Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys Part 11

Gash leaned down, the shadows cast by his soldier's helmet spreading away from his bloodshot, bulging eyes, neither of which was where it was supposed to be.

"No?" he said. "Then maybe a trade?"

Martin at last found his voice. "You don't have a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing I want."

Gash's smiled grew even more hideous. "I think I do."

He reached down with both arms and thrust his talon-like hands deep into the center of cl.u.s.tered tumors, digging around inside, making a sound like a child working to create a stack of mud pies. Finding what he'd been looking for, he pulled out his hands in a slop of pus and excrement, raising the treasures up into light, then licking the pink-and-white cancerous afterbirth from each figure before spreading wide his arms so Martin could clearly see.

In his right hand, Gash held Martin's father.

In his left, Martin's mother.

"I'll give them back," said Gash, his diseased voice sounding as bright and honest as something so corrupt could sound.

Then he shook them a little; enough to make each of them shriek in agony.

"It hurts so much, Martin," said his father. "Oh, G.o.d, why didn't I just do what you and Mom wanted and let them take the b.a.s.t.a.r.d out of me?"

Martin began shaking, from head to heel he was shaking, losing his hold on both the vein and As-Was.

"So . . . what do you say?" hissed Gash, thin strings of pinkish s...o...b..r dribbling from his lower lip.

Martin said nothing.

"So you're gonna let us down again?" said his father, his voice taking on that same cold anger that had been so present in his speech the last few weeks of his life. "I thought you'd at least make us proud this one time, this one G.o.dd.a.m.n lousy time."

"Please, honey," Mom pleaded. "I know it's a lot to ask, but you were always such a good boy. Please do this one thing for us, Marty. Please?"

And just like that, the brief moment of uncertainty that had nearly cracked his resolve became a cold ball of anger.

"Nice try," he said to Gash. "But she never once called me 'Marty.' Her nickname for me was 'Zeke.'

"You're not only ugly, you're obvious and sloppy."

And with that, Martin made three quick movements that were so fast they might as well have been a single motion: he let go of the vein, spun around and downward to grab the crowbar, and threw it toward Gash; it shot straight out, a steel arrow, and buried three-quarters of its length in the center of the tumor cl.u.s.ter.

Gash threw back his head and screamed, dropping the lifeless and now-featureless figures, his hands fumbling down to find and remove the crowbar, and that was all the opening Martin needed; grabbing the end of the vein again and tightening his hold on As-Was, he ran straight out, right underneath Gash's parted legs, reaching the hole a full ten seconds before Gash yanked out the crowbar and turned, still s...o...b..ring in pain, and started toward him, half-stomping, half-limping.

Martin threw the end of the vein upward with all the force he could muster; the shepherd caught it on the first try, and within seconds most of the people from the painting had lined up above, each grabbing a section.

Below, Martin tightened the other end around his wrist and arm, gripping the slack with his fist. "Pull!"

They did, and it worked, but it was slow going; they slipped once, almost dropping him back down, but caught it in time.

Meanwhile, Gash was rallying, gaining strength and speed, closing the distance.

Martin shouted: "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!"

Gash saw that Martin was almost to the surface, let out a ma.s.sive roar- -and unfurled his hideous wings, taking flight, demolishing the walls, the bookshelves, and most of the displays as he soared forward, talon-hands thrust out, barreling toward Martin and making a final push- -as the people from the painting gave one last, ma.s.sive, powerful yank, pulling Martin through the hole and to the surface.

"Thank you," he said, and that was all the time he was going to have, because now the first of Gash's hands shot up through the hole, talons impaling the shepherd through his chest and face.

Martin ran.

Just ahead, dim and ruined and depressing, he saw the room where his six-year-old self still held open the doorway, and d.a.m.n if that decrepit room wasn't the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Behind him, the people screamed. Something ripped. Something else was pulled apart with moist, shredding sounds.

And then Gash's scream filled the air.

Doubling his speed, Martin chanced one look behind him and saw something that would haunt his dreams off and on for the rest of his life: Gash's torso, arms, and wings were free of the hole, and he was slaughtering everyone within reach.

Oh, G.o.d, please forgive me, all of you, please forgive me . . .

. . . and just before he reached the doorway, Golden Dress appeared from behind a tree and had just enough time to shout "This is not your doing!" before Martin released a scream of his own and leapt into the air, pa.s.sing through the doorway, tossing As-Was forward, and slamming to the floor beyond-but remembering to tuck-and-roll, which is probably the only thing that prevented him from snapping his neck.

He saw Gash rise high in the background of the painting.

Martin looked around for something with which to destroy As-Was, found nothing, but then the little boy who'd once been him shouted, "Here!" and tossed the flashlight to him, the wonderful, big, long, heavy flashlight, and Martin raised it above his head, readying to swing down- -except As-Was had changed; no longer a ghostly white deformed monstrosity, but a soft, pink-skinned, chubby newborn with perfect hands, feet, face, head . . . and the loveliest blue eyes.

