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Martin hunched forward and ran toward the entrance, As-Was still kicking and clawing and screaming against his chest, and then the floor shook again as Gash took two more
(Simon says take two)
giant steps, only now he was stomping because the bookshelves began to wobble and tilt, raining down dozens of heavy volumes, one of them coming so close to crushing Martin’s skull the corner of its cover tore a small section from the top of his ear, but he kept ru
—“Oh, shit!” said Martin—
—from the hole above, from the hole above that it had taken him fifteen seconds to fall through, from the hole above that there was no goddamn way he could reach, even if he didn’t suck at basketball no way could he jump that high, smooth move, Einstein, you got this far and God knows we’re all more than a little shocked by that, warn us next time, will you, but you know what, here’s a question, a real brain-teaser, a little mental exercise for all you over-the-hill glorified janitors out there: why do you always start waxing the floor in the toilet stall?
Everything was shaking apart as Gash continued stomping forward.
(don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tdon’tlook)
Give up?
Answer: because you don’t want to wax yourself into a corner. The difference between a good plan and a not-so-good plan is that a good plan usually includes a way out. Martin looked up and saw all the faces from the painting encircling the way out, peering down. “I don’t suppose any of you have something like a rope?” Their faces told him everything he needed to know.
Martin looked down at the floor and released his breath. If I had a razor, I’d probably open a vein right about—
—then it hit him.
A vein.
The ceiling sac.
Not giving himself time for second thoughts, he turned, hunched down, and ran back into the museum, his eyes focused on the veins ru
From deep inside the core of the sac, something gurgled, then screamed.
Martin moved backward, toward the entrance, pulling, pulling, trying to keep his balance on the blood-slicked floor as the screaming from inside the sac grew louder, ragged, and more intense, damn near deafening him, but then the other end of the vein came loose with a wet, stubborn rip and fell limply to the floor.
Damn thing was strong. Chalk one up for the janitor. He turned to run out— —but Gash was having none of that. And that’s when Martin made his only mistake. He didn’t look away when the thing stepped into the path of his escape.
Gash walked on tree-thick legs that crawled with living sinew on the surface. Where his groin should have been was a bloated, black, seeping cluster of tumors. His skin—if it could be called that—had the jagged, ferromagnesian texture of andesine, though not quite as dark. His arms were held in place like prostheses by moldy leather straps that formed an X across his chest. A curved section of copper tubing snaked from the tumors of his groin to a glass container strapped to his hip. With each heavy, tormented step he took, the tube discharged into the container a thick, reddish-brown liquid full of wriggling ebony chunks.
Gash sucked these excretions into his mouth through a long copper straw.
He looked at Martin and smiled, his pulverized lips squirming over rotted needle-teeth caked with loose bits of flesh and still-fresh strands of wet muscle. He spoke in a voice clogged with phlegm, putrescence, and piss.
“I think you have something that belongs to me.”
Close your eyes and just run, just run, he can’t move that fast, he’s too fucking enormous, too heavy, too clumsy.
But Martin couldn’t do it.
Gash leaned down, the shadows cast by his soldier’s helmet spreading away from his bloodshot, bulging eyes, neither of which was where it was supposed to be. “No?” he said. “Then maybe a trade?” Martin at last found his voice. “You don’t have a goddamn thing I want.” Gash’s smiled grew even more hideous. “I think I do.”
He reached down with both arms and thrust his talon-like hands deep into the center of clustered tumors, digging around inside, making a sound like a child working to create a stack of mud pies. Finding what he’d been looking for, he pulled out his hands in a slop of pus and excrement, raising the treasures up into light, then licking the pink-and-white cancerous afterbirth from each figure before spreading wide his arms so Martin could clearly see. In his right hand, Gash held Martin’s father. In his left, Martin’s mother. “I’ll give them back,” said Gash, his diseased voice sounding as bright and honest as something so corrupt could sound. Then he shook them a little; enough to make each of them shriek in agony.
“It hurts so much, Martin,” said his father. “Oh, God, why didn’t I just do what you and Mom wanted and let them take the bastard out of me?” Martin began shaking, from head to heel he was shaking, losing his hold on both the vein and As-Was. “So . . . what do you say?” hissed Gash, thin strings of pinkish slobber dribbling from his lower lip. Martin said nothing.
“So you’re go
“Please, honey,” Mom pleaded. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you were always such a good boy. Please do this one thing for us, Marty. Please?”
And just like that, the brief moment of uncertainty that had nearly cracked his resolve became a cold ball of anger.
“Nice try,” he said to Gash. “But she never once called me ‘Marty.’ Her nickname for me was ‘Zeke.’
“You’re not only ugly, you’re obvious and sloppy.”
And with that, Martin made three quick movements that were so fast they might as well have been a single motion: he let go of the vein, spun around and downward to grab the crowbar, and threw it toward Gash; it shot straight out, a steel arrow, and buried three-quarters of its length in the center of the tumor cluster.
Gash threw back his head and screamed, dropping the lifeless and now-featureless figures, his hands fumbling down to find and remove the crowbar, and that was all the opening Martin needed; grabbing the end of the vein again and tightening his hold on As-Was, he ran straight out, right underneath Gash’s parted legs, reaching the hole a full ten seconds before Gash yanked out the crowbar and turned, still slobbering in pain, and started toward him, half-stomping, half-limping.
Martin threw the end of the vein upward with all the force he could muster; the shepherd caught it on the first try, and within seconds most of the people from the painting had lined up above, each grabbing a section. Below, Martin tightened the other end around his wrist and arm, gripping the slack with his fist. “Pull!” They did, and it worked, but it was slow going; they slipped once, almost dropping him back down, but caught it in time. Meanwhile, Gash was rallying, gaining strength and speed, closing the distance.