Dale came home from work and bolted the door. Not much of a lock, but he didn't have anything worth stealing anyway.
Pausing there, he sighed. It was only Tuesday, and already he was tired.
The work sucked. He was sorting recycled paper, until the temp service found something better. Dusty work.
His usual routine included a stop for microwave burritos, after he got off the subway. So he wasn't too hungry. What he wanted most was a shower, a beer, and the TV.
He peeled off his clothes in the bathroom, and got in the old clawfoot tub. Then he turned the water up, nice and hot, and stood under it a while, letting it wash away all the paper dust, the mites, the ink. Down the drain. Putting his neck right under the stream, and groaning with relief as it loosened up the taut muscles...
After he toweled off, he hung up the towel and picked up his work clothes. Straightening up, he walked out of the bathroom, across the tiny hall, and through the door of the only other room in the crappy, run-down apartment. Where he slept.
Thinking only about getting his sweat pants, and the four beers left in the fridge -
He stopped cold. Staring.
A large, thick rectangle nearly filled the little room.
There was a large bow on the upper right corner. A red bow. The light was fading fast, but he saw it was red as he backed up, dropped the clothes, and snagged a big breath so he could scream real loud -
A hand gripped his chin. Its thumb pinched his upper lip, sealing his mouth.
He screamed anyway. "Nnnnnn!"
It wasn't very loud.
The hand had a familiar feel. It was cold, and too smooth for a hand.
Prior experience made him certain it was empty, too.
Dale backed away from the rectangle, as if it would matter. To his horror, he started to snicker. The feel of leather, holding him again -
He forced himself to growl instead.
In the next four seconds, a lot more hands clamped on. They took hold of his arms.
He started hooting. The palm and fingers that gagged him didn't seem to mind.
As he ducked, and twisted... a hand slid off his right bicep. That made him yelp.
He lunged backward. One more step. But the hands tugged him the other way. Toward his room.
Dale managed to yell again. "Huhhll! Huhhl mmmm - nnnnh nnuh nnuuhhh! Nnnnnhff! Huuhhhhll!" Well-muffled screams...
His right arm was pulled behind him.
Arching forward, he tried jumping up. But it didn't work. They had a firm grip on his left forearm, and they were stronger than he was. His wrists ended up together.
Rope landed between his shoulder blades, making him jump violently. Down his back -
Around his wrists.
He took a careful breath and yelled for help. Yelled as hard as he could.
The first glove, wet with his spit, repositioned itself on his lips.
The rope was pulled over and tucked around many times. He lunged in every possible direction - even backing up twice, making the rope come in contact with the small of his back - but the hands tightened their grip. More came and jumped around his ankles... at least four of them.
He snickered, as if there anything funny about this. The unmistakable clamp of fingers, like iron, too quick for him, hobbling him, getting ready for the wild play that would start later -
Slamming around as much as he could, the rope just kept circling, rapidly and smoothly. A first knot was pulled tight. Dale barked at the sharp tug, then snickered again. Unable to stop. The association was too strong.
More knots.
Some hands let go of his arms - and immediately latched onto his shins.
"Whuuh nnnnnf nuhheell huhhhee eeeeee heeee!" But nobody would've been able to make out what he was saying. It never had stopped 'em before anyway. Cool, smooth hands. He bucked at the memory of that texture. His arms frantically tried to get free of the rope. Throwing his head around didn't dislodge the hand clamped over his mouth.
The hands picked up his right ankle - just enough, so his foot was off the carpet - and shoved it against his left ankle.
Dale yelled again. He tried to fall forward, or slam back. The hands held him upright.
A band of rope pressed against his calves, and slid down. Wrapping.
He tried to hop up.
The rope crossed in front of his ankles, and then in back. He saw the hands there, holding the ends straight out. Like kites on a thick string, passing in front, in back...
Tying knots.
He moaned into the hand, shaking his head sadly.
When they were done tying him up, they turned him around. Three or four hands lined up on each of his biceps. As their fingers tightened, he jerked back - an old, vivid reflex - and barked. His volume was reduced to almost nothing -
The hands picked him up. He flopped hard, bending his knees...
They carried him to the door of his bedroom.
The hands holding his shins let go, and chopped behind his knees. His legs buckled, and they pushed him the rest of the way down. He sat there, with the scratched paint of the door pressing against his shoulder blades, and the ancient carpet under his ass.
Fingers carefully lined up above the ankle-ropes, and pushed down. He couldn't move his legs.
The ones that had his arms started pulling down, as if they'd gotten much heavier. Dale couldn't move forward, or sideways, or slam against the door.
