The Endlands (vol 1) Read online

  Leaning in close, John listened. His ear was near the woman's face. Then, an awful look crept across his face.

  "Hey, Sara," he shouted again. "I swear, I think I hear something. This one . . . it sounds like she's trying to talk."

  Sara stayed in the vehicle. Her eyes shifty. Shaking. Insecure.

  And John listened intently.

  Mumbles.

  Words.

  Inaudible.

  Yet somehow, they made sense.

  "Hey, Sara--I think we may have a problem."

  Eighteen minutes elapsed. Frank and Suzette Hardy entered the town of Limbo. The same fascination of such an old town drew their interest. They parked in the same space as their daughter. Unaware. John and Sara's car was now gone.

  "This sure looks like a pretty town," Suzette exclaimed. "I bet there are some great deals."

  Frank immediately saw the mannequin. At first, it appeared real. He even waved. Now, as he neared what looked like an elderly woman, he realized it was fake.

  "Get a load of this," he said. "Looks almost real."

  His wife had yet to notice. Her attention was on the town, and the various shops.

  Frank walked to the next pair of mannequins. He touched them, and whistled aloud.

  "Hey, Suzette."

  "Yeah?"

  "Check these out."

  "Yeah, they're mannequins. So what?"

  "Don't they look familiar?"

  She looked closer. "How so?"

  "Well, this one almost looks like . . ." he trailed off.

  His wife neared him, but did not seem to recognize the similarities. "I know we're a little behind schedule, but I'd like to look around."

  "Sounds good," Frank said, his mind drifting. "Take your time."

  And as his wife ventured off, Frank Hardy remained still.

  And if his hearing had been a little better, he might have heard it.

  But the voice was muffled, and the wind was blowing . . .

  . . . and Frank Hardy could not hear his son-in-law's screams.

  Finders Keepers

  by Janelle Garcia

  Beth walks to and from work everyday with her keys in her pocket and her vinyl lunch bag clutched underneath her arm. It's yellow, but everything else she wears is black. At work, they call her the black widow, which she thinks is childish and uncreative.

  Beth works at the Hotel Sunny Days. She's in charge of the lost and found, a job she's had for the past three years. When she first applied, she was surprised a hotel would hire someone for the sole purpose of looking after people's misplaced junk. She imagined a lost and found could only consist of a plastic bin, which probably always held an old sweater and maybe a broken pair of sunglasses. But the hotel is big, huge actually, so the lost and found is correspondingly large, ridiculously in fact--a whole room packed with shelves from floor to ceiling.

  This morning, one of the maids is waiting for Beth as she unlocks the door. Beth doesn't know her name although she's seen her often enough. She tries not to learn other people's names in general.

  The maid is clutching a plastic baggie, which dangles from her extended fist. Beth has seen dog owners do this after they've scooped up their dog's freshest load, carrying around warm dog shit and chasing after its flea bag as it circles and curlicues around the city looking for the perfect spot to take a piss. Beth has never owned a pet.

  Inside the baggie is what appears to be a lump of raw beef. Beth almost tells the maid, in her most sarcastic monotone, to either toss it in the trash or inform the kitchen staff. Once close enough, though, Beth immediately knows what it is--a human heart, complete with four contracting chambers and throbbing sinews. The maid shrugs and mutters how she found it behind a nightstand while vacuuming. When Beth doesn't reach for the bag, the maid sighs and plops it on Beth's desk, apparently unmoved by her find.

  Beth is always amazed by the things people are capable of losing. Last month someone forgot a pair of eyes. They just left them by the breakfast bar like they were car keys or a used piece of tissue. A perfectly good set of eyes. Perfect spheres, the irises dark brown, the whites unmarked by the networks of veins and capillaries that make Beth's own eyes burn pale pink on a good day. They reminded her so much of Gabe's--the way the pupils were nearly undetectable. She'd put them in a small plastic tub filled with saline and couldn't help staring at them while nibbling at her tuna sandwich during her lunch break. She tried to picture the face the eyes belonged to--eyeless lids loose and sunken, a face so noticeably blank and incomplete--but she always wound up picturing Gabe. Well, not him exactly, but the B-movie actor everyone always swore he looked exactly like. Lately, trying to picture Gabe had become an impossible feat, yielding incomplete snatches of features that evaporated as soon as she tried to gather all of the images into one composite. As much as she hated it, the actor's face (Matt or Mark something-or-other), which was too angular and symmetrical to be Gabe's, replaced him in her mind.

