Pool ball clacks filled the room from the three spaced tables on the far end while a series of other patrons sat along the long adjacent wall, each of them staring over their narrow chessboard tables; the entry hall was not yet full to bursting, but it was far from empty—Trinity stood awkwardly by the entry of the anteroom which led deeper into the hotel. She idly watched the patrons in her new set of borrowed clothes: jeans, leather shoes, a T-shirt loose at the arms. A man angled over his pool table at the furthest end of the room while his opponent, a man with a dead stogie jammed into the corner of his mouth chalked his stick and inspected the other man, half-laid across the table, with a look of mild amusement. The chess players, by comparison, focused their gazes entirely on the pieces of their boards, muttering to one another infrequently.
Nearest the entry, by a chest-high reception desk, a genderless clerk donning a red smock swept with a broom, seemingly more for performance than for any dust which those that came and went brought in on their heels. The clerk eyed Trinity and she offered a smile, and the clerk’s eyes reverted with haste back to their task. The clerk’s smock was monogrammed with the cursive letters V and N.
The center of the room was covered in a large red area rug, with massive letters which matched the V and N on the clerk’s smock.
Casting a yellow glow across the scene was a pair of overhead, dust-caked, electric chandeliers. From the high corners of the room, Allison Carmicheal’s ‘Stardream’ played—the piano composition brought a hum from Trinity’s throat.
She continued to hum along with the song, mouth clapped shut, even while hanging her hands from the clerk’s desk, even while her vision drifted to the overhead chandeliers there, even once her gaze became entirely spaced.
A hand fell on Trinity’s shoulder, forcing a jump from her; she almost spilled over, but the hand pinched her shoulder and kept her where she was.
There stood the woman from the bed—she’d said her name was Sibylle—her hair was pulled back tight into a tail which she’d tucked into the back of her high collar jean shirt; her eyes scanned the room before she smiled at Trinity. Standing together, as they were, Sibylle seemed to tower, though she was scarcely much taller than the hunchback. The power was on Sibylle’s shoulders, which stood broad and forgave some past of physical labor. Her hands were beaten broad and callused, and her fingernails were chewed small. On her waist, she wore a belt with a holster which hung in front of her pelvis; a six-shooter’s handle protruded from there. A narrow wooden crucifix hung from her throat on a leather braided cord.
“Thanks for the clothes,” said Trinity, removing her hands from the desk and nodding at Sibylle.
Sibylle shrugged, removing her hand from the hunchback’s shoulder. “Want some supper?”
Trinity shook her head, “I need to find my brother.”
“The clown?”
Trinity nodded, “That’s right. Again,” she motioned at the T-shirt she was wearing and once more nodded, “Thanks again for the clothes, really. I can’t begin thanking you enough. I can’t, but I need to go and find my brother. He can’t have gone far. I know it. If you would just point me in the direction of the police, I’ll go and ask if they’ve turned anything up about him already. He’s pretty recognizable.”
“You think he’s been picked up?” Sibylle raised her brow, angled nearer the clerk’s desk; the clerk continued to focus on their sweeping, though they seemed to shift nearer the conversating pair. “He a troublemaker?” Sympathetic worry overtook the woman’s face.
“Might be, but maybe not. Maybe they could help me find him though.”
Sibylle chewed her bottom lip while her eyes once again scanned the room. “You ain’t from around here, are you?” She did not wait long in silence before following up with, “I figured—when I found you, you were completely naked, raving, dancing, and acting totally wild.”
Trinity’s brow knit, revealing only a flash of an abashed expression. “What’s that have to do with anything?”
Sibylle shrugged again, “I didn’t mean anything by it, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you about it. You’d never heard of Roswell’s summer festival—if you had, you maybe wouldn’t have taken something to drink from a stranger unless you meant to. That’s what happened, huh?”
Trinity nodded.
“That’s what I thought.” She shook her head, “Doesn’t matter now, all that raving. What matters is your brother’s missing. A clown. And there ain’t a police force in Roswell. Not anything so official. There’s a ragtag militia, sure, but nothing like what you’re imagining, if I had a guess. Mostly, people around here handle their own business.” She placed her hand across the handle of her revolver.
The hunchback’s brow arched, and she placed her hands on her hips and tugged a bit at the hem of her T-shirt with her forefingers there.
