The Cage (10 page)

“Blow me.”

Simon frowned.

Jeff grinned. “What happened to your lip? Was it Scott? Did he deck your ass? And where’s your sunglasses? You got punched, didn’t you motherfucker?”

Glowering, Simon shoved Jeff hard.

Jeff stumbled forward, nearly falling. “Hey! Motherfucker…”

“I said move! Open that door or I’ll open your belly. Your choice. Makes no difference to me.”

Jeff made the remaining twelve paces to the exit, his brief surge of anger and bravado overcome once more by fear. Simon followed along closely behind him. The strange signal grew louder with each step. Jeff noticed that its tone had changed again. The chimes were still there, but they were mere background noise now. The dominant sound was a deep, rumbling hum—constant and unbroken, accompanied by wave after wave of crackling static, buzzing like a swarm of monstrous, angry bees. He felt it rumble in his chest.

“What is that?” he shouted. “Where’s it coming from?”

Although he wasn’t turned around to face Simon, Jeff could tell that the intruder was grinning. He could hear it in Simon’s voice.

“It’s Shtar. Open the door and I’ll show you.”

Jeff stretched his arm towards the door. It seemed to take forever. He placed his palm against the cool wood, and felt the vibrations running through it.

“Fuck around quotient zero…”

With a final, futile sigh of resignation, he pushed the door open and stepped through. The sound hit him with its full fury. Jeff felt as if he’d been struck. Disoriented, he paused again, but Simon shoved him forward. Jeff glanced around the store in shock, trying to process what he was seeing.

Every television and audio component in the store had been turned on. The signal blasted from a hundred different sources and speakers. All of the television screens showed the same image—a constantly-shifting sea of black and white speckled static. Inside the static, deep within the center of the screens, something moved—a roiling, writhing tubular mass, also composed of static but distinguishable from the specks around it in the manner of a 3D image. It was difficult for Jeff to make out its shape, but it reminded him of a sun with tentacles sprouting from it. Orbs of white light revolved around the shape and darted across the screens, dancing amidst the snow.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Simon sounded absolutely ecstatic, even as he shouted above the roar.

Jeff tried to respond, but found that he couldn’t. His breath caught in his throat. His lungs ached. His pulse began to throb in his temples, keeping time with the steady, monotonous throb pouring from everywhere around him. All that he could do was slowly shake his head back and forth. His gaze darted around the store. Bill and Alan’s bodies still lay where they’d fallen. The front door was still closed and presumably locked. The parking lot was still empty.

“Rejoice,” Simon hollered. “He is coming! This is his hour and I have opened the doorway. Shtar is coming through.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You sell this stuff,” Simon yelled, guiding Jeff across the store. They had to step over Alan’s corpse. “You know all about the switch to digital television. I’m sure you sold plenty of converter boxes and answered plenty of customer’s questions.”

In truth, Jeff hadn’t. The majority of residents in York County, Pennsylvania, were either on cable or satellite television hook-ups. The only people impacted by the digital conversion had been those living in the rural parts of the county who still used television antennas, and those folks were more likely to shop at Wal-Mart than they were a high-end store like Big Bill’s Home Electronics.

“Didn’t you ever wonder,” Simon continued, “what would happen to all of those old broadcast channels once they stopped transmitting? Didn’t you ever think about it? Yes, the government told us that some of the frequencies were being used by emergency services, but how many channels do your local fire department need? What about all those empty channels? The obsolete ones?”

Jeff turned to face him, no longer caring if Simon shot him or not. At least in death, he’d be able to escape the sound.

“That is Shtar’s domain,” Simon continued. “That was where he lurked. He waited inside the empty signals, yearning to be freed. All he needed was someone to open the door for him. That’s what we’re doing tonight. We’re opening a door. Once it is open, he will spread.”

“But why us?”

“I needed six. Six to prepare the opening. You and your friends have taken part in a great work. You should be proud.”

Blinking, Jeff licked his lips. His mouth was dry, and he tried to work up enough spit to speak. The pressure in his ears and nose increased, making it hard to focus on anything, let alone a clever response.

“You’re fucking crazy. You know that, right? You’re a god-damned fucking loon.”

Simon cocked his head. His jaw twitched. Jeff noticed his finger tighten around the trigger.

“You’re not proud?” The gunman sounded astonished and confused. “I bestowed an honor on you.”

“No! No, I’m not fucking proud. Where the hell are my friends?”

