The drop, p.45
The Drop, page 45
I think I'm going to be ok, as long as this house doesn't burn down around me. Things were quieter today. If this entire thing was like a fever, I feel that last night was when the fever broke. There are less people in the streets, no screamers, no dead children being pulled in wagons. Sure, a lost soul shambles down the street every now and then, but people seem to be coming to grips with the whole situation. That or everyone that couldn't handle it is dead.
The power is still out, so there's no TV. My only connection to the outside world is my phone, and I'm conserving the battery on that.
Well, I guess this is it. I guess this is the world I live in now. I'm going to lay here a while, and then I think I'm going to go out into the world, gather some stories, see what I can dig up. This is an important time, and I can't afford to sit on the sidelines. I don't think my parents would want me to do that.
I'm going to leave you here journal. It's not that I don't think that writing is important or helpful. I just don't want anything to do with these notebooks anymore. I don't want to accidentally flip a page and see me talking about my dad's death, or my mom's death. I'm going to lock you away, and leave you here. You've been a good friend, but I'm ready to go out there and do my thing.
Fuck journals, fuck memories, and fuck The Drop.
PART V
THE LAST SONG
Chapter 18: Cracking the Tomb
We've spent two days in here. Outside, we can hear the sounds of some sort of assault on Rick Reaves' panic shelter, strange clangs and thumps. In the time that we've been in here, I've come to see Rick Reaves as something of a tragic figure. It has become clear to me that this man was not the architect of The Drop, just another victim stuck in a waking nightmare from which there is no escape.
Every time I look at him, I find myself feeling something I never would have thought I would feel... pity. He's so broken. He's more like the idea of a man. It's like he's been lobotomized, like the part of him that made him human was completely burned out. As sick as The Drop was, I'm glad that people had, for the most part, no clue about their fate, as opposed to the fate of Rick Reaves, which is a sort of living death.
He sits in the corner, staring off into space. The smell from him is awful, the type of stench that you can never really get used to. I don't know why I feed him, but I do. When I set whatever can I've opened in front of him, he gives me a look that is equal parts gratitude and embarrassment, and I wonder why he even goes on.
Then, as I'm slurping mini-raviolis in red sauce, I wonder why the hell I'm continuing to fight. Why do they want us so bad? What more could Sterling Robison want with us? The world is destroyed, and all he has to do to get away with it is seal us up in here, just torch the mansion above us, hop into their helicopters and then go about living his evil little life knowing that he irrevocably changed the world for the worst.
I have thoughts of killing myself. But then I look over at Rick Reaves, his face covered in the sauce from a can of Hormel chili, and I decide that if he can go on, I can go on as well. There's a story to tell here, and I've almost got all of the particulars. I know the chances of escaping are about as great as the chances of God swooping down and resurrecting everyone that died in The Drop, but hey, a small chance is still a chance, so I push the thoughts of suicide to the back of my mind where they call my name every so often.
I have thoughts of Merv and Freddie. I keep imagining them out there in the woods, plotting some way to save the day. Images of Freddie and Merv firing their rifles in slow-motion fill my mind. In these visions, explosions are erupting behind them, and they advance slowly on the mansion, mowing down Sterling Robison's goon squad. Then, they finally reach the mansion and free us. I run and wrap my arms around Freddie.
I know I didn't give him a fair shake out there. I'm not even sure if he wanted one, or if we were just two damaged people looking for a momentary flash of hope in a world of darkness. That sounds melodramatic, I know. But fuck, melodrama is better than potentially being locked in a vault with a handless, tongueless wretch that smells like death until we run out of food or they find a way inside.
I've had a lot of time to think in here. That's really all I've had time for. Something about possibly being trapped in your coffin has a way of allowing one to see past all the bullshit they fill their life with. And I realize my life has been one big pile of the brown stuff ever since the day my dad died.
The truth is I don't know who I am anymore. I'm a journalist. I'm finally that thing that my parents always wanted me to be, and I can't remember if I ever even wanted to really be a journalist, or if it was just something I grabbed hold of and rode to its conclusion because my mom might have mentioned it one day. And then I realize that I'm a journalist. That's all I am. I sift through the stories of people's lives while never actually making my own stories.
I've avoided living for so long, that now, I'm sitting down here and wondering if I didn't throw my whole life away. Should I be out there living more? Should I be out there making up my own story? If I ever see Freddie again, should I abandon this whole story and just go off with him, see where life may take us?
Regrets. That's all I have down here. Regrets and a sad, maimed man. My biggest fear is that I'll get out of this vault, and the clouds of my life will surround me and blind me once more to what is important. The story, it's important, but I'm not sure it's worth my life. That's what I've learned down here.