He sat there, and yelled over and over. And he remembered the apartment to his right was empty. A short in the wiring, somewhere. Must be a bad one. To his left, there was the exterior wall, and another old brick building.
His bedroom window was straight ahead of him. It looked out on the solid cinderblock wall of a parking garage. And the window was closed, just the way he'd left it -
The hand covering his mouth flew off -
And something hit his teeth. Pushing. He started yelling again. "Haaaaaaawwlllnnth!"
It was a ball. It squeezed between his teeth, stretching his jaws a little.
Straps tugged from each side.
Dale slammed his head back against the door.
A hand slapped the crown of his head. Its slid back over his wet hair, reversed direction, and pulled. A buckle jingled.
A hard tug pulled his head to the right. His hair was released.
"Help!," he yelled - but what he heard was a depressingly quiet "Haaawwl". Dale shook his head around, and pushed with his tongue. The ball didn't move. The straps didn't slip.
He let his head fall back against the door, and closed his eyes.
Now and then, he tried to slump over, or bend his knees. Always sudden, violent movements.
They didn't work. The hands didn't let go of him, and they didn't loosen their grip.
He was going to sit there, right where they put him...
So he shook his head again, and opened his eyes.
"Naa naa eeez yuh aaaaa naaall aawwwwlll aaaiih..."
Dale looked at the mattress. He started to squirm again, and kept pleading. "Aaa naa, aaa hih naaa, leeez hohn, hohnnl, nuhllll..."
The hands didn't budge.
He tried every kind of movement he could think of. Trying not to look...
At the mattress.
His toes were only a few inches away.
When he stopped struggling, they didn't let go of him. They'd hold him right here for an hour or two, and then -
Dale felt the tears start to come. Dammit. No...
This was the eleventh time he'd been caught.
Ten of those times, the mattress had been there.
The mattress.
He'd never seen a bow on it before.
For some reason, the sight of it made his heart race. It had left him alone for... what, almost a year. Sadistic son of a bitch. He'd started to believe it was through with him. That's what really got him bawling. He'd started to hope.
But it was just playing with him. Cat-and-mouse.
He was sure this wouldn't be a short visit. Not after all that time. A week? Forget it. Not a chance. That fuckin' bow. A present for him.
More like, he was a gift the mattress was giving itself. Something was up. It had to be more than just a few days of... of intense fuckin'...
Aw, hell.
Dale worked himself back up to a hysterical panic. He still wasn't allowed to move.
It didn't help, sobbing like this, but he couldn't help it. All the tension came out. Every night, for months, peeking carefully into his bedroom to make sure it wasn't there. Gradually, the fear let go of him. And now - it was gonna be so insane. He couldn't stand the thought.
And every time, it made him sit there. Held down, in the dark, until he calmed down. Close to it.
He just couldn't go through it again. He shook his head slowly. If only it would take the gag out! He wouldn't yell for help. Dale wanted to beg for his freedom. Grovel like a little kid -
He squirmed harder.
Please, please take the gag out. Please. Listen to me. I'm so sorry. I can't take it, oh please, I just can't go through it again, I can't, please don't. Don't...
But the gloves held him there.
His bedroom had become his cell. And he'd locked the apartment door, like he always did. Cell-within-a-cell.
No one would hear him scream tonight. And howl. Tomorrow, his voice would be shot.
The rent was paid for the month. It was only the second time he'd paid on time -
The others who lived on this floor, all winos and junkies, left him alone. He didn't smoke because he couldn't afford it, so they couldn't bum cigarettes. One look at the way he dressed, his cheap TV... and even they saw he didn't have any money.
No one, except the super, had knocked on his door in months. And that was only because he was late with the rent. Fucker never came by since then -
Dale thought of something. It made his stomach clench up. The date - it was the eighth of May. Only the eighth. And he'd managed to pay the fuckin' rent on time.
Thirty-one minus eight was, what... twenty-three? Was that right? That couldn't possibly be right. Twenty-three days. No. Over three weeks, before anyone came near the door. Unless there was a fire, or a gas leak. Dale had fallen for that one before, though... The fantasy. Firemen, busting in, freezing in the doorway - as they saw him on the mattress. With those big axes in their hands, coming right in, chopping the straps, the blades sinking right in. He'd beg 'em to lend him one of those axes for a minute, and destroy the damn thing, shred it, and he didn't care how crazy he looked. So long as it was ruined...
But that never happened. Through luck or planning, the torture had never been interrupted. Dreaming about it only made the reality worse.