With urging from Sibylle, the pair spilled into the evening street.
The street itself was empty, as well as the sidewalks which ran parallel. There were no vehicles and fewer pedestrians—the avenue was likely too narrow to accommodate vehicles of any size anyway.
Overhead, a neon sign with ten-foot-tall cursive font was fixed to the building they’d just left; it read: Valer Noche. Trinity angled her neck back enough to examine the words there.
“You read?” asked Sibylle.
The hunchback nodded.
Along the street, there was litter cramped along the exterior walls of the neighboring flat-top adobe structures. Humid beads clung to their faces within minutes of standing outside. A manure stench hung in the air; they were near the farms. Mole crickets filled the quiet and Sibylle’s eyes went searching again, examining the sky, the street, the cracks in the sidewalk.
The evening came orange with deep purple shadows which crept along the ground even as they waited, seemingly for the other to speak.
“Why were you naked?” asked Trinity.
Sibylle elevated her chin and bulged her eyes and asked, “Huh?”
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“You said when you found me that I didn’t have any clothes, but that doesn’t explain why you were naked too. When I woke up, you were naked just like me. You said we didn’t have sex. Then why were you naked?”
Sibylle grinned and shrugged as though to accentuate how silly of a question this was, “I’m always sleeping naked.”
“No, that’s a strange thing to do.” Trinity’s voice kept an edge on her tone and urged further in her accusing, “What the hell was that about? I—” she stammered, “I appreciate you helping me and all, especially if I was as bad off as you mention. And for giving me clothes, but that’s a strange thing to do to a sick person!”
Sibylle put her palms open near her shoulders, flat, “Alright,” she grinned, “You were naked when I found you, that much is true. I was, as you can see,” she lifted her right arm and pushed the sleeve up there to reveal some green paint residue, “I was here for the festival—or so much as taking a day off for it—when you came sprinting at me full-on. You slammed into me, put me over and squeezed me right here,” she put her hands on her chest and gave herself a mild squeeze to demonstrate, “You jammed your tongue down my throat, and I didn’t know what to do. Thought a local found its prize. You acted about as crazy as the others here. Thought you were looking for company. So,” she shrugged again, “Brought you here and then you fell over yourself in bed before anything could happen and that’s when you started really getting sick.”
Trinity laughed hard. And kept on guffawing till she swayed back and forth on her feet.
“Don’t laugh at me,” said Sibylle gruffly, shifting her feet while staring at them; she kept her arms firmly crossed.
“If that’s true, you’re the first woman I ever kissed,” laughed Trinity.
“Eh,” said Sibylle. She shrugged again, but her eyes manifested sharper and went on staring at anything besides Trinity.
“I’m sorry,” Trinity stifled her laughter to a stilling chuckle, “I don’t mean any offense by it, it’s just a surprise for me. What did they put in that drink anyway? I kept having wild dreams. Dreams about big faces that kept changing all the time.”
“Drugs,” Sibylle did not know the precise concoction, but she added, “Herbs or something, I guess.”
The hunchback straightened herself, nodded; she adjusted her expression to one of seriousness, “I thank you, Sibylle. I’m being stupid. Normally, I feel like the rational one, you know. Hoichi’s the one that’s always acting stupid.” She shook her head while blinking rapidly, “I’m sure I’ll find him somewhere. He’s never handled himself well when he’s drunk, so I can only imagine what it’s done to him. If you can point me in the direction of the Roswell militia—they’ve got to have an office or something—I’ll go see them about my brother.”
Sibylle examined the other woman, starting at her feet till she reached Trinity’s face, “You have any money?”
Trinity shook her head, “I’ve managed with less.”
“C’mon,” said Sibylle, “Let’s go get you some supper. It’ll be something quick, but you need something on your stomach. I’ll help you find your brother if I can. I’ll take you to the office directly after. C’mon.”
***
The clown danced poorly in the dark without a single demonstration of fear; his fear was seemingly gone completely. That flashlight beam danced around the cavern, and he wielded it like the beam was a blade and he cut it around and made laser noises with his mouth. Even in his dance, he continued his travel down the cavern tunnel even as the passage thinned, and the walls closed in. The Nephilim’s shambling footsteps echoed behind the clown’s pace.
Quiet, hushed The Nephilim.
With a falsetto song, Hoichi belted out the words, “Suck my tits, fuck-boy!”