  The eyes didn't last long, which was probably best. Beth had begun to play a little game where she imagined the eyes were actually Gabe's--one small part of him still living and within reach. It was a dangerous game to play. For a while, she toyed with the idea of stealing the eyes and quitting her job (forget her health benefits and accrued vacation days). A freckly lady wearing oversized sunglasses finally claimed the eyes two days later, and Beth relinquished the gaping duo.

  But a heart? That takes the freakin' cake. Beth slides it on the body parts shelf in a plastic freezer bag, where it contracts and relaxes silently. She's printed the date and time on the Ziploc bag as carefully as possible with a red Sharpie. In retrospect, she should've picked a different color marker. The numbers blend with the vital maroon of the bag's contents, making them almost illegible.

  If Beth gets close enough, she can hear it beating. She wonders if it belongs to a woman or a man, an adult or child. She once read somewhere that a heart usually corresponds with the size of a person's fist, and holds her own against it. It's probably an adult heart--a man's--judging by the size of it. Her hand brushes against the bag and the heart begins to beat faster, pulsing so frantically, it tips toward the shelf's edge. Beth cups it in both hands and holds it against her chest. She can't leave the thing on the shelf if it's going to work itself into a frenzy and wind up rolling onto the floor.

  At one point, Beth begins rocking back and forth, humming Silent Night, Holy Night (it's the only song that pops in her head despite it being July and she feels stupid for it, wondering if the heart thinks she's dim also), in an attempt to lull it back to a normal pace. After a few minutes, the heart's pounding finally slows, its electric pulse coursing through her fingertips.

  This time, she places the heart inside a bin before putting it back on the shelf. The bin will keep it from rolling if the thing gets jumpy again for whatever reason. She watches it for a minute or two then walks away. She'll never get much work done carting around a heart all day. She needs to get started on the heart's paperwork. Can't waste another second worrying about someone else's forgotten organ if she wants to leave at a decent time. Although, ever since Gabe's accident, she can't say she minds working longer hours so much.

  Beth presses a pen into her palm, but can still feel a phantom beating along her fingertips. It's hard to think about timestamps and carbon copies when a human heart is throbbing in the same room, out in the open, like having a body to supply oxygen to isn't its sole purpose.

  It seems unnatural for a heart to be squeezed into a plastic bag, she thinks, as she holds it against her chest for the second time in as many hours. The heart is beating in time with her own, radiating warmth from inside the plastic.

  Can a heart suffocate and die sealed away?

  She knows it supplies oxygen, but doesn't it need some too?

  Beth fumbles it out of the bag and sets in on her lap. Her slacks are black, so if she gets some heart on her, no worries. Up close, she can see how dirty it is. There are balls of lint, a strand of hair--short,
black, suspiciously curly--crumbs from some kind of baked good (a muffin? a scone? a dog biscuit?). She's curious as how to dust off a heart. Spraying it down with Windex just doesn't seem like a good idea. Running it under the tap: another impossibility.

  Who could be so careless?

  It is the end of her shift. Beth can't see putting the heart back in the baggie and leaving it overnight. Besides, who will ever claim it? A person can't just ditch their heart behind a nightstand and go on like everything is hunky-dory. Hearts don't slip out of bodies unnoticed, without detrimental effects, right? The heart is obviously left behind by someone long dead. No one will miss it.

