Factory Town Page 6

  The room was stark: only the bed in the middle of the floor, only a cross in the middle of the wall. A single window, the curtains drawn. I tried pushing off the covers, tried rising from the bed, but Sister Patricia wouldn’t allow it, saying, You need rest, my dear. You’ve been badly wounded, don’t you see?

  And so she cleaned out my wound with boric acid, gave me water from a bucket, and fed me crackers, the first food I’d eaten in days. She didn’t press me to talk, didn’t ask how I’d ended up in the wheat field, but I felt compelled to anyway. There was this man, I said. He called himself Fennington. He wore a white hat and a white suit, filthy with what I now believe was blood. He said he represented somebody named the Cowboy. He talked about law and justice. He talked about the Book of Edicts. And when I mentioned the girl, Alana, he was greatly interested, although his interest seemed more predatory than protective. He gave me five thousand dollars and promised more once I find her.

  At this, the nun’s brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed. You’re right to be suspicious, she said. The Cowboy is a bad man, an evil man. Everybody knows it. But nobody will do anything about it.

  Why is he bad? What has he done? What is his interest in Alana?

  Sister Patricia stared at me for a long moment and then turned away. She rose from her chair and walked over to the window, stood there wringing her hands. You’re being set up, she said quietly. Made to be the fool.

  Set up?

  It’s a terrible place, Factory Town. And the Cowboy and his crew, they’re more terrible than most. They’ll take what they can and, once they’re done, they’ll do some terrible things. Believe me, sir, believe me.

  And then the nun told me a story about Factory Town, and I believed every word because I chose to, we chose to.

  This land has always been harsh and cruel, the nun said, no good for farming, no good for settling. In the beginning, near the turn of the century, it was called Homestead, and it wasn’t anything but a little railroad town, a shipping point with the Northern Pacific. There weren’t but a handful of residents and most of them worked for the railroad. Then, in 1910 or thereabouts, the state decided to open up a psychiatric hospital right outside of town. They called it Warm Springs Asylum, and even changed the name of the town to Warm Springs, even though there wasn’t a single spring in the area. I guess they figured that a stark, rural setting would do the sick minds some good. And this hospital didn’t house your typical manic-depressives or dementia patients either. No, sir, Warm Springs was filled with the criminally insane, lunatics who had drowned their children or skinned their husbands or plucked the eyes from their bosses. Demonic stuff, you understand.

  The nun took a few steps forward, her expression somber. Move ahead a decade or so, she said. A businessman named Dominic Farley moved to Montana and decided to open up a sugar beet factory in town, less than a mile from the asylum. The town grew a bit, jobs were to be had. But Farley wasn’t making the kind of money he wanted or expected to make. Then he had some sort of a revelation. He had read about Australia and how that country got built. Free labor. You know the story. The English got rid of their criminals, sent them to Australia to help build the country. It worked out okay, down under, why not here?

  He met with the leaders of the hospital. Here was a win-win situation. Allow the hospital to reduce its overcrowding by allowing some of its rehabilitated convicts into a work-release program. Free labor initially, and if they proved themselves to be competent, then soon they would be paid competitive wages.

  So they started working. A bunch of crazy folks doing plant maintenance, moving finished sugar from the warehouse, stockpiling coal and limestone brought in by the railroad, and so on and so on.

  But Mr. Farley was a bastard and a cheapskate. He never planned on paying the workers a dime, even after they proved their worth. So that’s when the real trouble began. They started to rebel. They started destroying the factory. Farley tried calling in hospital security, tried calling in the proper authorities, but it was too late. Chaos ensued. The insane did what they knew how to do. They butchered each other, they butchered the supervisors. Tormenting screams mixed with lunatic laughter. Heads and arms and legs chopped off. They impaled poor Dominic Farley with a metal pole and threw him into one of the centrifugal machines. Pretty soon the factory was filled with nothing but blood and corpses. Most of the survivors fled. A handful of lunatics remained. And they lived. And they bred.

  The nun looked down and her eyes were too pained to cry.