It looked up at Martin and gave a gurgling giggle.

"What the . . . ?"

The baby squealed with delight, shaking its arms and kicking its legs, its smile wide, toothless, radiant.

Martin looked from the baby to the painting.

Gash was free of the hole, crouching down, unfurling his wings once again, readying to take flight.

Below Martin, the baby's face changed into an expression of perfect newborn love.

He felt his arm slowly start to drop, then just as quickly remembered Jerry's warning: don't let your heart or hand be swayed by its appearance, that's what Gash wants.

Martin closed his eyes, turned the baby's head to the side, and smashed its skull into pulp with three powerful strikes. His ears filled with the sound of a melon hitting the pavement after being dropped from a great height, and he almost threw up, but then a great jolt like an electric shock shot up his arm, throwing him back against the wall and flipping the flashlight through one of the shattered windows.

The baby jerked and spasmed, thrashing against an ugly light engulfing its body, causing it to flicker and sizzle and-very quickly, at the end-fold in on itself like a film negative set on fire and implode into nothing.

At the same moment, the painting on the wall rippled and bulged, pushing outward like a bas-relief work before deflating, flattening out . . . and returning to the way it had been: a field of faces, looking out at something only they could see.

Martin sat up, pulling his knees to his chest and folding his arm around them.

"You did it," said the little boy.

Martin lifted a hand and waved him away: not yet, please, just . . . not yet.

"You're not finished."

"I know . . ."

"You gotta-"

"I know!" And as much as seeing the false images of his parents had nearly shattered him for good, what he had to do next was worse.

Burn the painting, the letter had said.

Burn it right away and get the h.e.l.l out.

Martin staggered to his feet and grabbed the box of magazines and newspapers and painting supplies, scattering the papers and opening the jar of kerosene that had been used to clean the paint brushes. He poured the liquid over the papers, onto the floor, and splashed the remainder onto the wall and the painting.

Pulling his lighter from his pocket and flicking open the lid, Martin looked at the little boy and said, "You need to leave."

"I know. I'll be going with you. If you want me to."

"That would be nice, yes."

The little boy smiled. "Cool."

Martin took a deep breath, struck up the flame, took one last look at the painting that no one else but him had ever seen or would remember, then tossed the lighter into the papers and, per Jerry's instructions, ran like h.e.l.l.

It took less than three minutes before the rooms were engulfed in flames.

Five minutes later, the entire second floor was ablaze.

In the end, it became a four-alarm fire that razed the entire building. Firefighters fought for nearly six hours to get it under control, finally extinguishing the last remnants of the conflagration around 6:45 a.m.

By then Martin had made an anonymous 911 phone call about the body in room 401 of the Taft, hightailed it back to his apartment, taken a shower, put on clean clothes, and applied fresh peroxide and bandages to his various wounds.

Then he sat on his couch and waited.

8.

They came for him at 7:30.

The officer pounded on the door twice, then shouted: "Martin Tyler, this is the police. Open up now."

Martin complied.

The officer pushed him back into the room, was joined by his partner, and they were joined by Barbara Hayes.

"What the h.e.l.l did you think you'd accomplish by running out like that?"

"You wouldn't believe me," said Martin as the officers cuffed his hands behind his back.

Dr. Hayes looked at him and shook her head. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Martin, but there are rules."

"I know." He was alive.

He had done it.

d.a.m.n had he done it!

"How irked is Ethel?" he asked as they led him out to the police cruiser.

"Oh, you'll be finding out soon enough, I think," said Dr. Hayes.

After the officers had gotten Martin safely into the back seat, Dr. Hayes leaned down and said, "There are consequences for certain actions, Martin. You're not being charged with any crime, but you just bought yourself the entire ten days at The Center."

"I figured."

She looked as if she were going to chew him out some more, but then her eyes softened, her face filling with something . . . something . . . not her.

"There will be other circuses for you, Dips.h.i.t," she said in a voice that could only have been Bob's-because it wasn't Jerry's, and it sure as h.e.l.l wasn't hers. "There will be cotton candy and funnel cakes and calliope music. There are always tomorrows, soldier, and other battles done; music in the square, women under flowered trees, as summer slides into soft decay, leaf unto leaf . . ."

Then she stopped, blinked, and gave her head a little shake before looking at Martin again. "You screw up, you deal with the consequences. That's life."

"Yeah," said Martin, barely able to contain himself. "It sure is, isn't it?"

The cruiser pulled away, taking him back to Buzzland.

Martin looked out the window at the morning world. The sun broke through the heavy thick clouds still lingering from the downtown fire, shining directly into Martin's eyes.

And larks into falcons rise from the yellow sleeves of eternal day.

He wished peace to Bob, bade the Substruo much luck, and sent his parents his love.

A new day, a new world. Yet again.

And again.

And again.

The yellow sleeves of eternal day, he thought.

Bring it on.

The Ballad.