More like four weeks, actually. Oh, shit. The super waited a few days, before, and then he finally got his fat ass up the stairs and pounded on the door. Where's the rent money, you're late. And at the time, Dale had actually been glad the guy was so lax about it.
The mattress had never gotten caught before. Either it knew the pattern, how the super operated... or it just knew when to disappear. Cut him loose. That sounded insane, when he remembered it was a fucking piece of furniture.
Dale tried to kick it. His legs didn't move.
Ten times, before this. He knew what was gonna happen. Fuck, yeah.
Four weeks of it...
He always felt smaller. Like he was, the first time. The amazement came back, just like before.
Back then, he didn't hate his name. His first name. When he thought back, it was almost like remembering somebody else's life. A dumb kid who just kinda stumbled his way through life. He didn't party. And he hated cigarettes...
That guy's middle name was Dale. But he never used it. He'd always answered to his first name. His given name.
Matthew.
He'd been a good kid, overall. It's just that he made two bad decisions. The first was going to work at Evernew, because he didn't want to wait a couple weeks more for that job at the brake shop to open up. Impatient to make some money. If only he'd waited, the other mistake would never have happened. And his whole life would've been different.
The other mistake was hotdogging. Showing off. That's what did it. got him in trouble. With the mattress.
He'd rehashed it over and over. A lot of weeks, pinned flat on his back, thinking about it.
He started at Evernew when waterbeds were still in, but before futons. Arnie had him do grunt-work until he turned seventeen. Then he'd help Two-Fist with the deliveries, when there wasn't another delivery guy - which was a lot, since Arnie had trouble keeping people around.
Two-Fist was a weird character. Quiet, until you got to know him. He drank a lot. While he was only about ten years older than Matt, he seemed like he was totally... whipped. Cowed. It couldn't be a woman, 'cause he was a big guy. But he'd creep around like he was going to get jumped anytime.
The guy smoked constantly. More than anyone Matt had ever known. He'd just roll his window down some. Over the space of a year, they started talking. Two-Fist would buy him beer whenever he asked, so that was okay...
"Get the hell out of here," he always said. "I hear the Superamerica's hiring." It was a constant theme with him - Matt should do whatever it took to quit from Evernew. The sooner the better. Two-Fist was of the weird opinion that it was too late for him, but Matt could still get away. Which was dumb, because Two-Fist was a great employee, really, if he didn't run out of bourbon... Always there, careful driver, polite to the customers.
His other big deal was, "Never mistreat the merchandise." There was some story, behind that, but Matt never got it out of him. He was warned at least three times a day. Don't fuck with the goods. Finally he'd just nod, and say nothing.
So he couldn't say he hadn't been warned.
The big mistake he made was in the fall, right after high school, when he was coming up on nineteen. Moving a mattress. It was a big one, and it was heavy. Matt was a big kid, but he should've used a dolly.
He knew that. He'd had that thought a million times since. If only I had used a dolly.
But he wanted to get the damn thing moved, so he could go to Mitzi's and get laid. Stupid, Friday-night impatience.
Sliding it through the showroom, toward the back. That wasn't wrong, strictly speaking. They came wrapped in a really tough layer of plastic. He pushed it, not really able to see where the front end was going. He'd done this a thousand times before...
But it started to flop. Right near a lamp, of course. He pulled it back upright.
Too hard. After all that experience, moving the fuckers, he put too much muscle into the tug. And he hadn't wanted to lose the momentum, so he just kept shoving it.
It was a big mattress. If only it had been a standard king-size... A bump into the door frame. No harm done.
But he missed the doorway, and slammed into the wall. Again, not a big deal. But this mattress was so damn wide...
It picked off the sconce.
He could still remember the sound.
Dammit, it wasn't fair.
Arnie had never told him. The stupid butt-ugly thing. Hanging up there, all dusty. Trailer-park sculpture. Matt had never heard the word "sconce" before.
Peacock feathers, and metal cut out to look like fence-posts. Chips of mirror on top, as if they were symbolizing the sky. And a big glass stone in the middle, which looked black from below.
All he'd been told was that it was some kind of good-luck charm, which was the only reason he could see Arnie leaving something so fuckin' ugly on the wall of the showroom.
Two-Fist refused to talk about it at all.
The mattress was just tall enough.
It caught the little metal fence-posts, tearing the plastic. Matt walked down to the other end where the sconce had fallen, on top of the mattress.
If it had hit the floor, and really smashed apart... he hated to think what would have happened to him. Afterward.
He set it down, and got the mattress in the back. Then he came out to look at the damage.