  I shook my head. But I still don’t understand. What does the history of Factory Town have to do with anything?

  A legacy of sin, she said. Hell on Earth. A town in need of death.

  What are you saying? I still don’t—

  Surely you’ve noticed…

  Noticed what?

  That there are no children in this town. No children at all.

  I thought for a moment. It was true. That was a part of the strangeness. No children at all. But then I remembered the boy from the building. The Annihilator.

  There was one boy, I said. In the basement of the hotel.

  Sister Patricia stood next to me and shook her head. Listen good, Mr. Carver. Forget what you think you may have seen. There are no children in this town.

  But—

  Do you hear me? There are no children in this town.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sister Patricia left me alone, staring at the cross, wondering at the possibilities of my own resurrection, bloody as they may be. I rose from bed and walked over to the window, pulled back the curtains and gazed at the living ghost town below. Such dreariness. Such misery. A town in need of death. But who would be willing to strangle away its last breath, killing himself in the process?

  I staggered down the hallway to the bathroom. I pissed in the toilet, vomited in the sink. Then I stared at my face. She’d bandaged the wound, but blood was beginning to seep through. My eyes were bloodshot and darting across my skull like fingerlings. Why wouldn’t they be scared of you? the Annihilator had said. Why wouldn’t they? You do terrible things. You’re just like my father. You even look like him. You have the same eyes. I slammed my fist against the mirror but it did no good, wouldn’t shatter. Then I sat down on the commode and cried, tears of regret burning my eyes like cyanide.

  I pulled out the photograph of Alana and studied it for a good long time. The photograph was changing again, not my sick mind, not my sick mind. The figure of the man was becoming clearer: broad shoulders, flannel shirt, carpenter jeans. Only his face was still hazy, undetermined.

  I returned to the bedroom and got dressed as the curtains swayed in the breeze. I needed to leave. I needed to continue my investigation. I needed to find the girl, before she died, before I died. And not for the Cowboy’s blood money. I would throw that money off the back of a train; I would bury that money in the wheat fields; I would gift it to the wind.

  But when I reached for the stack of hundreds in the nightstand drawer there was nothing but a note written in the voluminous handwriting of the nun: Money taken for services rendered.

  The nun had taken me for all I was worth.

  * * *

  Back outside and I felt hazy and hungry and exhausted. I couldn’t sleep, but I couldn’t wake. I wondered if anybody missed me. Heartache was nothing new, but pity I don’t ask for.

  It was dusk or dawn; the differences didn’t matter. The streets were empty; the town was quiet. Everything was covered with snow, filthy always. As I walked through town, I realized that I’d misplaced my jacket and my flannel. I wore only jeans and a Popeye T-shirt, not enough for the snow and cold. My head was down and I was mumbling to myself, something I did from time to time. I replayed the facts of the case. The warnings from the whore: You ain’t gonna find nothing here. You ain’t gonna find that girl. The Annihilator and his secret world. The apathy and callousness of the townsfolk. The Cowboy and his predatory interest in Alana, his Book of Edicts.

  Still, I was no closer
to finding Alana; in fact, I felt as lost and alone as ever. And then, as I continued trudging through the snow, something caught my eye. A large piece of paper, elaborately designed, taped to a broken window. It was a poster, designed like one of those old circus advertisements, with yellow and orange stripes alternating vertically down the paper. In the middle of the page was a picture of a man with a shaved head and a long beard, wearing a tunic, placing his hand on the eyes of a young woman. On the top of the poster, in cartoon letters: HUNTER TIMILLI PREZENTS THE MESIAH. And then at the bottom, in smaller letters: YOU MUST BELEVE!!! GOD HAS RETURND ONCE AGEN TO RELEVE US OF OUR SINS!!! SEE THIS SPESHUL MAN HEEL THE SICK GIVE THE BLIND SITE AND RASE THE DED!!! And then the address, barely legible.

  I tore off the poster, folded it tightly, and stuck it in my back pocket. At that moment, an elderly man with black skin and a gray Afro shouted, Hey boy, you can’t do that! That there is public property. You can’t steal no public property.

