Factory Town Page 14

  Beneath the hatch there was a wooden ladder and it seemed to extend forever. I was so lonely, so scared. Step by step I went down, and it got colder and colder, and my hands became numb making it difficult to hold on. The ladder itself was old and beginning to rot, and with every step I feared it would collapse and I would fall forever into the darkened abyss.

  At some point my foot hit something solid. I glanced below and was surprised to see green grass. I had once again descended completely clear of the factory, had once again descended clear of Factory Town. I wiped myself off, rubbed my eyes with my hands. Glancing around, I could see that I was in some sort of a valley, surrounded by towering oaks and junipers. The sun was beginning to rise—how long it had been since I had seen light!—and the sky was a child’s painting, all smeared yellows and oranges and reds.

  For the first time in ages, the anxiety and dread that had smothered my senses began to dissipate. A hopeful smile spread across my face, and I walked down the path, a gentle breeze causing the branches to sway dreamily. I could hear the sounds of birds, living not dead. I saw a rabbit dart behind one of the trees and wait, nose twitching, and I laughed.

  I breathed in the morning air, and there was no soot, no grime, no misery; I was surrounded by only peace and tranquility. And then something amazing: I touched my temple and found that my wound had healed completely. In an instant, my soul, my world, had transformed, and I continued along the path.

  I walked for some time, and I came to a house, the loveliest I had ever seen. Surrounded by a white-picket fence, it was painted pale blue and was ornamented with towers and turrets and steep cross gables. The windows sloped into pointed arches and were covered by swaying white curtains. Pink star lilies lined a brick path. It was a house from fairytales. It was a house that had never existed.

  Once again I heard the sound of children’s laughter, now clearly emanating from the inside of the house. My heart began to race. I walked down the path to the porch. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a well-loved doll, cloth torn, eye missing, pressed against the wall. I bent down and picked it up, gripped it tightly in my hands. Then I rang the doorbell.

  Voices echoed from inside of the house, and then I heard footsteps on the floor. The door opened wide and Timothy Kaladi stood there dressed in his camouflage. It took him a long moment before he recognized me, but when he did he stuck out his hand gregariously, and I shook it. Well, well, Mr. Carver, it appears as if you have discovered our little hideout.

  Yes, I saw you and I followed you. You were with Alana.

  And she is safe. Scared but safe. I’m sure you have many questions, and there will be time for those. But for now, please, come on in. Make yourself at home. And do hurry. Before anybody sees you…

  I followed Kaladi inside. The interior of the house was as majestic as the exterior. Oak pocket doors and beveled windows. Wide oak-planked floors and oriental rugs. A mahogany table with claw feet. Antique mirrors and a grand piano. A staircase with a dark wood column and ornate spindles all the way up the banister. A longcase clock, hands stopped three minutes before twelve. But the most wonderful things of all were the children. Dozens of them playing on the floor or reading on a couch or singing in the corner. And laughter. The therapeutic sound of children’s laughter.

  I was overcome with emotion. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. Kaladi glanced down and noticed the doll that I had picked up on the porch. He said: I see that you’ve found Charlene’s little baby. She’ll be ecstatic. She’s been searching for that mangled doll for days.

  Kaladi led me across the living room. Many of the children looked up and smiled, and a few giggled in embarrassment. I only smiled and waved politely. We walked down a narrow hallway lined with religious paintings and stained glass hangings, passing several rooms filled with more children. Finally, at the end of the hallway, Kaladi rapped a few times on a door and then slowly pushed it open.

  The room was decorated with posters of angels and unicorns, and filled with stuffed animals and dolls and figurines. Inside, three girls, who looked to range in ages from five to ten, were huddled around a board game. When we entered, they all looked up, faces glowing. Hello, Papa, the oldest one said. Who is this man you have brought?

  Hello, Danielle, dear. This is Russell Carver. He’s new to Factory Town. Only just arrived.

  The youngest one, she with a heart-shaped face, bright red cheeks, and tight blonde curls, cowered up to the other girls. Is he the bad one? she said. Is he the Cowboy?

