Thirty Five

Pawn

   Until a few weeks ago the low hum of subway station chatter brought Corey comfort. The rumble of countless voices bouncing off of concrete walls only to fall into his flesh was a reminder he was, indeed, not alone. The would-be sarcophagus was full of life and stories, and the feelings of each person's words jumbling together brought him peace. That is, until the crying started.

   Every morning Corey made his way to the tube to make his way to work- a thankless dead-end desk job for some corporate fat-cat looking to pad their pockets. Staring st a computer screen, and robotically typing in words and values until they lost meaning; the humbuzz of the fluorescent lights above him threatening to drive him mad each and every moment he sat at his desk in the nylon desk chair who's skeleton poked him in all the most uncomfortable ways.

The subway was his place of contemplation and sonder. Each and every morning the thick yellow line on the ground would beckon him closer, yet the chatter of each and every soul around him would hold him back. It's why when the crying started he found himself one step closer to the tracks each day he returned.

   It was a horrible sound. Is a horrible sound. A deep sorrowful sob that is filled with the sound of wet choking. It's the type of cry you hear from a father who has watched their child die.

   Corey had originally thought it was a vagrant who'd set up underground to wait out the late spring storms. The mental illness of vagabonds never did bother him, so for the first few days of hearing the cries he searched for who was producing it. The problem came to be that he was unable to pinpoint the direction it was coming from. It seemed to be originating from all directions, as well as in his own skull. His next assumption was that there was a ne'redowell attempting to create a lackluster follow up to the Max Headroom incident. This idea was quickly brushed off, though, as there was no scratching of the intercom speakers interlaced with the wailing.

   The only other logical answer frightened Corey the most. After years of isolation, repetition, and faithlessness he had finally gone mad. The crying must have been the first symptom of some sort of psychosis, sure to get worse as he attempted to ignore it. The only problem with that thought is that he's only heard it in the subway tunnel. The sound never follows him.

   This is the thought that brought him to where he is today - sitting on one of the sticky metal benches, watching as people come and go. He watches as the cars become sparse as the last few of the night shift board the second to last tube of the evening. The echoing of voices has faded and been replaced with the vibration of the wind above ground. The distraction of other life has left, leaving Corey the opportunity to focus in the haunting cries.

   With his eyes closed he leans forward, placing his forearms on his legs and hangs his head. Normally, he would be home right now with his nose in a book absorbing some fantasy world. Instead, this evening he is chasing a ghost.

   With a growling sigh Corey stands and begins to walk across the trains platform just outside the yellow line. The sound of his boots against the concrete bounces from wall to wall within the silence. A feeling of unease - nearing terror - begins to fill his chest and stomach. It is a burning fear that tells him to run for the stairs. To escape. Instead he falls to the floor and vomits. Instead of stomach contents the eruption from his mouth is putrid rotten blood. It is nearly black and smells of death itself. Again and again the man's stomach empties, creating a pool that begins to spill down onto the tracks.

   Some of the sludge seems to defy fluid dynamics as it reaches towards the trash bin in front of the heaving man. It crawls slowly forward, steaming ever so slightly.

   Corey stands, wiping the metallic acid from his chin as he notices his vomit slinking it's way forward. It meets with a pool of sludge that has leaked through the bottom of the metal cage the garbage can is housed in. The two liquids meet, creating a vapor that makes his eyes water and his stomach churn again.

   Holding back a gag, he pushes back the flap and is immediately met with the urge to reach into the refuse. His hand meets with a cold, slick form of something, and within seconds he's holding it close to his face.

   It is a mask. Not like the masks most have been wearing. It is not made of paper or cloth. It is hard and heavy. Perhaps porcelain or glass. It's expression seems to be... moving. From a deep grimace to one of insane laughter, the orifices of the mask ooze the same goo that rocketed from the man's stomach. Under normal circumstances Corey would have dropped the object burning his fingers, but somehow it was calling to him. Not through words, but his own muscles.

   Somehow resisting the urge to plunge the mask against his face he walks home, this time followed by the sound of crying.