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Stepping as lightly as he could (the fucking floor would not stop pulsing), Martin began to climb the body-heap, forcing himself to ignore the elastic, spongy softness of each face or torso he stepped on.
It didn’t help that he could fully use only one hand to assist his climb, the other busy gripping the crowbar.
Even though it took him only a minute to reach the top, to Martin it felt like an hour; by the time he was able to fully stand before the display, he was drenched in sweat, his heart trip-hammering in his chest as if trying to squirt through his rib cage.
He stared down at the malformed baby. “Let me ask you something, little man As-Was,” he whispered between gulps of air. “Could this be just a tad more ominous? I mean, seriously. Throw in some cobwebs and a cameo by Boris Karloff, and we’d have the serious makings.”
Keep joking, he told himself. As long as you can make with the smartasseries, you won’t have to think about what’s under that tarpaulin or admit how goddamn you-should-pardon-the-expression scared you are.
Leaning closer to the case, Martin said, “I take it from the notable lack of enthusiasm that you’re more of a Vincent Price man, am I right? I am right, aren’t I?”
As-Was made no reply. Extra cotton had been packed behind its neck and around its shoulders to prevent its head from lolling forward or around; only close scrutiny revealed the clear, thin wire that ran down from the lid of the case, snaking through the dense layers of cotton to attach itself—via a small silver hook—to a catch protruding from the base of his skull.
Despite his rising anxiety (it wasn’t quite outright terror yet, but it was probably within walking distance of the neighborhood), Martin couldn’t resist reaching out with his free hand and giving the case a small but solid shake, if for no other reason than to re-affirm that he was really here. The formaldehyde rippled once, twice, more, each rising disturbance pattern expanding into the one above and below it, creating hybrid ripples that looked like rolling lines of static on an old television screen, and as each series of ripples broke against the surface, As-Was began moving in response to the mild turbulence: first a finger—up, then down, tapping in rhythmic thoughtfulness, a smooth liquid reflex; then a hand—side to side, waving as if it were trying to attract someone’s attention; then an arm—shuddering; then both arms; and, finally, the head—up-down, up-down, the wise old sage nodding in sympathy as the truth-seekers spoke of their dilemma.
Here in the Midnight Museum, moments became the real becoming dreams becoming now and in a blink were gone: then.
The liquid in the case stilled.
As-Was’s bobbing head lolled forward, chin resting against its chest.
The nightclouds retreated, allowing the moonlight to spill through the skylight and grow brighter against the baby’s pallid features. Slanted shadows dissolved. No more sound, save for the soft, ragged rasp of Martin’s breathing. No further movement. Death moving on to busy itself with the weaker living who did not understand the aesthetic of its efforts.
Martin stepped back, readying himself to raise the crowbar and do what he’d come here to do, but froze when all the video monitors surrounding him simultaneously flickered back to life.
Each screen displayed the same image: Bob, as he was right now, as he was at this very second, lying on his shabby bed in his even shabbier room, struggling for every breath. The image was silent and chilly and ashen and dead, save for the diffuse light that shone down from the icy edge of a dispassionate Heaven.
“Oh, Christ,” said Martin, the words emerging somewhere between a nauseous choke and strangled sob.
He watched on-screen as Bob involuntarily opened his mouth, gasping for air; even though there was no sound, Martin thought he could hear Bob’s scream, silent and gnarled and endless: Do it, for chrissakes! In the Midnight Museum, the baby’s mouth opened, releasing a bubble of air that had not been in its lungs a moment before. Bob’s right hand twitched. As did the baby’s.
Bob’s eyelids quivered, then stilled as he released another breath, sinking further into himself and the living death of his affliction.
The baby’s eyelids also quivered, but then snapped open, revealing the burnished, obsidian-black marbles that had been used to replace its eyes. It smiled up at Martin, revealing starched, toothless gums.
“Now or never,” it whispered in a voice clogged with thick liquid age.
Before Martin could react, As-Was reached behind its head with one fishbelly-flesh arm and yanked the hook from the catch in the back of its skull—
—and with unexpected force kicked its feet against the glass, spiderwebbing a crack from which liquid squittered outward as it pressed its arms against the sides of the case to gain more balance before kicking again and then screaming—
—but Martin was ready now, stepping sideways and gripping the crowbar in both hands, swinging it farther back and higher, determined to come down with all the power he had, do it all in one or two massive blows, he could do it, he knew he could, he had to—
—As-Was slammed his feet against the glass once more, heels-first this time, the crack widening as small chunks of glass spit outward, the front of the case pissing an arc of formaldehyde that hit Martin in the belly, soaking his shirt and pants, pooling at his feet, and with one quick last look at Bob’s dying face on the monitors, he swung the crowbar with all he had, co
—As-Was tumbled forward, spitting up, then caterwauling at the top of his lungs just like any baby would when it woke up at three in the morning and Mommy and Daddy weren’t there in the dark and it was hungry—
—and Martin squatted down like a baseball catcher and scooped As-Was into the crook of his free arm, his other hand still gripping the crowbar, and this little son-of-a-bitch was slick, slippery, and would not hold still, would not stop kicking, would not give it a rest with the spitting-up but that wasn’t going to stop him, no way, because he’d done it he’d actually for the first time in his life done something that he thought mattered and no squalling little black-eyed flat-top monstrosity was going to screw this up for him—
—and just as he spun around and began to slide down the heap ass-first like a kid with a sled on a snowy hill he saw something from the corner of his eye that kicked his anxiety right in the parts and turned it into outright terror—
—the tarpaulin in the far corner lay flat on the floor.
Not just flat—neatly folded.
You son-of-a-bitch! thought Martin.
He’d been tricked.
Gash had never been asleep, he’d only wanted Martin to think he was asleep, had probably been chuckling to himself while folding the tarpaulin as Martin smashed the case and fought against the rush of formaldehyde and As-Was kicking his chest and screaming and spitting up . . .
Martin hit the floor and slid forward a few yards, propelled not only by the angle of the descent from the body-heap but because the liquid from the case had continued ru
(Don’t look, don’t look, for the love of God whatever you do, don’t look)