Factory Town Read online

  I bowed my head, the tears welling in my eyes.

  But we will go see the Cowboy. Surely you will be disappointed.

  So I waited for him to lead, but instead Charlie stopped walking and crossed his arms.

  Well? I said. Which way do we go?

  You tell me. You know the way.

  I shook my head. That’s ridiculous. I’ve never seen him before in my life. I’ve never seen any of you before in my life.

  Start walking, Russell. You’ll find him. I’ll be right behind you. I’ll let you know if you’ve taken a wrong turn. But you won’t. You know the way.

  And so…and so…I walked. I walked through the streets and there was no rhyme or reason to where I was going, and Charlie remained behind me, ten yards back, grinning like a fool, a yellow cigarette dangling from his mouth, unlit. The sky was black; this was the longest night yet. Off in the distance I could hear the popping of fireworks. Away from the town’s center I walked, through a snow-covered field, Charlie not saying a word.

  We can’t live without light, we can’t live without sleep, and there was rustling behind bushes and trees, eyes shining grotesquely in the darkness. The popping of the fireworks became louder, and it was in that direction I was drawn. The air became thick with smoke, smoke from the fireworks, and soon I was coughing, eyes stinging badly.

  I came across a group of men, skin the color of charcoal, safety goggles covering their eyes. They were huddled in a circle lighting off aerial shells and firecrackers and flying spinners and roman candles and sparklers. You take beauty where you can find it. The flowers were still in my pockets.

  When the men saw me, they panicked. One of them said something in a language I didn’t recognize, and then the rest of them began shoveling away dirt and snow with their hands, looking to create a pit to hide their fireworks. It didn’t matter that I was standing right in front of them watching them with my very eyes; they dug frantically, tossed the fireworks in the shallow hole, and quickly covered it again with dirt and snow. But what did they use the fireworks for? Entertainment? A signal for help?

  I watched with confusion as they carried on for another fifteen minutes at least, burying their fireworks the way that a squirrel buries nuts. I glanced behind me, looked for Charlie, but he’d vanished again as was often the case with him.

  Slowly, I took a few steps forward, and one of the men rose to his feet and waved his hands frantically. It’s okay, I said, but they were all in a panic, sitting on their haunches, eyes wide and wild. It’s okay, I said again, but they seemed to be foreigners, unfamiliar with my language.

  I studied them for a few moments. They were dressed oddly, as if they’d raided the bargain bin at a ramshackle department store, clothes outsized or terribly small, shoes mismatched or missing completely. I could tell that they scared easily, so I raised my hands plaintively and took another few steps forward. A few of them leaned backward, raising hands above their eyes as if they were shielding themselves from the devil himself.

  I’m not going to hurt you, I said. I’m lost, you see. I’m looking for a man. He calls himself the Cowboy. El Vaquero. Can you help me? Do any of you understand?

  There was a general murmuring among the men, but none of them responded to my questions. As I studied them further, I noticed that their faces were identical. All eight of them. Octuplets.

  And so we stayed like that for some time, measuring each other. It seemed to me that I’d been wandering in circles forever, and I was unsure of everything that I’d ever known. There was no way out, that much I knew, and yet I fought for a reason to believe, and that was the most terrible thing of all.

  Time passed forever, and then one of the men rose slowly, squinting his eyes in the darkness. I can talk with you, he said with an unfamiliar accent.

  That’s good. I—

  You should know we been watching you. From distance.

  Watching me?

  Yes, yes. But what you want? What you looking for?

  The Cowboy, I said. Where is he?

  The Cowboy?

  Yes.

  He gone.

  What?

  Gone. And he motioned with his hands, a fluttering bird to the sky.

  I shook my head. You’re wrong, I said. He’s not gone. He runs this town with an iron fist.

  No. Gone.

  Angry and frustrated, I turned my back on the strange men and started walking in the direction from which I’d come. But I hadn’t walked more than a half dozen steps when I heard a trilling whistle. I turned around. Each of the octoplets now had a hand raised, pointing vaguely in the opposite direction. I jerked my head and, up ahead, saw the factory, smoke billowing from the stacks, the rain now suddenly changing to snow.