  It’s just a sign, I said. I’ll return it.

  See that you do so!

  He approached me slowly, his left leg dragging behind his right. On his face he wore a pair of Pince-nez glasses. Strangely, his eyes were blue.

  I don’t suppose you know where this is, do you? Where I can find this Messiah?

  Oh, him? He’s a fraud, a phony. Doesn’t do a goddamn thing. You’d have just as good luck praying to the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. I wouldn’t waste your money, boy.

  I don’t have any money to waste.

  Oh, yes, I know that feeling well, believe me I do. Well, if you’re so inclined, you can find him over at the Stockton Grounds. That’s where they hold the carnival and where they keep the Messiah and the rest of the freaks...

  I’d like to talk to him, I said. He might be the only one who can help me.

  He ain’t gonna help you, I promise you that. He’s a fraud and a drunk. Them stories about him are hype and nothing more. He’s got a promoter, you see. Hunter Timilli. You know his kind. A real snake oil salesman.

  I realize it’s probably a lost cause, I said. Everything. But I don’t know who else to turn to.

  I’ll take you there, the man said. Sure, what else I got to do? The old woman is giving me hell every time I walk through the front doors. Only ’cause I got an appetite for the young girls.

  I didn’t want him to explain further and told him so. And so we walked, all around us brick and cement and busted windows and train tracks and stray cats and overfed crows.

  This town, I said, is hard to figure.

  Yeah, what you mean?

  So much sin. So much guilt. So much hatred.

  He nodded his head. Yes, mister, that’s true. But it ain’t different from any other place in the world. It ain’t that the people are bad. It’s just that we’re scared. And fear makes people act in terrible ways.

  And then my companion pointed up ahead, and sure enough there was a carnival, and just like everything else in this town, it was dead, dead, dead.

  A metal fence surrounded the property, but it was collapsed, and soon I was inside the carnival grounds, and my companion walked in the other direction, shouting, It’s hard to be saved for eternity, don’t you know it?

  And so I perused the grounds and I was wild-eyed and shivering. Here’s what I saw: a giant Ferris wheel, most of the cars crooked and hanging on for dear life, the top of the ride disappearing into the mist; a carousel, the music long since quieted, paint peeling from the animals; bumper cars, sinking into the muck and mire; a giant clown face, grinning sinisterly, head bobbing in the wind; a house of mirrors, darkened forever. But nobody was on the carnival rides; everybody was watching the sideshow freaks.

  It was true: I hadn’t seen a crowd like this since my arrival in Factory Town. Men and women of all sorts, wearing factory uniforms and tuxedoes, ragged sweatshirts and evening dresses. They clamored around the cages where the sideshow freaks were housed. And the barker, with his top hat, shouting out: Ladies and gentlemen, step right up! The Stockton Carnival is proud to present: Freaks and Wonders! The most incredible people in the world! You’ll see Three-Eyed Bill! You’ll see the world’s tallest female! She’s over eight feet tall! You’ll see the ugliest woman in the world! Fun for the whole family! Make sure to visit Wally the Walrus Man. He has whiskers on his face and flippers for his arms! And don’t forget to check out the sad case of Harry Becker. He was born without a brain! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll see ’em all here: Gwyneth the Four-Legged She-Man, Wyatt the Human Owl, Beatrice the Bearded Lady, Gil the Lion-Faced Lad, Shelly the Camel Woman, El Hoppo the Human Frog, Atasha the Lady Gorilla, Edmund the Texas Giant, Otto the Human Cigarette Factory, Sir Dickie the Penguin…

  And so on and so on.

  It was a ten-in-one and the acts were performed on a platform with the crowd moving from one to the other in order. The spectators were led through each of the ten acts by a midget named Marcus, and at the end of the acts each paying customer was given a miniature Bible and an ancient coin. Meanwhile, the barker was continually drumming up business with the help of the freaks themselves: see the Penguin Boy sit on his shoulders, flapping his little black wings.