  Kaladi smiled. No, no, of course not. He’s a friend. Look, he even brought your doll. You must have left it on the porch. And you should know better than to go outside without supervision.

  Charlene regarded me with suspicion. I took a few steps forward, extending the doll as a token of good will. Quickly, she leaned forward and snatched it out of my hands then sat there rocking back and forth, squeezing the doll to her chest.

  How do we know? she said. How do we know he’s not the Cowboy?

  Charlene, don’t be ridiculous. He’s a friend…

  He looks like a cowboy. Look at the boots he wears. He looks like a cowboy.

  I shook my head and smiled. I can assure you, I said. I’m not the Cowboy. The Cowboy is dead. I saw so with my own eyes. He’s only given life by his followers.

  But the little girl wasn’t convinced, and she sat there pouting. Maybe there’s more than one cowboy, she mumbled. Have you ever thought of that?

  We left the room and continued walking through the house, Kaladi peeking into various rooms to check on more children. Don’t worry about Charlene, he said. She’s been through a lot. She tends to be suspicious of all strangers.

  Alana, I said. Is she here?

  Yes.

  Can…can I see her?

  He stopped walking and turned to face me. Are you sure you want to see her, Russell? Are you sure this is a good idea?

  Please, I said. Where is she?

  Upstairs, he said. Recovering. She too has been through so much…

  Pushing Kaladi aside, I strode purposefully toward the staircase. I took three stairs at a time until I was on the second floor. I walked down the hallway, calling out Alana’s name, pushing open doors, finding many children but not her.

  And then, in the corner of the hallway, a small door, no more than five feet tall. I tried the handle, but it was locked. I pounded on the door. Alana? Are you in there? Open the door.

  Long moments passed, and then the handle twisted and the door creaked open.

  Alana stood in the doorway wearing Cinderella pajamas, head bowed, hair covering her face.

  Alana…

  She looked up slowly, wiping the mess of hair from her face. Then a mischievous smile spread across her angelic face.

  Hello there, Mr. Carver, she said. Hello there, Daddy.

  CHAPTER 22

  For a long time I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just stared at her, and she was so beautiful, an unspoken prayer. She took a couple of steps forward, and I reached out and pulled her to me. I held her and said I love you, I love you, and I never wanted to let her go, and the tears were rolling down my cheeks.

  You’re safe now, I said. Nobody’s going to hurt you. You hear me? Nobody’s going to hurt you.

  Daddy…Daddy…

  Look at you! I said. You’ve gotten so big!

  Oh, Daddy…

  It’s been so long, so many years, I said. I want to hear all about it. Everything. Oh, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine now, just fine. You and me and Mommy, we’re going to make a go of it. There’s some joy still to be had. But not here. Not in Factory Town. Back in our old house. On Winding Brook Circle.

  We went inside the little room and sat down on her canopy bed. The walls were covered with paintings of sea animals: dolphins and octopuses and fish and turtles.

  Alana laid her head on my lap, and I stroked her long blonde hair. Tell me about it, I said. Tell me all about it.

  She sighed dreamily and s
tarted talking, her voice that of an angel, and she talked without pause for an hour at least, and the story was a fairy tale with plenty of witches and demons (not to mention cowboys!), but enough courageous people to keep her protected. And throughout the entire adventure what kept her spirits up, what kept the malaise at bay, was the thought of home, was the thought of her mother and me.

  I asked her what she wanted to do when we got home, and she said that the only thing she wanted was to eat a big bowl of ice cream and then just sit with Mom and me. And promise you’ll never let anything like this happen again! she said, looking me straight in the eyes. I couldn’t bare to be away from you and Mom again.

  Of course not! We’ll be together from now on, and I’ll never let you go, never ever never.

  But happiness is fleeting at best, promises empty.

  I heard a noise, very faint, from outside. Boots on the ground, marching, marching.

  Sensing that I had tensed up, Alana said, Daddy? What’s wrong, Daddy?

