Deep Waters - Two Heads...

The Firebird grumbled though the town square in front of the Gilman House as I circled the block and slipped down the service road that led to the laundry buildings out back. Once we were tucked into the shadows behind the crumbling pile, I cut the lights and killed the engine. As we stepped out into the night air, the distant pulse of the disco beat shot through the smell of rising damp and questionable plumbing.

As we crept back towards the hotel front entrance, I posed the question:

‘What’s our plan here, Boothe?’

‘Well, we need to neutralise those guys,’ he said. ‘First, because they’re a threat to your community, and second, ‘cause they’re unnatural. So we shut them down, or work out what’s going on with them. Or both.’

‘I figure,’ I said, peeking out into the Hotel forecourt, ‘that we need some extra help. We should go up and get the guys. Strength in numbers and all that.’

Boothe nodded, but hesitantly, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced. I slipped out of the shadows and crept towards the front steps. Mounting them, we passed through the grimy glass doors and into the velvet mustiness beyond.

Inside the elevator car, the muzak cut in and out fuzzily, thanks to some defunct speakers. Boothe hunched against the wall and pushed his hands deep into his pockets.

‘What’s up Boothe?’ I said, ‘you seem like you kinda got cold feet all of a sudden.’

He shrugged.

‘Just a bit worried is all,’ he said. ‘We’re about to go back to a place where we were earlier on. Benson, it’s really important that we don’t run into our earlier selves.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

He shrugged again, widening his eyes and spreading his fingers. ‘Dunno,’ he said, ‘it’s just bad, is all. The first thing they tell you when you start messin’ with this stuff is Don’t Interact With Your Past or Future Self. They never say why; just that it ain’t good.’

I looked up at the floor indicator and grunted. ‘So how do we tell who’s who?’ I asked.

‘Well, you’re easy,’ he replied, ‘your past self has two sleeves on his jacket and isn’t covered with all that sparkly crap…’

I looked down at myself. ‘Shit – I thought I got rid of all that.’ My jacket and jeans were still twinkling from the accumulation of glitter I’d picked up from – would pick up from – Prudence’s car. It was ground in real deep along the seams of everything I had on. I brushed uselessly at it.

‘Leave it,’ said Boothe, ‘we’ll need to be able to spot you.’

I looked at him. He had pulled his arms in though his T-shirt sleeves and he was turning the garment around on his torso so that the “Rush 2112” logo was facing backwards. Since the thing draped shapelessly upon him anyway, it really didn’t make any difference which way he wore it. He spread his hands out to either side seeking approval.

‘Well okay,’ I said, ‘now that we can tell ourselves apart, let’s get this done.’

The elevator door chimed and slid open to reveal the dismal corridor beyond, with Winston’s suite behind the door at the far end. We trod sticky footsteps towards our goal. As we passed a door on our left, I heard giggles coming from beyond. I put out a hand to stop Boothe.

‘What are you doing in there anyway?’ I asked. He just shrugged.

‘Jus’ partyin’,’ he said. ‘C’mon – you know I’m gonna be steppin’ out here in a few minutes…’

As we neared the door, I tuned in to the throb of the prog-rock soundtrack emanating from within. Accessing my finely-honed awareness of all things heavy metal, I sensed that we were arriving earlier than our last visit and I quickly opened the door and pushed Boothe in ahead of me. I heard the lift at the end of the corridor behind us “ping!” as I shut the door once more.

Inside there was low light and a heavy fug of gathered bodies and smoke. I stepped over a couple of prostrate forms and dodged around a standing lamp: ahead of me I had spotted Prudence striding towards the door, her head tipped back draining a large plastic cup which, when she finished, she crushed and dropped with a loud belch as she reached for the doorknob. I made sure to keep the lampshade between us as meagre light flooded in from the corridor.

‘Why, Benson Waite,’ her voice wafted back into the room, ‘I was wondering when a real man would be joining this shindig…’

Taking Boothe’s warnings to heart, I scampered further inside, not wanting to even hear my past, future, whatever, incarnation speak. Dodging a coffee table on top of which lay an opened and all-too-familiar briefcase, I ran straight into Winston. He stopped me with a hand to the chest and breathed out a dense wave of smoke over me.

‘Hey man!’ he slurred, ‘where’ve you been? I was about to send out a posse…’

I turned my head quickly to scan the door and caught Boothe throwing me a quizzical wave as he headed towards the mini-bar. Looking back at Winston, I caught a flash of another Boothe over his left shoulder, diving behind a couch on the other side of the room.

‘Uh, hi Winston,’ I stammered, ‘you know me – better late than never.’

