Factory Town Read online

  I walked slowly, the wooden planks creaking beneath my feet, until I stood in the middle of the room. The windows were open and the curtains were whipping in the breeze. I stood there for a long time and I realized that the past I remembered differed greatly from the past that I had lived…

  And then I noticed the stench, the unmistakable reek of decay. I covered my mouth and nose with my arm. My gaze shifted to the corner of the room, to the bed. At first I thought it was just a heap of blankets thrown haphazardly over the mattress, but as I walked closer, I saw that there was a figure beneath the covers. And at the top of the bed, peeking through the blankets, an arm, a woman’s arm, handcuffed to the bedpost.

  I walked slowly toward the bed and the blood was roaring in my skull. I reached the side of the mattress and stood there motionless, not sure if I wanted to see. But curiosity is a powerful thing, so I touched the blankets, began peeling them back.

  And then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I jumped, screamed out in terror. My father stood next to me and he was holding the Book of Edicts. Now, now, Russell, nothing to be afraid of. It’s just me, God’s humble servant.

  What…what did you do?

  I didn’t do a thing, boy. She was the one. She was a devilish woman. Possessed by the devil himself. You’d think those vows woulda meant something, don’t you think? When she promised to be true? But her promises weren’t shit.

  Tell me what you did!

  She had her chances, son! I gave her plenty. Gave her time to repent, time to renew. But she was a whore, nothing else, and in the end she got what she wanted.

  Now my voice was resigned. What’d you do, Dad? Did you kill her?

  No, no. Nothing like that, son. I brought her food, but she refused. I brought her water, but that was no good either. She done it to herself, you see? She starved her own self to death. And now I don’t know what to do, Russell. I’m broken up by this. I’m hurting real bad.

  I placed my head in my hands and tried crying but nothing came out. Nothing…

  Cory Packer squeezed my shoulder tightly with his meaty fingers. Now you listen to me, boy, and you listen good. You remember the things I told you? You ain’t no different than me. And there ain’t no escape for you. You can run, you can fight, but there ain’t no way to change who you are. You was born bad, just like your mom, just like your dad, and there ain’t a thing you can do about it.

  The world was dying. Right before my very eyes, the world was dying. I walked across the room, gazed out the window. An orderly was walking arm in arm with an older woman, her head shaved, her expression dreamy.

  I rapped on the window, but the old woman didn’t look up. She couldn’t see me. Cory Packer, my father, removed a sheet from the bed. Then he dragged an old wooden chair into the middle of the room. He stepped onto the chair and, without a word, began tying one end of the sheet to the light fixture. First this world, then the next, he said.

  Screams were echoing through the hallways. Screams of madness. Footsteps were banging against the linoleum. Cory Packer was working on the loose end, tying it into a Hangman’s noose.

  Once he was finished, he beckoned me. Suddenly, I had no control of my body. I walked slowly, in a trance, to where he stood on the chair. Then he helped me up. I faced my father, looked into my own eyes. We embraced and he kissed me on the lips. Out in the corridor I could hear the footsteps becoming louder and louder, and then I could see a shadow beneath the door. I closed my eyes and held my breath. A minute or more passed. Then I could hear the footsteps again, this time getting softer and softer until they faded away completely. I opened my eyes and Cory Packer smiled. Maybe there’s a heaven for people like us, he said. But I reckon not.

  He tightened the noose around his neck. He nodded at me and winked. Then, without warning, he kicked away the chair, sending me crashing to the floor. A strange sight it was, my father swinging back and forth, his hands tugging feebly at the noose, his eyes bulging wildly. I rose to my feet and stood there unsteadily, watching him swing, watching him die. I could have stopped it. I could have saved his life.

  I turned around and walked out the door.

  * * *

  My soul had disintegrated into powder. Like in a trance, I returned to the hallway, pausing to glance at my reflection in the mirror, unrecognizable. And now I was back inside Piper Carver’s house, the suburban house where I had once lived, all clean and orderly and sterile. The walls were lined with Crate and Barrel artwork, and on the far end of the hallway a photograph of Piper and me, she wearing a wedding dress, me a second-hand tuxedo. I stared at that photograph for a long time. We were both smiling because we didn’t know what the future held. But then, none of us know, do we?

  Slowly, I walked down the hallway until I reached our bedroom. Terrible thoughts, terrible thoughts! I pushed open the French doors and stood in the doorframe, my shadow stretching across the room. The floors were all white carpet and the walls were painted pink. In the middle of the room was a crib with a butterfly mobile dangling over it. In the corner of the room was a rocking chair, and lying on the chair a dog-eared copy of a book: What to Expect When You’re Expecting. On the dresser was an unopened package of diapers, a brand new pacifier, and a pink onesie, never worn.