  CHAPTER 20

  The sky was dark, but intermittent lightning created a strobe-light effect, disconcerting as hell. I smoothed back my hair with blood and then continued on toward the factory, the gate now wide open, security missing.

  The factory building was dark and menacing and towered above the grounds, which were all covered with rubble and wrecked machinery and crushed helmets and death, death, death, and along the way I met people, grotesque all, including, but not limited to: an old woman wearing a wedding dress from long ago, steely gray hair cascading down her back, pool blue eyes haunted, mouth open wide, hands bloody; a well-dressed man with round spectacles and a neatly trimmed goatee, a pocket watch in one hand and a derringer in the other; a crippled woman wearing the mask of a china doll, her left arm withered away; a dwarf of a man carrying a calico cat, its ears and eyes missing, hissing terribly; an obese woman, six hundred pounds at least, lapping up vomit from a wooden pail; Siamese twins, connected at the head, singing a song while banging their hands against the wall: I went to see my boy in his room, I killed him and used his head for a broom; an impossibly skinny man, his hair shaved revealing a lobotomy scar, his eyes dull and unblinking; a woman wearing stockings and nothing more, nose and mouth covered with blood, eyes pecked out by crows; a man dressed as a clown, head severed and lying several feet away, mouth still painted into a grin; an elderly ship captain with a long beard all soaked through with blood, flesh blackening and stinking of decay; and finally, Miguel Romero, the Messiah, the last hope for salvation, bowler’s hat in hand, eyes bugging out, body hanging from a skeletal oak tree…

  These people I saw and more, and I heard a voice whispering in my ear, They’re insane, clearly they’re insane. And you’re one of them, mister. Don’t you get it? This is Factory Town!

  I closed my eyes and heard strange noises, faraway: the ghostly static of a radio, the howling of a wounded dog, the muted music of a calliope. I tried my best to remember, but everything was fragmented, shards of glass scattered across cedar plank floors.

  And then I was inside the factory and there were cracked linoleum floors smeared with dirt and blood; rotted wooden crates piled halfway up the wall; twisted catwalks, conveyer belts, and rusted pipes; and bars on the windows creating shadows, terrible shadows.

  I walked slowly and my feet echoed on the linoleum. And now more sounds: distant laughter, distant screaming. I looked down and saw an oversized rat scurry across the floor, and then another and another.

  It was clear that the factory had been derelict for ages, nothing produced in generations. But still the workers showed up, didn’t they, wearing hard hats, carrying lunch buckets and thermoses, singing heigh-ho, heigh-ho.

  I told you you’d be disappointed, said Charlie. I told you there was nothing to see.

  Why do they come here? What’s the point?

  No point, Russell. Tradition for tradition sake.

  The Cowboy, I said. Is he here? Is this where he lives?

  Certainly. Just another hundred yards or so…

  And so I walked and everywhere there was death and decay and abandonment and it was all so sad, so profoundly sad.

  I went through a corridor and into another section of the factory where shafts of light shone from a series of
square windows. The walls all crumbling brick, and on one of the walls, in red flashpaint, the words Alive and Well. Hanging from the ceiling, from a long metal chain, a single hook, metallic and rusty. And on the hook, an old transistor radio. A preacher shouting: and it is true that the sin of this land will remain! There ain’t no flood can wash it clean!

  I kept walking, and on the far side of the room I came to a concrete staircase, the handrail twisted metal, and something inside of me knew it led to the Cowboy. I took the stairs two at a time, kept going up and up. The air was filled with dust and filth and I couldn’t stop coughing. And after a long time—my legs aching, my lungs burning, my head throbbing—I reached a landing, the top story of this terrible factory. It was dark and it took several moments for my eyes to adjust, but eventually they did, and I saw what seemed to be miles and miles of rusted power equipment and empty furnaces and metal rollers and casting machines.