  Beth considers putting the heart inside her lunch bag, but can't see zipping it into the nylon, which still smells of chicken salad. Instead, she slips the heart inside her sweater. The heart's paperwork, which she barely began, lies at the bottom of her purse, torn and crumpled, inside the smeared and dated Ziploc. If anyone asks about the heart, it'll be her word against the maid's. Maybe it's not that simple, after all, there are surveillance cameras along the corridors of the hotel. But none in the lost and found room, that's for sure. The heart beats against her own, almost synchronized. A Phil Collins song pops into her head, but Beth is decidedly against Phil Collins, so she pushes the song away and replaces it with Silent Night, Holy Night once again. As she nears the lobby, Beth prays no one will stop her with a question or for some random conversation. She's praying after all, so maybe it is appropriate that she's humming a song about Baby Jesus.

  The lobby is nearly empty as she walks out, her arms crossed in an attempt to conceal the bulge of the extra heart in her sweater. At the reception desk, a balding man is slumped against the counter, his skin pale and gray. He's trying to ask the receptionist a question, his right hand clawing at his chest, his lips working soundlessly. The girl--she couldn't be any older than sixteen--frowns and asks if he needs a manager or a doctor in a tone both sarcastic and incredulous. Beth can't help smiling a little as she observes their exchange. As the girl reaches for the telephone, the man closes his eyes and slides to the ground, now both hands gripping and tearing at his chest. The receptionist cranes over the counter, the telephone pressed between her shoulder and her ear, and yells for help.

  Beth hurries on. She can't stop and help. She doesn't even own a cell phone or know CPR, nor is she capable in any other way to help a random man who is obviously beyond help. The man is probably having a stroke or something. She tells herself these things as she pushes through the revolving doors of the hotel. She tells herself the man is probably better off as she prays silently that the roar of two hearts is only audible to her, a Christmas song in rotation somewhere in the recesses of her mind.

  Loose Ends

  by Craig Wessel

  The meeting started off a bit shaky, but it looked like it was going to end well. Cain nodded as his counterpart across the table, Landon Hopkins, suggested they meet again in two weeks to finalize the details. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Cain stood, shook Hopkins' hand and was shown out of the conference room by an assistant. As he was led down the hall, Cain smiled, convinced that the upcoming deal was going to cement his company's position in the industry. It had been a very important meeting, and from his perspective, it could not have turned out any better.

  The assistant led him around a corner, opened another door and gestured for him to enter. He walked into a featureless, windowless waiting room, and before he could question the assistant, she smiled and closed the door, asking him to wait one moment, babbling something about security. Cain was confused, but shrugged and paced around the room. He waited awhile, and then decided to take a look into the hall to see what was holding things up. He was shocked when the door to the room would not open. He tried the knob several times, but was unsuccessful.

  He was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, and right now, he wanted out of this room. He pounded on the door, and began to yell for the assistant. He looked around the room but there was no other exit. He opened his briefcase and took out his phone, but there was no signal in this room. He took out his laptop, but could not find a local connection to the net. Frustrated, he slammed his laptop back in his briefcase and sat at the featureless table, brooding.

  The door opened, and Cain stood at once. Before he could protest, the man who entered walked over and shook his hand.

  "I'm terribly sorry Mr. Cain--I was tied up in another meeting and it took me much longer to get here than I intended. I'm Carl Jenkins," he said, and offered his hand.

  Cain, being a pro at this sort of thing, smiled and said that he understood, shaking Jenkins hand. Cain asked why he was being detained, and Jenkins smiled, gesturing for him to sit again. Cain sat, and Jenkins joined him at the table.

  Jenkins steepled his fingers, and Cain noticed that he seemed a bit uncomfortable. Jenkins looked at Cain over his fingers.

  "Mr. Cain, there's really no easy way to tell you this but, we have a problem."

  Cain raised his eyebrows, flashing his most charming smile, and asked what the problem was.

  "Mr. Cain, the problem is that you aren't supposed to be here." Jenkins looked embarrassed.

  Cain stared, and began to become upset. He sat up in his chair and fixed Jenkins with a disapproving look. He began to tell Jenkins that the only reason he was still here was because he had been detained, but Jenkins raised a hand and interrupted.

  "Yes, Mr. Cain, I'm aware and I assure you that it is our fault. However," he said, clearing his throat, "we have a problem. Let me explain."