  Nothing, I said. Nothing is wrong. But, still, I rose to my feet and stared out the window.

  There were a hundred of them at least. The Cowboy’s men. Wearing those terrible black suits and gas masks. Carrying daggers and hammers and shovels.

  Daddy?

  I looked at Alana and saw the fear in her eyes.

  Daddy? What is it?

  They’re here.

  Who? Who’s here?

  The Cowboy’s men. I need you to hide. Do you hear me? I need you to hide.

  But where?

  The men were getting closer and closer. The window? No, too risky. Certainly they would see her.

  Daddy! she said and pointed at the ceiling toward the attic door. Up there!

  I didn’t pause. With Alana still on it, I got behind the bed and shoved it across the floor until it was directly beneath the hatch. I leapt onto the bed and tried reaching toward the ceiling, but I couldn’t quite reach it. I looked at Alana. I’m going to lift you up, I said. Alana nodded.

  With one motion, I grabbed Alana by the waist and lifted her to the ceiling. After fumbling for a few moments, she managed to tug down the hatch, grab a hold of the edge, and pull herself up.

  Is there enough room up there? I asked.

  She nodded her head.

  Okay then. Stay where you are. Don’t move.

  She peered down with those soft blue eyes. Daddy?

  What is it?

  Don’t leave me here. Please.

  I’ll be back for you. I promise.

  Slowly I closed the door, and she began to sob.

  * * *

  Back in the hallway, and doors were opening and children were peeking out with worried expressions on their faces. One little redheaded boy looked up at me with pleading eyes and said, Are the bad guys here? I didn’t answer him, just continued on toward the grand staircase, the muffled sounds of chaos becoming more recognizable: crying and screaming and moaning.

  Slowly, I edged down the staircase, and the first thing that I saw was Kaladi lying on the base of the stairs, his body soaked in blood, his head barely hanging on to his neck. Somehow he was still blinking, gurgling up blood, and then he wasn’t.

  I had a hard time making sense of what I saw next. The Cowboy’s men marching through the house, using hammers and daggers, slicing through throats, bashing in heads, crushing bones. And on the floor, children bloody and maimed, most of them dead, but a few of them still alive and pulling themselves across the floor, leaving smears of blood on the hardwood. But as soon as the Cowboy’s men noticed any movement, one of them would march across the room, bend over the child, raise an oversized claw hammer and come down hard, crushing face and skull into an unrecognizable mess.

  I watched from the edge of the living room, and none of the men paid me any mind, instead continuing on with their rampage, coldly and methodically. There are no children in this town… The town must die with us.

  Outside the house, eight or ten of the masked men stood on the perimeter of the property, claw hammers in their hands, standing guard for any escapees, a narrow possibility. Meanwhile, another group of the men were using shovels to dig up the front lawn. They moved quickly and relentlessly, and within minutes had dug out a trench nearly extending across the length of the property.

  Downstairs all the children were dead. I wanted to stop the men, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have the means. I didn’t have the will. They had killed everybody. And now they were going upstairs. Where Alana was hidden.

  They marched up the stairs two by two, dozens of them, their black suits bespeckled with blood, only a few remaining downstairs to continue searching through the rooms and hallways for any castaways. I could barely stand, so filled with terror. And yet I willed myself to follow them. And as I began the ascent up the staircase, I felt somebody grab my leg. I stopped and looked down. A little girl, her face bashed in, almost beyond recognition, was pulling on my leg, trying to rise to her feet. I recognized her. Charlene, the girl with the doll…

  Please, she whispered, blood trickling from her mouth. Please.

  And I was about to take her hand, about to hold her in my arms, when one of the men appeared. Without saying a word, he bent down, yanked the little girl away from my leg, and held her under his arm, football style. I knew what would happen next, but I didn’t close my eyes in time. The hammer smashed against her head again and again and again, and then he dropped her to the floor, kicked her into a growing pile of corpses by the fireplace. And when he was finished, he nodded at me as if we were partners, as if I were an accomplice. I felt sick to my stomach. I fell to my knees and vomited. Nothing but blood. And so I was nearing the end. The wound on my temple had reappeared, the pain worse than ever, and I staggered up the stairs knowing we can’t change the past, though we try for some reason.

