Metro (21 page)

What about Andy? What about Mark?

What the hell happened back there?

She remembers the ring. Mark's plastic cereal ring. Goes through her pockets and doesn't find it. The cell phone Mark gave her is not there either.

Shit.

She shakes her head and tries to stand up. Works out pretty well. She only stumbles once. Looks around for a mirror and finds nothing on the walls but books—but there's a small table just a few feet away, the only other piece of furniture in the room. In the center of the table is a can of Coca-Cola with a note taped to it that reads in beautiful handwritten script:
drink me!

I'm a guest in someone's house. Lewis Carrol
l's house?

Smiling, she takes the can in one hand, and it's still very cold, like a cruel joke. Holds it for a long moment. Moves for the door, still holding it, her smile vanishing.
The knob is made of brass and it's cool also.
It grinds and clicks as she turns it.

The door opens on a long, almost-dark hallway.

She can see the same elegant lines and hardwood floors, and flowery chandeliers casting pale yellow light, dimmer and dimmer to the end in one direction, which seems like north, deeper into the house. In the other direction, she sees pulsing, changing light around a far corner. Like the light from a TV. She leaves the room behind her, still clutching the Coke can in her hand. It's a cooling comfort. The hard, cold floor under her feet. No sound at all. Just her own heartbeat and her own breath.

She walks toward the corner with the changing light—it's so dim, so far away, but it's a sign of life. She thinks about calling for someone. Calling Andy's name. Mark's name. Anything. She clutches the soda can tighter, moving toward the light.

Shapes on the walls that might be framed portraits. Sleek lines of elegant construction. Doors that lead to other rooms, all in rows on either side of her. She counts them nervously. There are six, directly opposite each other, before she reaches the corner.

The light is stronger now, pulling her into an intersecting hallway.

Still so quiet.

The far end of the next corridor empties into a large open room, with one wall dominated by a big screen, which is showing a cartoon of Bugs Bunny. The sound is all the way down. The rabbit is getting away with murder. Elmer Fudd pounds the ground with his fists in mad frustration. It almost makes Jollie smile. She comes closer, sensing that Elmer is somehow her doom. But she still comes. Because what choice does she have?

The room is dark and has high ceilings. Lots of shapes that look like tables and desks and chairs. Some toys scattered on the floor. She almost trips on a giant stuffed Miss Piggy.

Two of the children turn their heads when she bumps into it.

Then go back to watching the rabbit torturing Elmer.

• • •

S
he suddenly sees that there are about twenty small kids in front of the big screen, sitting quietly on a huge throw rug that dominates most of the floor. Their faces all silent and staring. The weirdness of the image hits her hard and she finds herself plopping down into one of the chairs near the back of the room. It's a beanbag chair, of course.

You know, for kids.

The cartoon ends, and another one starts—silently.

None of the children make a sound, washed in the glow like undersea creatures, floating in storied silence. She sees that they're all arranged in polite, practiced rows, and that their legs are all crossed. Their eyes transfixed by the images on the screen.

She sinks in the beans, holding the soda can with both hands now.

The next cartoon is a classic. She's seen it a million times. It's the one where poor hungry Sylvester the Cat is left alone in the house full of tuna fish with a shit-eating mouse who won't give him the can opener.

And, umm . . . hilarity ensues.

All the old Warner shorts were basically about people torturing each other.

The kids stare up at it like religion. Jollie is terrified in this moment. Because she realizes that this is a lesson being given to them. One taught in simple, broad strokes, by someone who wants their children to know the awful truth about everything.

• • •

I
t's still sinking in when the cartoon ends and the lights come up in dim layers. The kids all turn and look her way, nothing left for them on the big screen. Dull yellow bathes the playroom. They all smile when they see the man, who was standing near Jollie the whole time she was sitting there. Like a ghost. He's wearing a black suit and he seems taller than God. His hair is black, his eyes green and hypnotic.

His voice is something deep and terrifying: “Did we enjoy ourselves, children?”

Their collective voice is neutral and all at once: “No, sir.”

He smiles at their answer, though Jollie can hardly see his face: “And why did we not enjoy ourselves, children?”

All at once, almost sad now: “Because this is quiet time.”

