Scraps & Chum (25 page)

Martin nodded, risked a look at the man
’
s neck, saw that it was it bending in a new direction. It seemed to undulate ever so slightly, like a snake slithering.

His palms began to sweat, something that always happened when he felt confused and uneasy. He wiped them on his pants, realizing there were no other workers in the building. Why such a large building for such a small job? Why no interview questions? Why just names? He hadn
’
t even told anyone where he was going. Maybe it would be best to say he forgot something in the car and leave.

“
Did you have a big turnout? For the job?
”

“
You are first. So it
’
s yours if you want it. It pays thirteen dollars an hour. I can pay you in full at the end of each day with cash. That way you w
on
’
t have to worry about taxes.”

Martin considered this. Coming home every
day with pay would certainly help with the bills, especially not having to give any of it to Uncle Sam.

“
That sounds great,
”
he replied.
 
“
Will I be the only one here?
”

“
Yes. For now. The…company…I represent has experienced a buildup, a spike if you will, of data, and can no longer keep track of it on their own. I realize it
’
s not the most pleasant environment, but it was the best I could do
 
on such short notice.”

“
How big a buildup
?”

“
We are unsure. The job might last several weeks, perhaps even slide into something
more permanent…providing my employer sees your benefit.
”

“
Permanent?
”

“
Yes, times are…changing. The names accumulate more rapidly than ever before. People are desperate.
”

Martin was lost.
“
And the names are—
”

“
Prospects. People we are keeping an eye on, though many of them we won
’
t see for some time. Nothing illegal, I assure you.
”

“
Oh.
”
Martin looked at the screen, studied the names. They meant nothing to him, just random names that may as well have been numbers. Simple names like Thomas Jennifer above and below elaborate ones like Farazella Alejandro Miguel Guillermo.

“
Here.
”
The blond man tapped a stack of papers next to the computer. It was a list of names written out in long hand, though written was an understatement. They were scribed in
some type of
calligraphy. Though calligraphy wasn
’
t right either. More like the fonts he
’
d seen on horror movie posters and heavy metal album covers: artistic and sharp, dark and ominous. It seemed a waste of time for them to be written in such a manner if all he was doing was typing them into a database. They made his palms sweat again.

“
Just go down the list and enter the names,
”
the blond man said.
“
I will bring more as they come. Is everything clear?
”

Martin said yes, swallowed his anxiety and thought of a da
ily income
, how good it would feel to be back on his feet once again. With the under-the-table scale, he may as well be making almost twenty dollars an hour, not bad at all.

“
Good.
”
The long-necked man smiled and moved to a door in the back of the office. It was dark red with a gold doorknob. A s
mall black symbol resembling
a ram was painted in the center of it. Martin hadn
’
t noticed the door before; in fact, he was pretty sure it hadn
’
t been there when he
’
d entered. But then, the lights were pretty dim so
he assumed
he
’
d just missed it. The blond man stuck his finger in his sweater
’
s collar and scratched at his neck, which c
ontinued to ripple grotesquely.

“
Feel free to use the bathroom down the hall, and to take a lunch break around noon. If you need anything, just call me at extension zero. My name is Horris.
”

“
Sure,
”
Martin replied.

“
But please, do not open this door. No matter what you hear, it is against company policy for unauthorized personnel to open it.
”

And with that, the man opened the door and stepped inside. It shut behind him with a click. Martin was alone. With the door.

No matter what you hear…

What the hell did that mean?

***

The police station bucked violently. Tiles shook loose from the walls. Paperweights and phones danced off of desks. Burke moved his hand to his gun, an instinctual gesture for a career cop. Sweat dripped from his forehead and plopped on the table, mixing with the dark brown stains.

“
And you opened the door,
”
he said.
“
Why?
”

Martin rubbed his hands together, his slick palms sliding back and forth.
“
I told you this too. I don
’
t see how—
”

“
I know what you told me. I
’
ve been a cop for twenty years, Martin, and one thing I
know sure as flies like shit is that what someone tells me happened and what actually did are never the same. So you opened the door, despite warnings not to. Why?
”

Martin turned and looked out the window. Screams rose from the streets, curdled, angry, pleading with God. Car horns bleat like sheep in a slaughter house. Gunshots had gone from random pops to a constant tattoo.

“
I heard something, or someone, I think.
”

“
Heard what? Hurry up and get to it, Martin.
”

“
A voice. Pleading.
‘
Let me out. Help me.
’
Like that.
”

“
Man? Woman?
”
The cop
’
s eyes kept flicking to the window. Seismic activity continued to shake the interrogation table.

“
Man, I think. Just kept begging me to let him out, that he was being held prisoner. How could I know?
”

***

Martin decided he would take a break in fifteen minutes, use the bathroom and maybe go out and have a smoke. With
money
guaranteed at the day
’
s end, he could finally stop rationing his Camels. The past two hours had been dull, alone in the office entering names into the database with no one to talk to but Miss Budweiser. His wrists were starting to cramp up.

He looked at the list and found the next name. Carlos
—

Boom boom
! The red door erupted in a fit of banging.  Someone pounded on it from the other side, someone desperate to get through. Martin jumped up and knocked the stack of papers onto the floor. His heart went from 0 to 100, slamming against
his ribs
. His testicles drove up into his stomach.

“
Horris?
”
His body shook from the scare. There was no answer.

Boom boom
!

The pounding was so violent Martin thought the door would explode in a hail of splinters. Frozen as he was in shock, he knew it was in his best interest to find Horris.

He picked up the p
hone and stabbed a finger at
the zero. That
’
s when the door stopped banging. A voice from the other side whispered,
“
Help me. Please don
’
t call Horris. Help me. I
’
m in pain.
”
The voice was masculine. Yet is somehow sounded wet.

Martin stood with the phone receiver against his ear, the stack of papers littered on the floor. What should he do? 
“
Are you okay?
”
Stupid, Martin, he chided himself, does he sound okay?
“
Um…I
’
m just going to call Horris and tell him you need some help, okay?
”

“
NO! NO! Please don
’
t call Horris. I need to get out, before he discovers I
’
ve left. Please help me. I
’
m in so much pain.
”

“
What kind of pain?
”
Martin
’
s hand hovered over the phone buttons.

The door banged again, shaking the walls.
“
Don
’
t you get it! He
’
s trapped me here. He hurts me when no one is around. I need to get out and get away or he
’
ll keep hurting me.
”

“
Who? Who is hurting you?
”

The voice grew raspy and labored, as if running on dying batteries.
“
Horris. Horris is not what you think. Did you see his neck? He
’
s not what you think. Please let me out or he will kill me.
”

Could this be some kind of test, Martin wondered. It s
eemed too surreal not to be. W
hat purpose would such a macabre test prove?

“
You saw his neck,
”
the voice rasped,
“
saw it moving. You must believe me or he will
get you too. That
’
s what he does, lures people here and collects them. Right now he
’
s preparing to come back and hit you over the head. Then he will put you in a dark room and stick things in you until he
’
s bored. Then he will do it again and again and again. You must hurry. Please, I
’
m dying.
”
The voice faded into a wheeze.