I made a promise to myself this morning, the second day of our confinement in the vault. I promised myself that if I got out of here, I would make sure to live again. I would make sure to put myself before the story because living is more important than working, and though I've got a good career, a good career without a life is a pointless existence. This realization makes me clench my fists and fills my body with frustrated energy to the point that I just want to scream, punch in the code to the vault door and run outside for better or worse.
For now, I'll wait.
****
We're moving. I'm not sure how this is possible, but we are definitely moving. The power is out, and the only light I have is my notebook. Rick sits in the corner, his knees up to his chest, and a blank look on his face. He's gone, his mind filled with the terrors of what is going to happen next. I must say, he's not alone in that regard. My own mind is filled with images of the vault being plunged into the Puget Sound or exploded with a thousand pounds of dynamite.
There was a ton of noise a few hours ago, Big thunderous booms resounded through the shell of the metal vault, so loud that I had to put my hands to my head to protect my ears. Rick tried to do the same, though his efforts were less effective due to not having hands. These bangs continued for hours, and I got the distinct impression that we were being dug out of the vault.
After several hours of this banging, there was a great lurch. I was almost crushed to death by a rack of canned food as it toppled over. The thought that I would be pummeled to death by cans of Chef Boyardee caused me to laugh briefly, a mad laugh that I'm still shaking my head about. The power went out, and I fumbled around in the dark for my cell phone or my notebook, as cans of food rolled around my feet. I felt like I was walking on the deck of a ship, the ocean causing the floor beneath me to sway back and forth, and thoughts of sinking into the Puget Sound reared their ugly heads again.
Then the vault stabilized. Though, when I stood still, I could still sense a slight amount of swaying movement. I turned on the light of my notebook and found Rick huddled in the corner, a small gash on his forehead. He looked like a victim from a horror movie. His eyes were as large as silver dollars, and a trickle of blood ran down his forehead.
We were being moved. I was sure of it. But to where? Were we going to be dropped in the Sound? Were we going to be dropped into one of those giant car-crushing machines they have at the junkyard? Would we be turned into scrap metal and chunks of flesh amidst a mishmash of canned food bits?
I don't know the answers to any of these things, and the truth is, I'm ready. I'm ready to face what happens next. I'm ready to get the story or to become the story, and if, somehow, I manage to get out of this alive, I vow to never write another story again. I want to live.
If I die and someone manages to find this notebook, please give it to Sebastian Doswell, EIC and owner of The Daily Solicitor. Sebastian, if I don't make it, finish the story.
Chapter 19: Role Reversal
Transcript of the first of 3 Videos Delivered to The Daily Solicitor Three Months After the Disappearance of Katherine Maddox
A disheveled woman with a black eye and a swollen lip sits at a table in a plain room. She has since been identified as Katherine Maddox, missing journalist for The Daily Solicitor. One end of a chain is fastened to the table, while the other is attached to a collar around the woman's neck. The woman struggles with the chain, trying to free herself.
A man enters the room. He is strangely familiar, somewhat geekish, forgettable. He has short blonde hair and wears a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that could have come straight out of the fifties. He moves to sit across from the woman. She spits at him. He smiles.
Man: Are you ready to finish your story?
Katherine: What do you want with me?
Man: I want to give you what you're looking for.
Katherine: Why?
Man: You've earned it.
Katherine: Where are Freddie and Merv?
Man: I don't know who they are.
Katherine: They were on the island.
Man: There's no one on the island anymore.
Katherine: That's not an answer.
Man: No, it isn't, and you won't be receiving any answers until we've come to an agreement.
Katherine struggles at her chains once more. She jerks on the chain, bangs on the table, and eventually collapses in exhaustion. Through it all, the familiar man sits, regarding the spectacle like a scientist observing a test rat.
Man: Are you satisfied?
Katherine: Not hardly.
Man: Well, maybe we can fix that. Like I said, I'm willing to give you everything you want; all we have to do is come to an agreement.
Katherine: Do I really have a choice?
Man: We all have a choice, and yet, so few of us actually choose to make one. It is perhaps one of the biggest conundrums of human existence that we have all been gifted with free will, and yet almost none of us choose to use it.
Katherine smirks at the man.
Katherine: You think you have it all figured out. How can you know humanity? You're the least human thing that was ever pushed out of a uterus.
Man: Harsh words. Harsh words. But I'm still sitting here. I'm still listening to you, and I'm still willing to make a deal. Do you want to finish this? Do you want the conclusion of your story?
Katherine: What if I don't? What if I say no to making a deal with you?
Man: Then I guess our conversation is over. I leave. You stay.
Katherine: So you'll kill me.
Man: I've never killed anyone.
Katherine: You've killed hundreds of millions.
The man holds out his hands palms up.
Man: I see no blood.
Katherine: Then you're blind.
Man: I'm the only one that sees.
Katherine: Blind and delusional.
The man smiles.
Man: Come on. Make a deal with me. What have you got to lose?
Katherine: Nothing. You've already taken everything away from me.
Man: I'm pretty sure I have nothing of yours.