He smiles again, and the scar that splits his lip makes something hideous scrawl through his face for just a moment—then it seems to correct itself, and the smile becomes even stranger. Like a creature of some other world trying and very nearly succeeding in becoming human, as he claps his hands together.

“Excellent. Now who wants candy?”

• • •

T
heir faces seem to turn on when he says that, like someone hit a remote control and made them into real kids all of a sudden. They break rank and scramble toward the hallway, as two men in white clothes enter the room with trays of snacks. Most of the kids clamor for the sweets, taking handfuls of Tootsie Rolls and individually wrapped Twinkies. A few hang at the bigger man's heels, pulling at his jacket sleeves. They call him Darian. They ask him for stories. They want to hear him read from
Harry Potter
again, apparently.

Jollie makes most of that out in the jumble of kidspeak and chaos.

She notices that they are all dressed in very nice clothes that are not exactly school uniforms, but darn close. Like they all shopped at the same kids' section at Target or something. They look clean and healthy.

She finds it all horrifying, and has no idea why.

One of the little girls comes over to her, ignoring the trays of goodies. She is smaller than the others, and pretty, but not special. Her voice is strong and weak at the same time: “What's your name?”

“Jollie.”

There. That wasn't so bad was it? My goddamn voice works, after all.

“That's a neat name. Mine's Gretchen.”

“That's a perfect name for a little girl.”

“I guess so.”

“I know a couple of big girls named Gretchen too.”

“You're a big girl.”

The man in the black suit turns his head right when she says that and snaps in a perfectly controlled tone of authority: “Gretchen! That's not polite, is it?”

The little girl shrugs her shoulders. “I didn't mean because she was
big
big. I just mean she's all grown up.”

“It doesn't matter what you
meant
, Gretchen. It matters what you
said
. You must choose your words more carefully.”

“I'm sorry, Darian.”

“Don't apologize to me. Apologize to our guest.”

“I'm sorry, Jollie. I think you're really pretty.”

Jollie is suddenly overwhelmed with absurdity, shaking her head. “Thank you. But I wasn't upset at all. I know I'm a big girl. Hell, let's face it, I'm
fat
. But there's all kinds of pretty in this world. You're very pretty too.”

“Are you the new teacher?”

“I . . . well, I'm not sure
why
I'm here, really.”

“That's silly. How can you not know why you're here?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” And she laughs. Then cocks her head slyly. “Why are
you
here, Gretchen?”

“I live here.”

“That's enough for now,” says the man in the black suit. “Come have a snack with the others. You can get to know Jollie later.”

“Okay, Darian.”

The girl trots back to the trays with the others. They all eat and chatter, looking at Jollie with excited smiles.

This is so fucked
up,
she thinks.

And she has no idea why.

She sees a digital clock hanging on a wall near the TV set that says it's just now 10:30 at night. But what night? How long has she been in this—what is it, a
school
?

She shakes her head, sinking back into the beans one more time.

• • •

D
arian Stanwell walks over to her.

“You should drink that. You need the caffeine and the fluids.”

She realizes she's still holding the soda can. It's still almost cold. “I think I'll be okay,” she says, looking up at his face.

Split down the middle, the face of a monster.

A beautiful monster.

“The soda is not poisoned or drugged in any way, I assure you.”

“Assurances haven't been good to me lately, sir.”

“If I'd wanted to drug you, it would have been easy to do to that while you were still sleeping. In fact, we actually did have you on a mild sedative for a few hours. You almost had a stroke back there.”

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“You're a very lucky lady. Life-and-death struggles are never good to one's heart, especially when they have such high levels of cholesterol clogging the entryways. Not to mention the drugs you were already on. There were traces of very dirty MDMA in your system, but I took care of that too.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you already. My name is Darian.”

“I know what your name is. I mean who
are
you?”

“I'm the man who's saved your life several times. And I'm the man who will save your life again. If the two of us can become friends, that is.”

“I don't like the sound of that.”

“I'm sure you don't. But, like the lessons these children must learn every day, nothing in life is anything we are expected to
like
.”

“Who are they? What is this place?”

“This is
my
place. And those are fair questions. Please hold them for now. Soon you'll know all the answers. And perhaps you'll have a few for me.”

He turns back to the kids and they swarm him like a rock star, begging for stories, jacked up on sugar and cartoons.