He gave me a sly look and flicked his gaze over his shoulder. Seeing nothing to bother him, he went on:

‘We did okay tonight,’ he declared, waving his joint at the briefcase, ‘showed those rubes who’s kingfish.’

Beside the briefcase and its pillaged goodies, Ned Pierce snored, his cheek pressed flat into the marble top and his face powdered white. I looked back at Winston: as my head turned he seemed to shift slightly with a few disorientating trailing afterimages. I rubbed my eyes.

‘About that Winston,’ I said, ‘I have a feeling those guys are going to be back for revenge – and I’m pretty sure they’ll be loaded for bear.’

Amused, Winston snorted smoke which – weirdly – seemed to stay still while everything around it moved gently in waves.

‘Let ‘em come,’ Winston said. He bent his legs suddenly, turning side on to me. He waved his arms dramatically in circling motions, which made him look like some kind of fashion-conscious, many-armed Hindu idol. ‘We’ll see whose kung fu is stronger.’

He threw a few feints to either side, his fringed jacket thrashing disconcertingly while doing his best Bruce Lee impersonation. His wheeling-about turned him into a crazy blur whilst leaving solid trails of smoke in the air. Feebly, I tried to grasp an arc of stubbornly unmoving cloudiness, before tumbling backwards into blackness.

The last thing I saw was Boothe, jumping up from behind his couch and calling out my name in alarm…

*****

When I came to, I opened my eyes to see two Boothes standing over me. One was goggle-eyed and slack-jawed; the other was quizzically regarding himself, a bottle of Jack Daniels under each arm and a bottle of vodka and some glasses in his hands.

‘Ouch!’ I said, sitting up and rubbing at the intense throbbing coming from the back of my head.

‘So,’ said the bottle-bearing Boothe to his doppelganger, an intrigued light shining in his eyes, ‘what are we up to, then?’

‘No,’ answered the other Boothe holding up a warning finger, ‘no, no, no, no, no: this is bad. We shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘Well, from where I’m standing, I think it’s a bit late for that,’ said the first Boothe.

‘Whoa!’ Winston wobbled into my field of vision. He looked at both Boothes, one after the other, and then looked at the joint in his hand. ‘I am so baked,’ he said. ‘This is some good shit!’ He wandered away into the ambience.

‘Wanna drink?’ said Boothe.

‘Are you crazy!’ said Boothe, ‘we shouldn’t be interacting at all!’

‘I thought we just couldn’t touch each other,’ said Boothe. He waggled the fingers of the hand holding the vodka bottle at his double.

‘Don’t do that!’ yelled Boothe flinching away, ‘you don’t know what will happen! That ain’t funny!’

Boothe waggled his fingers some more. ‘I dunno,’ he said, ‘it’s a little bit funny.’ He took a half step forward: ‘I ain’t touching you… I ain’t touching you…’

‘Okay, that’s enough.’ I hauled myself up to my feet. I immediately regretted doing so and grabbed the nearest Boothe by the shoulder to steady myself.

‘Eeek!’ shrieked the other Boothe.

‘See?’ The Boothe I was leaning on patted my hand. ‘Nothin’ happened.’ He turned to address me: ‘I assume you ain’t the Benson Waite from this timeline, right?’ I nodded my head while rubbing my eyes.

‘You coulda exploded!’ yelled Boothe.

‘Coulda. Didn’t.’ he replied. ‘Anyway. What’s goin’ on with you guys?’

‘Bad guys headin’ this way,’ I murmured, ‘one of ‘em’s got some kinda movable gate…’

‘Benson! Ixnay on illingspay the eansbay!’ Boothe was making rapid throat cutting gestures with his fingers.

The other Boothe’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. ‘A moving gate?’ he breathed, ‘how’s he doing that?’

‘No idea,’ said Boothe, ‘but it’s bad. They’re carrying some kinda extra-dimensional entity ‘round with ‘em, an’ it ain’t friendly!’

‘That’s far out,’ breathed Boothe drinking the concept in. ‘That’s what I’m gonna ask Him for…’

‘Ask?’ I queried. ‘Who you gonna ask? Santy Claus?’

‘Oh. Nothing.’ Both Boothes said it simultaneously while pointedly trying not to look me in the eye. I narrowed my gaze at them.

‘I’m gonna bookmark that question and get back to you two later. Right now…’

‘“Bigger fish”…?’ one of the Boothes quoted helpfully

‘That’s right.’ I turned to the assembled party-folk and raised my voice. ‘Okay people – on your feet. We’ve got villains in town and we need to take care of them before they do any damage. It’s our turf and our town and we need to make them regret ever hearing about Innsmouth, Mass. Who’s with me?’

There was no response. So I turned the music off and tried again.

*****

To Be Continued...