Autumn in the Abyss Page 12

  “Mr. Liu?” Derek says— a cracked sidewalk whisper. The darkness is oppressive. He hastily strides down the aisle, descends the stairs, and steps into the lobby.

  He moans in anguish: dusk tints the empty lobby. It is impossibly empty; no employees man their stations. How can it be so late?

  Derek runs toward the doors. The glass between the posters shows him the desolate view outside. There are buildings and cars in the parking lot, but no people. His world does not feel like his world. Mr. Liu, I thought we made a deal.

  “Mr. Liu,” Derek says, imploring, “You said I would get my” —pushing the door open, the midday sunlight bathes him, blinding him, the heat and people and life bristling and alive all around him— “freedom.”

  His legs wobbly, he practically drops to his knees to kiss the concrete, when he hears a voice say, “I knew you’d be here, asshole,” not in a way that expresses hostility, but affection.

  Daisy, cigarette in tow, leans against the theater wall. She wears snug jeans and a White Zombie T-shirt. Her dyed, blood-red hair is pulled back into a loose pony tail as if she’s just tossed herself together.

  As Derek wipes moisture from his tear-stained face, her look shifts from playful to concerned.

  “Hey, baby, what’s wrong? She crosses the ground between them. “Hey…” she says, wiping his tears. Her warm hands feeling strong and soothing on his cheeks. “Hey, Derek, honey…”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine…” he says, breaking into a big grin.

  “What’s with the tears?” Her tone seems genuinely worried.

  “I’m fine, really, just…” But what can he say? Nothing is his only choice. Heat singes his cheek from within, one final reminder.

  Never, he thinks. Never.

  “If you say so,” she says. She takes his hand and snuggles close to him, pressing in hard.

  “Tell me you didn’t waste our hard-earned money on the new Arnie cinematic turd, did you?”

  “Yes,” he laughs; yes, yes, that will be the story.

  “Oh, my god, you are such a dingbat,” she says, joining in his laughter. “He’s just a shoot-’em-up joke at this point. And a cheating prick, too!” She pauses and tries again. “So, what was with the tears, Derek? You can’t tell me Arnie’s inept exploits made you cry.”

  “Just something in my eye,” he says, glancing back at the marquee. There was no sign of Where the Dark Won’t Find You. “Just dust or something…”

  “I better be the only thing in your eye, lover boy,” she says, squeezing his hand and rising up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

  The same cheek.

  Her lips feel soft and lightly wet. The sensation now not one to inspire trepidation, only elation. Like heaven. Yeah, I can deal with this. I may be insignificant in the whole of this harsh, strange universe, but I can deal with this just fine.

  He grabs her ass and she squeals. He can’t wait to get home, to love her right.

  ~

  As Mr. Liu watches them leave, he senses perhaps Mr. Jenner will succeed and this will be the last time he will ever see him. This thought brings rare comfort to him. Something he appreciates.

  The day’s events were inconsequential— something insignificant— but in the scope of the bleak eternity that stretches before him, they are something to cherish.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Jason Duke for invaluable feedback, and to Kate Jonez for her keen editorial eye. She helped make these tales sing. And to you my readers, who make this all worthwhile.

  About the Author

  John Claude Smith originally wanted to be a horror writer; now he’s not sure what it is he writes, he just knows it is dark, and he’s the one holding a flashlight, shining light on those places most people would want to avoid, scribbling notes.

  He has written fiction, poetry and bad lyrics for as long as he can remember. At a point when he decided to get serious with fiction, sending out stories and getting a few acceptances in the early 1990s, he was side-tracked for many years by music journalism (as JC Smith), including stints as the industrial, experimental, gothic, metal, and all fringe categories reviewer for a variety of magazines including Outburn, Industrial Nation, Side-Line, and Alternative Press. He believes the over 1,100 reviews, articles, profiles, etc., he wrote helped hone his skills for the fiction gig. Finally back on the fiction path, he’s had over 60 short stories and 15 poems published, as well as a debut collection of “not your average horror,” The Dark Is Light Enough For Me. He is presently writing his third novel, while shopping around the other two. Busy is good.

  He splits his time between the East Bay of Northern California, across from San Francisco, and Rome, Italy, where his heart resides always.