• • •

S
he watches him as he sits in a large oak chair and reads from
Harry Potter
for exactly thirty minutes. They all gather around, hanging on every word. He shapes his sentences long and deliberately, makes eye contact and places just the right amount of emphasis on all the right words. Every now and then he smiles at Jollie, just barely.

When he gets to the end of four chapters, right when that big clock reads 11:05
pm
, he closes the book and tells them it's time for bed. They don't moan or groan about it. They know better than that.

They all say “Yes, Darian” in unison.

The two men in white escort the kids out of the room, single file. They know the drill without even being told what to do. They go back the way Jollie came, and she realizes that's what all the doors in the hallway were for—bunks for the rug rats.

Darian makes Gretchen stay behind, with his hands on her shoulders.

Speaks to her softly, seriously. She nods like a sad little girl. Jollie can make out something in what he says about a
special room
.

• • •

G
retchen is taken down the hall by another white suit who appears after the other kids have gone. She is taken gently, by the hand. Darian Stanwell stands up and watches as they go, moving closer to Jollie.

She gets up and starts after the girl, then stops herself.

Stands there.

“Are you worried about her?” Darian says.

“What's the special room?”

“It's for special children.”

“I don't like the sound of that either.”

“Of course you don't. You're smart.”

He comes over to a desk she never noticed before and motions to a chair across from his. There's a tray of food on the table she also never noticed. Tuna sandwich. Steamed broccoli. Mashed potatoes and a dish of green Jell-O.

“Shall we talk about it, Jollie? Now that we are alone?”

He sits, and she sits too.

“Please eat something,” he says.

She sets the Coke can next to the tray, folds her hands in front of him, and says: “This place is evil.”

And he says: “Of course it is.”

T
hey stare at each other for a very long time before she finally breaks down and cracks open the Coke. Drinks deeply. It's cold and sweet. It seems to reenergize her whole body, while reminding her how starved she is. Darian sits across from her and peels a stick of gum as she pounces on the sandwich next. He doesn't say another word to her as she eats. The food gives her strength, doing a happy rumble in her stomach. She breathes easier now, though she's still very cold.

She looks Darian Stanwell right in his eye.

His sharp, sweet breath floats back to her. She can tell he uses that to break people. The off-putting fruity scent of gum, which matches his weird crooked smile.

She doesn't let it distract her.

She is ready.

T
he first interview is a revelation.

It goes like this:

“You're the surgeon, aren't you? The one I heard about.”

“Very good.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On a lot of things.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Of course it's an answer. It's just not the one you wanted. It's never the answer anyone wants, really.”

“So why give it? Why not just talk straight?”

“There's no such thing as straight.”

“Is that your philosophy?”

“Sometimes, Jollie. Other times, we have to make it up as we go. Such as in places like this one. You came to us at a very interesting time. We have a full house right now.”

“What are you doing to these kids?”

“Helping them along.”

“I bet.”

“But the helping is different for everyone. They each take it and they make what they will. So this business between you and I can be hard or easy. If it's hard, it will be an adventure, just as much as easy will be an adventure. Do you understand?”

“You still haven't really answered my question.”

“Which was what exactly?”

“What are you doing to these kids?”

“I did answer that. It just wasn't the answer you wanted.”

“I can smell it on you . . . whatever's going on in this house . . . you people are monsters.”

“Yes. Yes we are.”

“You sell these kids, don't you? You keep them here and you break them and you sell them to the highest bidder.”

“The bids aren't always high. We deal quality merchandise to the right people, at the right price. It's just better business that way. Same with the drug trade. If you get too greedy, the economics of it all just fall to hell.”

“So this is a daycare center for human traffic.”

“In a way. There's always at least one
special
child in my house. I find it so hard to let go of so many of them. Are these the answers you wanted? Am I being
honest
enough for you?”

“You talk like a schoolteacher. Your voice is rather frightening.”

“Nobody ever said that to me before. Thank you.”

“You're proud of being scary?”

“Of course. I'm a
scary guy
. You see, most monsters live in a lot of denial. Like alcoholics. ‘I drink because I choose to' and all that. The real truth is that none of us have a chance against our programming, and we have to live with it. You can give up drinking for a hundred years and still be a slave to your basest desires. So we should be proud of it. We should embrace it. The people around you can tell the difference between a phony and the real deal every time. They're not scared of a phony. And being scary is a big part of what I do.”