  But there was no interest in any of this for me, and I pushed my way through the crowds and freaks, during the course of which I was offered the chance to receive fellatio from a one-hundred-twelve-year-old woman or the chance to converse with a young man both blind and mute, but I declined each and every offer.

  And then finally to the back corner of the carnival, where a fat man with a bowler’s hat sat cross-legged on the ground, and behind him, in a narrow cage, wearing nothing but a tunic, his body covered with tattoos made to look like a skeleton, lying in the corner, eyes empty and glazed, Miguel Romero, the Messiah.

  CHAPTER 10

  I was the only customer. All the noise and commotion regarding the other freaks? Not here. They left the Messiah alone. Nobody had much use for him. In fact, his promoter seemed surprised that somebody would show up at all. Ah, yes, yes, he said. Behold! Standing before your eyes is our Messiah, the human incarnation of God almighty! See what Miguel Romero can do for you! Do you suffer from an illness? He can help! Have you gone lame or blind? Have no fear—the mighty Miguel will heal you! Or perhaps you are depressed. Perhaps you have lost a loved one. This, ladies and gentlemen, is Miguel the Messiah’s greatest trick. For the right price, he will bring your loved one back to the land of the living! Indeed, you will not find any prices better in Factory Town or anywhere else! Gone to a doctor and found a better offer? Or some street corner miracle worker? Well, I say this to you. We will match any offers. You heard me right! Bring in a quote from your health care provider, or from your psychologist, or your psychic, and we will match or beat their price. Not only that. Miguel Romero is a true miracle worker, not some fly by night prophet. Indeed, was it not he who gave Dorothy Pendleton sight after she had been blind for nearly her entire life? Was it not he who brought back young Timothy Clifton after that horrendous car accident? Was it not he who has cured leprosy, syphilis, and polio? Won’t you allow him to perform his latest miracle on you?

  I approached slowly and the promoter pounced on me, placing his arm around my shoulder. And what about you, good sir? What can the Messiah do for you?

  I’m looking for a girl. I was hoping he could help me find her.

  A girl? Here in Factory Town?

  Yes. My sources tell me—

  But of course the Messiah can help you! Why wouldn’t he be able to help you? A simple request. Much easier than curing syphilis! Twenty dollars, my good sir. That’s my lowest price. Twenty dollars and he’ll help you find your girl.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out my last crumpled twenty-dollar bill, and handed it to the promoter. He stuck it into his shirt pocket and nodded his head. I thank you, good sir, he said. You shall now have your moment with God.

  A large key hung around his neck, and he used it to unlock the cage. I assumed he was going to summon Mr. Romero
, but instead he indicated that I was to enter the cage alone. Feeling more than a little uneasy, I entered the cage and slowly started walking toward where the Messiah lay. I heard the door close and lock behind me. From somewhere a giant curtain fell, enveloping the entire cage and making it dark and difficult to see.

  I stepped over banana peels and empty cans of beans. Sketchpads and prescription vials. Romero’s eyes remained shut as I inched closer and closer. I’d never seen anybody like him. His entire body, face included, was covered with tattoos in the form of the human skeleton. On top of his head there was an opening in the skull tattoo revealing another tattoo of a brain. His insides for all to see. I squatted down and cleared my throat. He didn’t open his eyes.

  My name is Russell Carver. I was told you might be able to help me.

  No movement.

  There’s a girl. Her name is Alana. I have a picture. I have reason to believe that she is here in Factory Town. I also have reason to believe that she is in serious trouble.

  At this, Romero’s eyes opened to slits, but he remained reclined, offering no signs of comprehension.

  There are some strange happenings in this town, I continued. I’m beginning to think that Alana is not the only child in danger. I’m beginning to think that there are many, many children that are missing. And yet, everybody in this town seems to turn away at any such mention. The apathy and helplessness is startling. I feel so alone. But maybe you could…help me.

  I waited a long time and Romero didn’t say anything. Outside I could hear carousal music and laughter and screams. The muffled voice of the barker. A human cannonball fired. Then, just when I was about to give up, Miguel Romero spoke. His voice was that of a child, barely intelligible.