Katherine's jaw clenches, and she stares into the eyes of the man, thinking.
Katherine: So what type of deal are we talking about?
Man: It's a very simple deal. It's more of a trade than anything else. A story for a story. Yours for mine.
Katherine: I don't have a story.
For the first time, the man shows some actual emotion. He laughs.
Man: There are many people in this world that don't have a story, Katherine, but you are not one of them.
Katherine: Don't say my name.
Man: What would you have me call you?
Katherine: Nothing.
Man: You want me to call you nothing? I could make a big show of calling you "nothing" for the rest of our time together, but that would just antagonize you. I don't want to antagonize you. I just want to hear your story.
Katherine: Read my byline.
Man: You underestimate yourself. You are more than a byline. You are more than a story.
The man rises from his seat and exits the room. He returns with a briefcase. He sits down at the table as Katherine eyes him wearily.
Katherine: What is that?
Man: Oh... just a little something my people found when they were going through your old house.
The man pops open the latches of the briefcase. He lifts the lid and then pulls out a set of journals, dog-eared, the paper turned yellow with age.
Katherine: You have no right.
Man: It's really fascinating reading, Kather... oh, I'm not supposed to say your name. It truly is some fascinating stuff, lady. I had no idea you had this much pain inside you. You are quite the tortured soul.
Katherine: Why are you doing this?
Man: Because I admire you. At first, I had my people go through your stuff simply because I wanted to know more about you. I wanted to know what made you tick. Were you just a thorn in my side or were you a legitimate threat to my exile? I had to know. These journals...
The man sets the journals down, caressing them lovingly with his hands.
Man: ...they tell me so much about you. They tell me all about why you're after me. They tell me how you got to be such a strong-willed person. That part about the professor...
The man whistles in admiration.
Man: ...once I read that I knew I was up against it.
Katherine: So you're going to turn yourself in?
Man: No, God no, miss. It's like you're not even listening to me. I'm here for a trade. I have to know. I need your story as bad as you need mine. I've read these journals must be twenty times now. But... they're censored.
Katherine: What do you mean censored?
Man: I mean... a journalist, a person such as yourself, a newshound, should endeavor to get the story at all times, right? But you... you left the good stuff out. You tell me everything, about your roommate, about your mom... but about your father... you left something out. You glossed over that part. You who killed your lecherous professor. You who travelled across the Pacific Ocean for your story. You who, despite very clear warnings, continued to hunt your story at the risk of life and limb... you left out the good stuff. So I'm here today because I admire you, and I want to know everything about you. You're still alive because I admire your tragic soul.
Katherine: Go fuck yourself.
Man: You know I can see souls, right?
Katherine stops looking at the man, clearly sick of his game.
Man: It's true. I know it sounds insane. But it's just a little gift I've always had. Your average person has a perfectly healthy soul. They look floaty, flimsy; it's like a second you made of lace, floating behind you and mirroring every movement. But the tragic soul... well, they look different. Your soul, it's been cooked, it's been hardened. You want to know what your soul looks like?
Katherine chews her lip, but pointedly ignores the man.
Man: Your soul is black and heavy. It carries the shine of obsidian, a mirror image of yourself, trailing behind you at all times. You may not be looking at me, but your soul is. It's right there, its ears perked up like a dog. It's drawn to me, the way I'm drawn to you. Tragedy to tragedy. Black soul to black soul.
Katherine sneers at the man.
Katherine: You have no soul.
The man cocks a brief smirk and mockingly clutches at his chest.
Man: You wound me. But I understand. You think...
The man searches for the right words for a moment.
Man: ...you think I'm a monster. You think that I did this out of hatred or perversion or maybe because I'm the devil. But I'm not. I'm flesh and blood. I'm just like you. When I look in the mirror, I see my own soul, staring back at me.
Katherine: Then why did you do it? How can you call yourself human knowing that you killed half the world?
The man wags his finger at Katherine.
Man: Ah, ah, ah! That's part of my story. That's the part that I've hidden from you. If you want to hear it, you have to make the deal.
Katherine is silent. She chews on her lip.
Man: Come on. Make the deal. Let's be civilized about this. You get what you want. I get what I want. It's a win-win situation.
Katherine: I want you to die. If you die. I make the deal.
Man: Haven't I suffered enough? I have to die too?
Katherine: Yes.
Man: Very well.
Katherine falls silent, chewing her lip.
Katherine: So it's a deal?
Man: No. You added something extra to the deal, so I want something extra as well.
Katherine: What else could I possibly have?
Man: You have a song. I want to hear it.
Katherine: I don't get it. A song?
The man stands. He rounds the table and then looms over Katherine. He taps her in the chest.
Man: In there... is something... something great, something that I want to hear. You give me your song. You bare your soul to me, and I will give you my story and kill myself.
Katherine: How do I know you'll keep your word?