“You scare these kids into obeying you. You kidnap them and you take them to a special room and you—”

“Oh
please
, Jollie. You make us sound like we're living in some mature-rated comic book. We don't do anything to these kids that they didn't deserve in the first place.”

“Every pervert on earth says that.”

“But we're not perverts. We are the minsters of love and freedom.”

“I'm sure you are.”

“Would you like to know what poor little Gretchen Underhill was up to before she was brought here two weeks ago? She was eating dirt out of a trash can in El Paso. Starving and homeless, filled with anger.”

“And you brought here so she could have a family?”

“Not exactly. We brought her here to show her love and freedom. The family part comes later.”

“You people make me sick.”

“Why? There's all
kinds
of family, Jollie. Do you think that just because these orphans were not scooped up by some cold child-protective agency or adopted by a cruel foster family that they'd be any less screwed up than they are here?”

“You're torturing these kids. You're making them fear you.”

“Every child fears their father, Jollie. You should know that.”

“I never even knew my father.”

“My point exactly.”

“So I fear what I don't know? I'm an angry orphan, just like these kids? Is that why you really brought me here?”

“No. I would like that . . . but no.”

“Then let's get on with it.”

“Not yet. This is fascinating.”

“Not to me.”

“Yes, it is, Jollie. You're
absolutely
fascinated by me. You want to know more about what I do. You want to know what's happening to poor little Gretchen in the special room. You are fascinated and disgusted. Drawn like a fly into a web, lulled by the sound of my voice. And I don't blame you. I've been where you are.”

“Have you?”

“If I hadn't, you wouldn't be so fascinated with me.”

“So why the cartoons? What are you teaching these kids exactly before you turn them out to be slaves or whatever?”

“They're not slaves. They're people. And the cartoons themselves are only half the point. We show them those
images
, but not the
sound
. It exposes a certain lie taught to children when they are very young. They taught us all, didn't they? We sat and watched the rabbit get away with his malicious antics and they made us listen to his vile laughter, without even understanding why. We were programed at birth, every single one of us. But if we don't hear the sound . . . if we choose to see these things for what they really are beneath the surface . . . then we become enlightened in a way most children will never
ever
be as adults. That's why we only show them cartoons when they've been bad. When they've disobeyed us.”

“And then you show them the special room.”

“No. That happens to just a special few of them, eventually. Not everyone can reach the promised land. Some people are just without hope.”

“What are they doing to her in there?”

“Finding hope, Jollie. Finding hope.”

“You . . . people are sick . . .”

“Everyone is sick. Some of us just live in a lot less denial.”

“. . . Christ . . .
Breakfast Club
quotes . . .”

“Excuse me?”

“You people . . . you
monsters
 . . .”

“It's okay, Jollie. I understand your revulsion. It's only natural. But one day you'll see the truth of what I'm saying. And it will change your life then, as surely as it sickens you now. Women are so much harder to reach with these universal truths. They tease cruelly, promoting themselves as the givers of all life . . . but it's a lie you only tell yourselves so you can live with all that pain your bodies make you feel.”

“Pig.”

“Typical reaction. But I'm not surprised. You are, after all, a woman.”

“You prefer men, don't you?”

“Of course I do, Jollie. Women are terrible creatures.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I was hoping you'd tell
me
. After all, aren't you supposed to be the expert profiler?”

“We just met. I don't know anything about you.”

“But you do, Jollie. You've been sizing me up for the last five minutes. Cataloging every detail of this house. You're building a file on us in your head, fact by fact. I can see you doing it.”

“That's pretty perceptive.”

“So are you.”

“Okay . . . your name is Darian and you're a professional surgeon. You also work for a bigger organization full of perverts and drug dealers, because that's what guys like you are wired up to do once they decide their chosen field is boring. It would probably be easy to say you hate women because you're into men or whatever, which is also hard wiring from birth . . . but that wouldn't exactly be the truth.”

“Of course it wouldn't. Please go on.”

“I figure it's something in your childhood. Something to do with that scar on your face maybe? You want it there to remind you too. You could get rid of it but you won't. It could have been a woman who did it. But that's not why you hate women. Your father told you to, and he probably died pretty early on, leaving you with a lot of pain and confusion. And then there's your brother, right? After your father died, it was the two of you versus the world . . . and if I'm right about how everything went down recently, the sudden shock and lingering pain of losing your brother isolates you even worse and makes your hatred even stronger.”