  And then the whore was there and she grabbed a hold of my arm and said, I’ve been having such a good time, Russell, and you’ve never suspected a thing! All I do is fuck and suck, fuck and suck! So what are you going to do now? Hit me? Is that what you’re going to do? Turn into your father? Make his prophecy come true?

  I didn’t want to argue; I didn’t have the time. So I continued walking, alone, past all of the abandoned factory equipment, and then I heard a commotion coming from around the bend, some sort of a mournful chant echoing through the great rooms and corridors. I quickened my pace and saw what appeared to be a hospital bed, or at least the frame of the bed, surrounded by dozens of men, the same men with their black suits and gas masks and shovels that had attacked me earlier. Some of the men were rocking back and forth like Jews at the Wailing Wall, while others lay prostrate on the ground, praying fanatically, begging for forgiveness. Nobody seemed to hear me as I approached or, if they did, nobody paid me any attention.

  The Cowboy himself lay in the bed.

  He wore a cowboy hat, but the skin was gone from his face, his eyes nothing but black sockets. His flesh had long since rotted and was inseparable from his flannel shirt and blue jeans. But stranger still, he was hooked up to some sort of a primitive life support system: plastic tubes splaying from his skull and neck connected to a metal box with various wires and knobs and gauge needles. On his bedside, numerous flowers and piles and piles of letters from his followers…

  I pushed my way through the crowd until I was at the Cowboy’s bedside. I came face to face with him, he with that fleshless grin, and still, I recognized him. One of the men in suits grabbed my hand and pleaded with me to pray, and I didn’t know what to do, I had never prayed for anything in my life, and so I mouthed some words, nonsense all, and that seemed to satisfy him. Inspired by my own religiosity, the man released my hand, spread his arms into a crucifix pose, gazed up to the ceiling, and began speaking in a language that I didn’t recognize. This went on for a long time, his voice getting louder and louder, the language getting stranger and stranger, and soon I realized that he was speaking in tongues, a Pentecostal believer. Well, he must have had some sort of a revelation because he started twitching and convulsing, spinning round and round in circles. Eventually he fell to the ground, and his body jerked every which way, foam rising from his mouth, but nobody stepped in to help him, a pattern in this town. Time passed and the seizure ceased, and then he popped up to his feet as if nothing had happened, continued praying, ranting.

  Meanwhile, the anger was building, bile rising in my throat. The men weren’t just worshipping an idol, they were worshipping a corpse. And so I spoke because nobody else would. I spoke because I was on the precipice of sanity. He’s dead! I shouted. Just leave him be! Leave me be!

  I wasn’t thinking; I was filled with rage. I lunged toward the corpse, started pounding on him with my fists. A lifetime of frustrations. I pounded and pounded. I pounded so hard and so long that my hands became bloody, maybe broken.

  And for a long time, nobody stopped me. They were stunned, mouths ajar and eyes glazed. Then the synapses connected and the men, the Cowboy’s soldiers, responded in force, locking arms and charging toward me. There was nowhere for me to go. Before I could react I was once again restrained by several of the men who then took turns striking me with fists and batons and wrenches. I collapsed into the fetal position, covering my face with my hands.

  * * *

  When I awakened, the men in gas masks were gone. So was the rotting corpse of the Cowboy. Head and soul splintered, I pulled myself up and sat there wobbling back and forth like a children’s punching bag. I could hear the sound of water dripping on the cement, could smell the stench of burning flesh.

  Disgusted, I covered my face with my hands. I touched my temple, felt the burning of the wound. As I sat there, unsure of what to do next, I heard the sound of footsteps echoing against the factory’s walls, heard the faint voice of a man, the sobbing of a child. I looked up. I saw a man that I recognized, Timothy Kaladi. He was still dressed in camouflage and was walking quickly across the floor. In his arms he held a child, her body covered in blankets. At first I couldn’t see who she was—it was dark and her face was hidden in the shadows—but then she straightened her back, and for just a moment her eyes met mine.

  Alana.