  Jenkins stood and began walking back and forth, his arms crossed.

  "You were supposed to be here--you were sent from New York for the meeting that just took place. That much was fine--we have received word that New York was very pleased with the outcome of the meeting."

  Cain wrinkled his forehead, confused.

  "Yes, I can see you're confused," said Jenkins, " and I assure you, I don't blame you one bit." He stopped pacing and placed both hands on the table, looking at Cain. "You see Mr. Cain, you are not supposed to be here anymore. You're a fax."

  Cain stared at Jenkins and repeated the word.

  "Yes, Mr. Cain, a fax." Jenkins started pacing again.

  "You are a facsimile, a copy of the real Mr. Cain, who is sitting in his office in New York. You were ported over for this meeting, and of course you did an admirable job, as Mr. Cain himself would have done." He gave Cain a patronizing smile. "Most of the time we don't have this problem--faxes come and go, they do their job and then we bring them here to the sh--to this room, and they just disappear." He looked at Mr. Cain, and it was obvious he was even less comfortable than before. "But sometimes--and I can assure you it's rare--faxes don't um . . . well they don't go away."

  Cain stared. It was obvious to him that this man was insane. Faxes? Cain was beginning to get upset. He told Jenkins that he was Malcolm Cain, President of Cain Holdings, and he demanded that Jenkins stop spouting this nonsense and show him the exit.

  Jenkins looked even more uncomfortable. "I'm sorry Mr. Cain, but I can't do that. You see, I told you we have a problem, and it's this: We can't let you leave."

  Cain begged his pardon.

  "Yes well, you see, there's only one Mr. Cain in the world--the one that sent you. You, well, you shouldn't be here, and I cannot let you leave the building. I'm sure you understand the havoc it could cause to have two Mr. Cain's wandering around."

  Jenkins gave Cain another patronizing smile, but Cain was having none of it. He stood and leaned over Jenkins, demanding that he put an end to this foolishness. He threatened, he glowered, he shook his fists, he threw his briefcase. Jenkins frowned and asked him to take a seat again. Grudgingly, Cain did so and Jenkins continued.

  "I understand, Mr. Cain--to you this is all surreal. After all you, you think you are the real Mr. Cain, not a copy, not some fax sent across the world."

  Cain nodded, glad to see where this was going.

  "Can
you answer a question for me, Mr. Cain?"

  Cain assured him that he could, indeed, answer his question.

  "Good. Tell me Mr. Cain, what did you have for breakfast this morning?"

  Cain stared, thinking this was the most ridiculous question he could have been asked. He started to tell Jenkins what he had eaten this morning, because he could remember . . . he could remember . . . the thing was he couldn't remember. Cain struggled to recall coming to the office earlier this morning, and as hard as he tried, he found that he could not remember a single thing. Not waking up in his hotel (as he must have surely done), not having a nice continental breakfast in his room (as he always did when he traveled), and certainly not the car ride over. He stared at Jenkins, who was looking at him sympathetically.

  "You don't remember do you, Mr. Cain?"

  Cain shook his head, claiming fatigue.

  Jenkins nodded and stood.

  "Mr. Cain, in these situations, we have found it best to let you sort things out on your own. Obviously you'll need to wait here, but I'll be back in a bit and we can chat some more."

  Before Cain could object, Jenkins quickly opened the door and darted out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. Cain sat at the table, thinking, or trying to think about his breakfast. The more he thought, the harder it became to remember it, and then he realized that it was harder to remember other things. He thought about the meeting, and found that even that was beginning to become fuzzy to him. Who had he met with? Hopkins? Hopewell? He couldn't quite remember. He rubbed his forehead and found he was suddenly very tired.

  Twenty minutes later, Jenkins entered the now empty room. He gestured to a technician who entered and scurried over to open an access panel on the wall, checking to make sure things were back to normal.

  "This is the fourth time this month we've had this problem, Perkins!" Jenkins was not pleased. "I suggest you figure out what is wrong, and take care of it. I hate having to talk to faxes!"