“Very,
very
perceptive.”

“And now that I really think about it . . . now that I really look at you . . . the scar on your face
was
made by a woman. But not by a human woman. The damage is too jagged and savage to have been done by a human, and you never would have let a human get that close to you with a knife. So it was a cat, probably. Some sleek female predator, somewhere in the wilds, maybe protecting her young. You threw yourself into that. You fought her barehanded. Barely came back alive. It's why you're so calm isn't it? You went through a trial by fire, and it makes you believe you are better and stronger than anyone else on this earth.”

“I was thirty then. On a trip through Africa to reboot myself. The animal's name was Rashid. I named her before I killed her. You are very, very,
very
perceptive, Jollie.”

“You're smiling though. This amuses you, doesn't it?”

“Of course it does.”

“But I'm also right. And I know something else too. Something I bet even your brother never knew. I just figured it out.”

“Oh really?”

“Really, Darian. I'll tell you all about it.”

“Please do.”

“You work for METRO, don't you?”

• • •

D
arian's brow creases.

He stops chewing his gum for a second, rumples his nose like someone really confused.

Jollie just stares at him intently.

• • •

T
he second interview is devastating.

It goes like this:

“Jollie, you'll have to forgive the unhip nature of a relatively old man . . . but
METRO
? I'm fairly certain you're not referring to the public transportation system in Austin.”

“Oh, please.”

“And . . . what do
children
have to do with something called METRO, I wonder?”

“This is the first way station for recruits, isn't it? You probably even train some of them here. Mark told me all about it. The special room is where you take the kids to be educated. You do it here, behind locked doors, without anyone in the rest of your world knowing about it. Except maybe a few people. You report to the dictator, who's also a mole inside the Monster Squad. Maybe Razzle Schaeffer or Eddie Darling. You do it all under the radar of everything. And right now, your bosses are telling you to bring us all in. Six million in pure uncut ecstasy, for the good of the company. They've instructed you to do whatever it takes to secure the package. And in the end . . . we all start shooting at each other, because none of you knows who the other one really is.”

“This is fascinating. But you still haven't told me what METRO is.”

“You know exactly what it is.”

“Some secret organization, I'm guessing? And I'm a secret agent working for them, yes? Do you really think if there was so much at stake, I would just admit all that to you right now?”

“Yes. Because it doesn't matter. When you're done with me, you'll kill me, just like they were going to back there at the house. And I'll be dead, and no one will ever know what I know.”

“That only happens in movies. In the real world, the evil genius never explains his master stroke before he kills the bad guy. Even if he
does
talk too much.”

“But you're not an evil genius. You're an employee.”

“You sure about that?”

“Never been more sure of anything.”

“I doubt it, Jollie.”

“I don't, Darian.”

“Fair enough.”

“If you don't work for METRO, Darian, how did you know my name? How did you know about my being able to profile people?”

“I know that's what you do because I listened to the report. The one made by a woman named Penelope Cranston. You spoke to her in a Denny's.”

“How'd you get your hands on that? The whole house was blown to hell.”

“Not the whole place. You'd be amazed at what can survive a catastrophic event like that.”

“So you sifted through the rubble and found Penelope's smartphone?”

“Yes. And we found a lot of other things too.”

“When did you sift through the rubble? How long have you had me in this place?”

“Not long. It all happened this morning, about five hours after daybreak.”

“Then what about my friends?”

“What about them?”

“Are they alive?”

“I would have liked that, Jollie. I really would have. But I'm sorry to report that the man who murdered my brother is very much dead. And your friend Andy . . . well, let's just say he's seen far better days.”

“I want to see him.”

“No you don't. Believe me.”

“
I want to see him!
”

“Making your voice louder is no way to get what you want. A woman should know that. A smart woman anyway.”

“You're a pig. A disgusting, horrible
pig
.”

“Enough, Jollie. I know losing your friends is difficult, but why let your emotions rule now? After you've shown such admirable control of your fear and such clear examination of the facts, after proving yourself a veritable master of deductive reasoning . . . well, I would have thought this would be a lot more interesting.”