  My wound had reopened, and as I walked across the room, the blood dripped on the white carpet, stained forever. I was tired, so tired, so I sat down on the rocking chair and stared straight ahead, thinking about some things. I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to go, so I closed my eyes, the exhaustion paralyzing my body.

  I slept deeply. I slept for days and weeks, through the changing of seasons, back through time. And then, with a sudden jolt, my eyes fluttered open, consciousness returning. I stared down at my hands and, with great apprehension, saw that I was gripping a hammer. The same hammer that the Cowboy’s men had used. I lifted my head and stared, once again, at the pink wall. No longer was it blank. Now there was a name, written in big yellow letters: Alana.

  Not yet born.

  And now Piper was sitting at a vanity mirror combing her long blonde hair. Music was playing, a terrifying symphony, and I was suddenly good and scared. I’d been here before and knew how the scene would be played out…

  Alana, my wife said. Alana…Alana…Alana. It’s a beautiful name, don’t you think?

  Yes. It’s my grandmother’s name.

  We’ll be such a happy family, don’t you think, Russell? Just you and me and Alana.

  I nodded my head but didn’t say anything.

  And she’ll become a lovely girl, full of hope and dreams, and she’ll wear a cornflower blue dress.

  It would be nice to think so, I said. Then I rose to my feet. The symphony was blaring louder and louder, making it hard to think. Piper turned around slowly in her chair, only it wasn’t Piper anymore, it was the whore, and she was smiling mockingly, teeth sharp and yellow inside a lipstick-smeared mouth. And those eyes. Devilish. Her belly was distended, and she rubbed it grotesquely with long mannish hands. Alana, she said disdainfully.

  Outside the wind started blowing hard and mean. The windows were open, and the curtains whipped around spastically. And the music…that damn music. It was pounding, pounding, causing a fissure in my brain.

  I wonder, she said, whose child she is. There are so many possibilities…

  The whore’s eyes were bloodshot and cruel. One thing you should know. I’d never raised a hand in anger. Not once. Not once.

  But now it was too late. My body wasn’t mine. I was bad, just like my old man. I’d always been bad. A murderer, I walked slowly until I stood directly in front of her. I was breathing heavily, my shoulders heaving up and down. Without thinking much, I grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her to her feet. She just laughed and laughed.

  Watcha gonna do, Russell? she said. You gonna hurt me? You gonna do me like your daddy said you would?

  I nodded my head. Yeah, I said. Then I pulled back the hammer and swung hard, connected with the
side of her head. The flesh gave, and the skull shattered.

  She fell to the ground, and there was blood everywhere. The whore lay on her back gurgling blood, trying to speak, and the baby kicked inside her stomach.

  I raised the hammer again, and this time I came down hard against her stomach. The whore was still alive, but just barely. The town must die with us. The Cowboy, my father, owned my body, owned my mind, just like he always had. I couldn’t stop. I pounded her stomach with the hammer again and again and again and again. The whore moaned and cried, almost dead, and then she started pushing…

  It was up to God to deliver the baby, and that he did, only she wasn’t nothing but a bloody mess, and I held her in my arms, rocking back and forth, Alana, Alana, Alana, and I couldn’t stop crying and thinking how there was a real sickness inside of me, and how Factory Town was where I belonged, where we all belonged.

  CHAPTER 24

  Outside, and it was a new day, but the sky was still dark, the frozen moon glowing beneath black clouds. I walked slowly through the empty suburban streets, and I mourned a happiness that never was. It’s terrible that things had to end this way, Charlie said. Sometimes it seems like the universe has it in for us, don’t you think?

  I shook my head. The universe doesn’t have it in for us. The universe doesn’t know we exist.

  Charlie smiled. Maybe you’re right, Russell. It would be better that way, don’t you think? Knowing that nobody is watching us? Knowing that nobody cares?

  I don’t know, Charlie. I don’t know anything anymore.

  We kept walking, and there was something calming about the desolation, the emptiness. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photograph of Alana, a computer-generated version, not real. I squeezed the photograph into a ball and tossed it onto the pavement. Charlie stopped in his tracks, bent down and picked it up.

  You don’t want to do that, he said. Keep the photograph.

  She’s dead. I killed her. A long time ago.

  Keep the photograph, he repeated. The past has changed before. It might change again.

  I looked at the photo and now it was clear as day. The man behind Alana, the man waiting to do her harm, was me.

  After hours of walking the suburbs were all gone, and we stood in front of a lonely valley. The moon was shining, and through the trees I could see a river, shimmering. Off in the distance a lonely train whistle blew, and then I heard another sound: metal scraping against dirt.

  I quickened my pace, and Charlie had a tough time keeping up with me. Take it easy there, hoss, he said. What’s your hurry? You got the rest of your life to die…

  Up ahead a ways, through the dark fog and mist, I could see the silhouette of a man, shovel in his hand. As I continued approaching, I saw his heavy pea coat, his red scarf. I remembered this man. He’d been digging near Charlie’s house. Yes, I remembered him well…

  The man stopped shoveling and looked up. A smile spread across his ashen face. There you are, he said. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.

