¯s on me too,¡± Tracy said. I could hear her flicking the Zippo with no sign of a spark. ¡°Let¡¯s go back,¡± I said. My breath was hot, quick, and my spit wouldn¡¯t come. The wet thing hit my cheek again and I moved away, shivering. ¡°Come on, you cunt,¡± Tracy said, flicking the Zippo with a tch. ¡°Tracy, run!¡± I shouted. ¡°The light, Andy¡ª¡± ¡°Fuck that. The steps were this way, back this way, we¡¯ll go to a different building, we¡¯ll¡ªah!¡± The brush of tusk like tickles of a soft mother¡¯s hand down my back. And the nipple on my cheek¡ªin the periphery of my awareness I knew it to be true, though I could not see. My stabbing throat grew unbearable as the buzzing dried us out, and we lay down holding hands, like twins at Mother¡¯s breasts. We forgot our names we so thirsted. And we lay so long weak in darkness, with images of brushing tusks, and the sandpaper swallows scraping so dry, we eventually drank of the shadow.