  They marched on while I followed behind. And then they came to the final room, Alana’s room, and it was locked, but they used their hammers to crush through the oak door. They marched inside. I watched from the hallway, helpless as always. I wished Jesus would intervene, but he was dead; I’d seen his corpse in the factory.

  There were four of them and they worked in silence, tearing apart Alana’s room, piece by piece, looking for any signs of her. I had stopped breathing, and I thought my chest would explode. I had come so far, had lived through so much turmoil and torment, and now I feared that she would be taken away from me, and forever is a long time.

  They finished combing the room. One of the men shook his head and walked toward the door. Another one followed after him. But the third and fourth executioners stayed behind. One of them pointed to the ceiling and I felt my heart sink.

  Just as I had done earlier, they shoved the bed into the middle of the room, and both of them got on it. Seeing that they could not reach the hatch, one of the men got down onto all fours while the other one stood on top of him and pulled himself into the attic.

  Long moments passed. I wanted to scream. There was nowhere for Alana to go. Any moment and I would see her lifeless and mutilated body topple from the hatch door.

  I waited. Then I saw the soldier reappear, dropping back down to the bed below. He looked at the other soldier and shook his head. The two of them left the room. I felt I would collapse. Somehow she’d escaped. It was a miracle; there was simply no other word for it.

  I was about to re-enter the room, about to call out her name when I heard a familiar voice, booming, from downstairs: Work, men, work! Get these goddamn corpses in the ground! Let his will be fulfilled!

  In a trance, I walked back down the hallway and stood at the top of the stairs. Then I saw him. Michael Fennnington. We made eye contact and he grinned. Russell Carver, he said. How the hell are you? How’d you get in the middle of this massacre? Brutal, ain’t it?

  I didn’t speak, couldn’t speak.

  Fennington made his way up the staircase, slowly. His white suit had been recently cleaned, but faint bloodstains remained. When he reached the top, he placed out hi
s hand for me to shake, but I didn’t move.

  What you must understand, he said, is that this is for the good of us all. It gives me no great pleasure.

  Dead, I said. They’re all dead.

  Indeed. And their bodies freed from this rancid piece of shit we call Factory Town. Their souls saved from endless torment. We’re doing the right thing, Russell. Sometimes it’s just hard to see.

  It’s a holocaust. A goddamn holocaust.

  Nonsense. We are merely following the law of the land, merely following the edicts laid out by…

  The Cowboy is dead. I saw his rotting corpse with my own eyes.

  Avoid blasphemy, my good sir.

  Blasphemy? Fuck you. Fuck you.

  But there still is the matter of Alana…

  I clenched my teeth until they nearly shattered. I could feel my face redden, my body stiffen. What about her?

  It seems she is still missing. Unless you have any information…

  What does it matter? What does one child matter? You slaughtered the rest. Let her be.

  I’m sorry. We have to finish the job. You know that as well as I.

  As he spoke, I glanced over his shoulder toward the window, where outside the masked men were tossing the miniature corpses, dozens of them, into the trench in the front lawn.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. I know where she is, I said.

  Then you must tell me. Of course you must.

  I nodded my head, took a couple of steps forward. With no hesitation, I reached back my fist and slammed into his jaw with all the force I could muster. I watched as he tumbled down the stairs, head bloodied on the wooden edges.

  CHAPTER 23

  I barreled down the hallway, and this was the death house, and outside all the children were buried, gone forever. My head was on a swivel, thoughts spiraling out of control, wondering what might have been.

  And now when I entered Alana’s room, the room itself had changed, changed completely. There was broken furniture covered with music boxes and terrifying antique dolls. The hardwood floor was all covered with clutter. It took me a few moments, but I soon realized that I was back in the bedroom of Nicole and Cory Packer. My mother. My father.