The Nephilim growled and the clown ignored his captor’s complaint.
“Catch this,” he angled the light into the face of The Nephilim and the great beast blinked furiously and swiped at the light. “You said I was essential or whatever it was that you said. Hmm.” The clown kept the light on The Nephilim and tilted his head to the side; they’d stopped moving.
Go on.
The clown shifted his tongue around in his mouth and pivoted to point the light deeper into the cavern. They went on. “What do you need me for anyway? You’re a big giant fucker, so I assume you could move whatever big rocks are in your way. So, what is it then?”
No response came.
“My feet are getting tired. I’m getting tired. I’m getting pretty hungry too. You wouldn’t happen to have any food, would you? I’d like something to eat. Maybe a steak or a burger; something that sits in your stomach like a stone. I want something heavy to eat. I’m tired. My mouth’s dry too.” The clown shook his head. His eyes traced the ever-continuing passage ahead of them, “I wonder why I ought to comply with whatever your plans are, because you know, there’s a chance that you’d just kill me after you’re done with me. Is that what it is? Are you really going to take me to hell? Are you leading me to hell? Or do you plan on killing me once you get what you want? If it was just me that you wanted, then you’d just kill me now, right?”
Hoichi waited for a response from The Nephilim, but none came.
“So that’s it then, huh? You do plan on killing me after you get what you want? What makes it so that I’ll comply with whatever it is you need from me?”
Slow death.
The clown froze again in his tracks, swiveled around on his heel to direct the light at The Nephilim; he maintained the beam respectfully at the creature’s chest, but at the peripheries of the lit circle, the beast’s glowering expression was shaped long in the dark. “Alright,” Hoichi nodded and continued walking. “We have been going for what feels like hours though. Are we getting close?”
The Nephilim nodded then spoke, It vibrates. It’s loud.
“You said that before; that it’s vibrating. What is it?”
Power.
“Sure. Okay.” Hoichi clicked his tongue and wobbled his head from side to side but otherwise remained quiet.
The pair continued deeper into the earth, and the passage around them became narrower and narrower until The Nephilim arched so far over that he seemed to be trying to whisper something to his captor. Neither spoke and it continued this way, their bare feet padding the sandstone beneath, occasionally scraping against some unseen debris. The coolness of the earth kept some water in the air and the cavern stank of fungus, and the stretch of light pressed out before Hoichi exposed black things which protruded from the walls of the passage like thick black ropes with arrowhead ends; the things seemed to breathe all around them, just out of reach, swelling like the veins of an organism.
Hoichi’s mouth came open like he intended to speak, but instead he pressed his free forearm across his face and clamped his mouth shut.
Not dangerous, said The Nephilim.
They passed these strange things—creatures between plant and animal, and further mutated—which seemed to reach out to them aquatically as they passed; their flexing became erratic as though disturbed at the pair’s presence and then the passage opened again and though the protruding things were further out, Hoichi’s light did not linger on them long—his light more often traced the floor he walked.
Ahead, a separate light in the pinhole distance appeared and Hoichi’s pace slowed till he became totally still where he was; The Nephilim followed suite. Go on, he called.
“What’s that up there?” Hoichi pointed with the light, “What is it?”
Nothing dangerous. The Nephilim gave the clown a shove, and the man tumbled forward, his toes catching across the ground.
Hoichi winced as his knees met the cavern floor, but he pulled himself up and steadied forward, eyes locked onto that distant light.
The thing was yellow gold in the distance with a blue halo; it was a spotlight against the cavern wall, facing directly opposite the direction they’d come. The bulb fixture was screwed into the wall above a set of metal stairs which led only two feet from the floor—a metal-grate platform sat secured into the sandstone there. Hanging in the wall was a metal door.
None of those strange black snakes grew there.
“What is that?”
Nothing dangerous. Go on.
Hoichi moved cautiously towards the platform, carefully taking the three steps which led onto the platform, he angled his head back to stare at the overhead light on the wall and clicked the flashlight off. His attention then went to the door; beside the thing sat a palm-sized metallic monitor with a fat red button beside a series of pinprick holes which indicated either a speaker or microphone.
Constructed over the doorway was a welded sign obstructed minimally by collected earth along its ridges. The sign read: Welcome Captains of Industry!
“What the fuck is this?” asked the clown.
That button. Push it.