  CHAPTER 21

  Once again, my body failed me at the worst possible time. I tried rising to my feet, but my spine stiffened, leaving me virtually paralyzed. I attempted to call out to her, but my voice left me, a carnival mute. Alana saw me, she saw me, and she reached her arms toward me: an empty embrace. Never before had I felt so helpless. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.

  For his part, Kaladi didn’t see me, his head fixed forward, and he rushed through the factory, dodging through the dilapidated machinery and equipment, leaping over scrap metal and iron ore and limestone. Alana was beautiful, so beautiful, but I could tell she was terrified. She called out to me in such a little voice: Mr. Carver…Mr. Carver…Won’t you help me, sir? Won’t you help me?

  And then she was gone, gone into the depths of the factory, and I felt an all-consuming sorrow, a sorrow I hadn’t felt in decades, not since I was a child, those terrible, terrible days…

  Time passed and I heard strange violin music, long desolate notes interrupted by angry plucking. The feeling returned in my legs, and so I stumbled to my feet in search of my hope, my heart, my Alana.

  I barreled through the factory, haunted by the specter of my own failures, of my own sins. And so it was that I came to an olden freight elevator, the caged metallic door badly rusted. Fingers trembling, I pressed the button and listened to the ancient parts groaning and screeching as the elevator slowly plunged through the shaft. The elevator eventually jerked to a stop, and I reached out and yanked open the caged door. Inside, a man with wild gray hair and darting eyes sat on a stool. He nodded at me. Going down? he asked in a voice harsh with disuse.

  Yes, I said. I’m looking for a girl. He grunted and rose from the chair. With great exertion, he walked across the elevator and closed the door manually. Then he pressed the bottom button and we lurched to a start, falling down, down, down.

  The elevator operator nodded at me. You saw the Cowboy then? he said.

  Yes. But he was dead. An idol only.

  No. Not dead, not dead. He lives on in you. He will never die.

  The elevator continued down, and there were nightmarish echoes in the shaft, and faces, not real, pressing against the bars begging for me to let them in. There are truths, people, too terrible to reckon. Finally, the elevator slammed to a stop. The air was cold; my hands were frigid and I could see the breath from my mouth. I stood there for some time, assuming the operator would open the door, but when I glanced down I noticed that he was dead, his chin buried against his chest, blood leaking from his nose and mouth, not real, not real.

  I pulled open the metal door and stepped outside. I was now in the bowels of the factory, dull light streaming in through cracks in the wall. I was surrounded by more broken-dow
n equipment: vacuum pumps and steam engines and evaporator units. The floors were nothing but rubble. I walked slowly, my left cheek twitching uncontrollably. I didn’t know where I was going, not exactly, but I knew it would be horrific, that was a certainty. All was quiet but the sounds of my shoes echoing against the tired walls.

  It felt like days travelling and I had just about given up hope when I heard sounds, vague and blurry. I quickened my pace. I could now make out the echoes of children’s laughter and the sound of a television show from long ago.

  I couldn’t figure out where the noise was coming from. Every time I moved toward where I believed the source was, it seemed to shift. I became increasingly frustrated, wandering back and forth against the wall like an asylum patient. And then I noticed a group of loose rocks at the bottom of the wall. I kicked at them with my boot, and they quickly crumbled away. I got down on my hands and knees and started pulling more rocks away frantically, my heart pounding heavy against my rib cage.

  I worked feverishly, the dust and dirt causing my lungs and eyes to burn. And when the rocks were finally cleared, I dropped to my knees and peered through the opening and saw some sort of a wooden hatch door, padlocked shut. I glanced around the room, searching for some type of a sharp object with which to break it open. I located a jagged piece of concrete. My fist closed over the concrete, my eyes rolled back in my head, and my body stiffened. With great emotion, I raised the concrete high in the air and slammed it down on the padlock, but the steel was too strong. Over and over I did this and then, by the will of God or the Devil, the padlock smashed open and fell harmlessly to the ground. Hands shaking, lungs wheezing, I reached down and heaved up the door, thick and heavy.