  You talking to me?

  Yes, mister. You’re the only one here.

  Charlie, Charlie, oh Charlie. Where have you gone, oh Charlie?

  I don’t understand, I said. What are you waiting on me for?

  C’mon now, Russell. You’ve been walking an awful long time. You must be exhausted. And that wound ain’t getting no better now, is it?

  I touched my hand to my head, felt the wetness of blood.

  What do you aim to do? I said.

  When I first saw you, when you first helped me dig this here grave, I didn’t know who you was. Now I know. Now you know.

  I peered over the edge where he’d been digging. The hole was wide, and the hole was deep—ten feet at least. He ain’t here yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Just need some mortician’s wax to fill the wound.

  You got something in your pockets, he said. I suppose now would be a good time to empty ’em.

  I stared at him blankly then reached into my pockets. The flowers, now crushed and putrefied.

  Flowers for your grave, he said.

  I nodded, tossed them on the dirt surrounding the hole.

  The boy. He’s already down there.

  The boy?

  Yes. The boy with the cape. The Annihilator. He died a long time ago. He’s down there waiting for you.

  I shook my head. I don’t understand.

  There’s nothing left to understand, he said, then he raised up his arms and swung the shovel hard and fast. I didn’t have time to react, and the shovel slammed into my skull, sending me toppling down into the deep, dark pit.

  The old man stood at the edge of the dirt, his red scarf whipping in the wind. I was beat, nearly finished. I struggled to my hands and knees and began clawing at the dirt walls, trying to pull myself up, but that only caused the walls to start collapsing.

  For a long while, the man stood above the hole, watching me, not saying a word. Finally, he shook his head and said, Shot to the head. It’s a fucking shame. He sighed deeply and then began shoveling dirt, tossing it into the hole.

  For a while, I tried avoiding my fate, scurrying around the pit like a feral animal. The old man kept tossing in dirt, slowly, methodically. Finally, resignation. I was tired, so tired. I crawled to the corner of the hole and pulled myself into the fetal position. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to dream. Time passed, and I could feel the dirt piling up around me. Soon I felt the dampness of the soil on my arms, on my face. I opened my eyes, and all was darkness, the nightmare of the real world.

  EPILOGUE

  …and then his eyes were still, too. The woman, hands trembling, chest heaving, took another step forward before her legs gave and she collapsed on the floor. And once again she became aware of the sound of the clock, the pendulum swinging back and forth, monotonously, incessantly. She pulled herself up to a sitting position and stared, once again, at the man, now only a corpse. He was flopped up against the wall, his head buried against his chest. His eyes were distended in blood-dark circles. On his temple there was a small hole, too perfect, blood smeared on the side of his face.

  And then something else caught her eye. Something crumpled up in his hand. Curiosity got the better of her. Her legs still useless, she crawled across the room and pulled apart his fingers. The paper floated to the floor. With trembling hands, she picked it up.

  It was a photograph, now splattered with the man’s blood. And in the photograph, a young girl with dirty blonde hair, a pink mouth, and cornflower blue eyes. The woman studied the image for a long time. Something about the photograph wasn’t right. The girl—she was too perfect. She wasn’t real.

  The woman flipped over the computer-generated image and saw something scrawled on the back. The writing was minute, and she had to squint to make it out:

  What he did to me, I won’t do to you.

  The woman dropped the photo to the ground then looked up at the clock as the gears grinded and the chimes echoed.

  * * *

  In Factory Town the murderers and whores dance, feet pounding against the wooden floors, bodies thrashing against the walls and windows. Upstairs, the men sit in their plastic lawn chairs, playing cards, a game that never ends. And the Cowboy stands at the top of the factory, holding the hands of the dead, watching over the town below. Tubes and wires hang from his neck and his skull, but his eyes are open and he is smiling. He talks to whoever will listen. Even when the buildings collapse, he says. Even when the glass shatters, he says. Even when the bodies rot, he says.

  Even when Factory Town dies, he says.

  I’ll be alive.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jon Bassoff lives in Colorado with his wife and two kids. His mountain gothic novel, Corrosion, was called “startlingly original and unsettling” by Tom Piccirilli, a four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award, and has been adapted for film by the screenwriter Jack Reher. His second novel, Factory Town, is also being adapted for the big screen.

  ABOUT TH
E PUBLISHER

  DarkFuse is a leading independent publisher of modern fiction in the horror, suspense and thriller genres. As an independent company, it is focused on bringing to the masses the highest quality dark fiction, published as collectible limited hardcover, paperback and eBook editions.

  To discover more titles published by DarkFuse, please visit its official site at www.darkfuse.com.

  Table of Contents

  FACTORY TOWN

  Connect With Us

  Other Books by Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Publisher