Simon shook his head sadly. Jeff had to strain to hear him.

“You should be proud. You should be very proud. All those years of study and preparation. All that time spent scouting this location, making sure it was right. Making sure you and your co-workers were right. But here we are, and the moment is at hand, and you have no appreciation for the work.”

Jeff balled his hands into fists. “I asked you where my friends are.”

“I’ll take you to them.”

He gestured with the handgun toward the home theatre section of the store. That area was a specially designed enclosed room, complete with a big-screen television, top-of-the line home theatre system, several couches and recliners, and even a potted plant. Its aim was to reproduce a living or family room experience within the store, which would further convince customers to make a purchase after they had immersed themselves in it. The room had one large bay window and a single door. The door was closed, and the window had been taped over.

“Who punched you?” Jeff asked again, hollering over the noise. “Was it Scott? Or Clint? I bet it was one of them.”

“Ask them yourself.”

Jeff opened the door to the home theatre room, walked inside…

…and screamed.

Jared, Roy, Scott, Clint and Carlos were lying on the gray-carpeted floor in front of the big-screen television. Their bodies had been positioned with their heads close together and their feet and legs wide apart, like spokes on a wheel—the television forming the central point in that wheel. They faced upward, their eyes open, their mouths gaping. Each of their throats had been cut. No, Jeff realized. Not cut. They’d been hacked open. The bloody machete sat nearby, propped up against one of the recliners.

“Oh God…”

Jeff turned to flee and Simon shot him. He didn’t realize it at first. He could barely hear the gun blast over the continuous, overwhelming signal. Something punched him in the stomach—hard. He bent over, the air rushing from his lungs, and crashed against the arm of the couch. His stomach burned. He glanced down and saw blood.

“No you don’t,” Simon said. “Not now. You are number six. I told you before. You are the most important number of all. Can’t open the door without you. I need six. He is waiting.”

Clutching his stomach with both hands, Jeff collapsed to his knees and tried to breathe. It was hard to remember how. The noise was everywhere—seemingly a part of the very air he needed. His ears grew warm. He realized that they were bleeding. Jeff screamed, but couldn’t hear himself over the static roar. He caught a glimpse through the window of the televisions in the store. On each of them, the shadowed figure that he’d noticed before was solidifying now. It looked like a tentacle—then a snake—and then an elongated arm. Each shifting form was composed of that crackling black and white static—a simulacrum of white noise and empty transmissions made flesh. A living, breathing broadcast.

Simon kicked him in the back and Jeff fell to the floor face first. His cheek felt wet and sticky. He realized that he’d landed in someone else’s blood, and idly wondered whose it was. Scott’s, maybe? Or Clint? Yeah, it was probably Clint’s blood. He’d been a big guy, after all. He had a lot of blood in him. As Simon grabbed his arm and dragged him across the floor, Jeff wondered who would tell Clint’s kids what had happened to their father. Who would tell Scott’s girlfriend and Roy’s wife? Who would tell Jeff’s parents that he loved them?

Who would tell April?

Jeff stared up at Simon as the madman positioned him. The killer’s expression was one of glee. Jeff wondered what he was so happy about. Then Simon walked away. Jeff’s gaze turned upward. He looked at the television screen. From his vantage point, the image was upside down, but he could still see what was there. He stared at the television. The television stared back. The signal increased yet again, reaching a painful level. Jeff’s eardrums popped. His nose began to bleed. He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. At least his stomach had stopped hurting. If only someone would turn off the noise.

Simon returned, looming over him. He raised the machete over his head. Jeff focused on the blade as it came down. The last thing he heard, buried deep beneath the static and the roar, was the sound of somebody knocking on the store’s front door. The blade flashed. The knock came again.

And then, at last, merciful silence returned.

This novella was first published as a signed, limited edition hardcover by Cemetery Dance Publications, and was also included in my now out-of-print collection
A Conspiracy of One
. This is the first edition available to the mass public. I hope you enjoyed it.

For two years in the mid-90s, I worked as a salesman for a national home electronics store. I started there as a salesman was eventually promoted to store manager. The job itself sucked. The hours were long and the salesmen worked for commission only, rather than a salary. But we had a lot of fun, just the same. The memories the characters reminisce about while trapped in the cage are all drawn from those experiences, as is the cage itself.

Those experiences were also drawn upon for my short story “Marriage Causes Cancer In Rats”, which originally appeared in my long out-of-print collection
Fear of Gravity
, and is reprinted here as a special bonus.