The big stone was much lighter than he thought. Dark red, like blood. He held it up over his head, and it still looked too light. He figured it was all that dust he'd knocked off.
A piece of the mirror was gone. And a feather. That was weird. It looked all right, but there were seven little feathers poking out of the left side, but only six on the right. He wasn't sure. Best he could remember, it looked like it had before.
The missing mirror chip was hidden by a feather. He started to dust the thing off... but didn't want Arnie noticing anything different about it.
So he pulled a chair over, and hung it back up. He stood under it, still wondering if there had been a seventh feather on the right side -
The stone almost seemed like it was getting lighter. He shook his head, and turned around.
Just in time - or they'd waited for him to see. And hear... the chain. Rattling.
From the back of the store, Matt watched the front doors being chained shut. It was the next thing he was going to do, before getting the fuck out of there.
He stood there, wondering. How was that happening? The chain wrapped around both crash bars, just like it was supposed t-
The padlock clicked.
And the showroom lights started shutting off. One bank at a time.Even then, he wasn't scared. Not really. He'd usually get out through the back door, by the dock, after he locked up.
For a few more seconds, he looked up front. What made the most sense, at the time, was that he just hadn't seen Arnie or Leota pull the chain through and lock it. Even though he knew they were long gone. And Two-Fist, who never set foot in the showroom if he could possibly get around it...
He hadn't even turned around, when he heard the other click. Behind him.
The back door was opening.
Matt turned, and saw it swinging open. Which had been his plan anyway. Time to g-
A hand grabbed his arm.
He looked. Saw nothing. Pulled his arm away.
Then two of 'em. On each arm.
"Hey," he said, suddenly afraid. He took a couple steps back, and about eight more hands latched on.
They dragged him outside. He yelled, and one hand covered his mouth up. The fingers were real strong...
The back door slammed, and they turned him - toward the old garage.
He had no idea what was going on. Not then. But he fought like a wildcat.
The door creaked open... and in he went.
He'd only been in there a couple times. To fetch tools, or something.
It was old, and way too narrow. Built for a really old car. Model-A, was that what Arnie had said? And above, there was a tiny loft. It couldn't have been four feet from the roof to the floor.
Matt was hauled up the stairs, to the loft. For the first time. Somehow, the outer door squealed shut behind him.
It was bad. No one ever went near the old garage. They had no reason to - hell, not Arnie, he was too good to get his hands dirty by that point. And definitely not Two-Fist.
Well, Matt sure found out why.
It was dark - for a few seconds. Then a candle was lit, and another.
What he saw was so bizarre he didn't even see the real threat, there. The walls had black padding all over them. And there was gear hanging everywhere. Tack. Like for horses. That's really what he thought.
A newer door was behind him, at the top of the stairs. When it was closed - and locked - he saw more padding on it too. Then the invisible hands pushed him down...
There was a mattress, which almost covered the whole floor. That got him wondering. There was no way it would fit up those stairs! Even if you could fold it.
The hands got him on his hands and knees - and kept pulling. Another one got a hold of his neck and shoved down. They were forcing his head down, toward the upper left corner. What the hell...
When his nose was just a few inches off the plastic, a candle floated over and down.
The plastic, covering the mattress, was torn. Nothing too unusual there -
It started to peel.
Uh-oh. The mattress was ripped. Just a little. Tiny little tear in the side. He could barely see it. At least, until it spread apart a little... as if fingers were showing it to him.
The gloves made him stare inside the hole. Something brown.
After a few seconds, Matt recognized what he was seeing. It was the tail-end... of a feather.He shook his head, totally confused. It was really in there. Deep. How could it... Alright, so he missed one. Okay. He could stick it back in the stupid sconce-thing -
But the mattress seemed to move. Under his hands.
And the feather disappeared. Zip. Instead of sliding out of the mattress... it was sucked in.
How was he supposed to get it out -
The hands rolled him over... and pulled off his clothes. All those wrestling meets didn't do him any good. There must have been a couple dozen hands...
The cuffs were put on him easily, as if he wasn't even fighting. They were leather. Heavy. Rivets, everywhere. Then the straps dangled down, and pulled real tight.
Matt was spread wide, like an 'X'. Naked. He couldn't do a damn thing about it.
And it felt like... somebody... was royally pissed off.
From a pouch that hung way up there, over his head... a glove floated out.
Six gloves, in all.
They took stuff down from hooks in the ceiling. His brain refused to believe what he was seeing, that it was moving all by itself - that he was unable to get his ass up, get out of there.
Obvious enough, from the paddles, the riding crops. Thick hoses, dangling in the air, held with confidence by black leather hands.
They were going to beat the shit out of him.
That was when he figured out who Two-Fist looked like he did - like a dog that's been kicked too many times.
Impossible. Too many things that just couldn't exist. Matt heaved a huge sigh of relief. This was obviously not real. It was a big show, put on to scare him. It wouldn't really happen. It just... wasn't.
They'd let him go. A good scare was all th-
A small wave rolled under his head.
A wave... within the mattress. And it wasn't a waterbed mattress, either. Rolling horizontally.
The undulation lifted his shoulder a little, and he tensed up there, hissing in a breath.
The gloves stayed where they were. Ready.
He looked at them, thinking oh shit, what now...
Another dull lump lifted his elbow a little.
It moved down his arm. Bicep... to armpit. He shied away from it before he could stop himself.
That same wave touched him three more times. Lingering. Almost snuggling. The last time, it continued right down under his ribs. The plastic crinkled a little.
Matt hissed, gritting his teeth.
Finally, the wave flattened somewhere under his back.
And there was a definite... change in the room.
Something about those waves really creeped him out.
The gloves backed off... taking their weapons with them. That was good. He watched them meet over at the wall, and set down what they'd been carrying. Change of plans?
Two of 'em picked up... a lighter. And a pack of cigarettes. Luckies.
He picked his head up and stared as they came down. "No," he said, as tough as he dared. No way. He didn't smoke -
That's when it hit him, really hard. He was laid out, there. He'd do whatever they made him do. What he thought about any of it - well, that just didn't matter. Not at all. It was a stunning thought.
Matt tried to believe it, as he watched the gloves slide a cigarette out of the pack and test the lighter. Yup, it definitely looked like he was gonna smoke for 'em.
Or whatever else they wanted him to do. Anything could happen, here.He took the cigarette, and watched the lighter fire up. His second cigarette, ever. One cigar, the night he graduated. Even the joints he'd smoked, he could count on one hand. At least pot made sense, after the first couple times -
Uh-oh, they were waiting. He braced himself, and sucked in.
Coughing it right back out. Totally disgusted -
How could Two-Fist do this all day long? He always had a cigarette going. Lucky Strikes, come to think of it.
Of course. The scared expression. Same brand of smokes. All those warnings - real intense about 'em, even frightened - all about being real nice to the merchandise. The first year, he was always telling Matt about other places that were hiring. Get out while you can.
Two-Fist knew. He tried to warn Matt.
Hell, maybe he didn't smoke either, way back when he started working at Evernew.
But this was crazy. All of it. Just a big... tease. Head games.
Something was up. The cigarette - and why was he still strapped down?
What could they want?
But... it didn't feel like "they", in here. The gloves worked as a pack - No, that wasn't it, either.
He squinted at the black plastic covering the mattress. The feather, pulled deep inside.
And the he snorted to himself. No. Mattresses don't think. Payback time...
But gloves don't tie people up, either. Not all by themselves -
His head came up - a few inches. Like there was a pillow... under the plastic. But then it went away.
Another wave slid under him. Just like the last one, same side, elbow to shoulder and further on down. Rippling more quickly.
It passed the crest of his armpit, this time. He grunted when it slid under his side - totally involuntary - and then it faded away. Smooth bumps. Way too smooth. Graceful, but solid. He thought about a waterbed again. Smart water.
A glove floated over from the pack. It came by his mouth and hung there. After he'd taken another drag, it pinched the cigarette and took it away. Then it returned...
And hung there, over him.
A wave slid under his back. Lower back. Side to side, and it doubled back.
Matt started to squirm.
The leather fingers dropped slowly.
Under him, the wave split - there was one for each side. Pressing, gently, above his hips. Almost like -
It was the most impossible thing of all. He tried to twist. Oh, no. It wouldn't.
A glove touched his belly. And its fingers... started to move.
"Oh no oh no hell no oh no nooooooooooo no, you can't... No, no, aw, no. Oh, please," he babbled, snapping at the restraints like a mad dog.
The fingers rubbed lightly, from one hip to the other, circling up to his belly.
"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so ssssah hah hah haw saw-sorry no no aw nonnnaaah hah hah hoooo hooo nooo hooo hooo haw haaaw n-not this anything buh uh huh huh huh haah haw haw naaw nnnnaaaawwww huh yuh yoooh yooh hooh hooh hooh hooooooh yoooh you gotta s-stop stop it pleeeee heee hee hee eeeeeze naw haw haw haw haw naw nnnooooo..."
Another glove started on down.
On to Part 2
02jun2002