The November Editor's Pick is Christopher Nadeau
Please feel free to email Christopher at: christophernadeau71@yahoo.com
FLAME 101
by Christopher Nadeau
The walls of my apartment are coming to life. I see them folding and fading, giving way to something else, something…other.
I shiver in my chair, one eye closed as if that will somehow reorient me into some remaining semblance of reality. His laughter fills my head, my ears, and I whimper in response. But he can’t win unless I surrender.
I feel his frustration and dare to smile.
The walls resume their solid consistency. Still not quite trusting my environment, I slowly place my feet on the floor and stand on wobbly legs. I feel as if something runs a cold, bony hand across the back of my neck but I convince myself it’s just my own jittery nerves.
I take a few steps forward and glance over at my computer, and over there on the desk it flares to life, causing me to jump and let out a tiny yelp. Using the screen name “Closer98,” I’ve spent years taking on assholes and trolls on more message boards and chat rooms than I could count. In fact, I took that name because I've been an internet junkie since that year, back when the web was just starting to infiltrate people’s homes.
And yet now I am afraid of the computer. I don’t want to walk over to it. I don’t want to see what’s on the screen. I don’t have to do either of those things but my legs have minds of their own and the rest of me has no choice but to follow. Allowing myself one shaky exhalation of breath, I look at the screen and shudder at the words currently displayed on it:
You’ve won nothing.
Sighing, I collapse into my office chair in front of the computer and close my eyes. As far as creepy, cryptic messages go, it’s not so bad, minus the whole external forces sending me messages thing, of course. He’s definitely sent worse and more threatening. Then it occurs to me that maybe it was better when he did.
I open my eyes and jump as a large smiley face winks at me from the screen. Somewhere far off, whispered laughter drifts on an artificial breeze.
And I started to think back, to analyze how this happened; to remember.
*****
This particular thread had gone for over a week. But I would be damned before I’d stop or admit defeat. So far, I’d destroyed every idiot who’d crossed my path and things were finally winding down to the inevitable mass exodus with me as the last man standing. Then he showed up.
He called himself “Flame101” and lived up to his chosen moniker as soon as he stepped virtual foot into simulated fray. He started by attacking whoever disagreed with him, typical flamer stuff, accusing everyone who fired back as being a troll. In case you don’t know, trolls are people who come onto boards with fake profiles specifically to start shit and alienate as many people as possible. I used to be one before I became legitimate so I can spot them a mile away. Most of the people Flame101 called names were not trolls at all. At first, I chalked that up to one of two things: Either an overall ignorance of what actually constitutes a troll or the common tactic of dismissing everyone on the opposite side of an argument with the term that describes the lowest form of online “life.”
Eventually, he got to me and things turned ugly.
*****
Nothing I do changes the feeling of a constant presence in my apartment. I used to try and spend as much time away from here as possible but I was wasting my time. The presence wasn’t as powerful outside but it was always with me. Sometimes I wonder if it influenced me to think that way.
Sometimes I think it can really do that.
I reach forward with the intention of turning off my computer and am unable to reach the button. I want to make a run for the picture window and jump to my death. I’m twelve floors up so it’s a safe bet I’d splatter all over the pavement like those watermelons David Letterman used to drop from rooftops when he was still funny, but I can’t.
“Please,” I say. “Just leave me alone.”
The monitor flares to life again, displaying a two-word sentence in all caps:
NOT YET.
The sudden intrusion of aggressive knocking at my door causes me to whirl around and bang my knee into my coffee table. My heart leaps inside my chest. Who could it be at this time of day? Could it be...could Flame101 have finally come out of the computer?
I don’t want to answer the door. I won’t answer.
That thought is all it takes for something to propel me toward the door. I have a good idea what is on the other side and I have no stomach for it, not today. I resist with all my willpower, but my hand shakes violently as I give in and turn the doorknob anyway.
The kid standing in my doorway can’t be older than twenty, although I think he’s most likely not even a legal adult yet. It’s hard to tell these days; I don’t have kids.
After nearly a minute of staring into his black-encircled, blank eyes and realizing that this visitor is not Flame101 after all, I ask him if there’s anything I can do for him.
He blinks. “Can you tell me why I’m here?”
The kid looks pathetic but there’s no way in hell I’m letting him inside my apartment. I glance over his low-hung head and notice the walls out in the hallway waving like the image on an old TV screen before the set has warmed up. He has brought with him uncertainty and despair and I don’t need any more of that.
“Fuck off, kid,” I say. “Beat it.”
Not moving, the kid repeats, bottom lip quivering, “Why am I here?”
“I don’t care.”
“Can’t you tell me?”
“I don’t care, kid. Go away.”
Tears run down the kid’s face as his body starts shaking violently. He seems caught between a desire to leave and an inability to move. I should close the door but I’m afraid of what will happen if I do.
Sighing, I lean in the doorway and look him up and down. “I’m assuming you’re here for me.”
I’m ready when the kid lunges for my throat.
It’s kind of sad, really, the way he does it. It’s like watching a starving person make a dive for a table of mostly consumed food before the waiter can throw it out. It’s a move filled with rage and fear and desperation and a part of me thinks it might be better if I allow him to succeed.
Instead, I side-step his advance and sweep my foot under his ankle, his head missing the corner of my coffee table by barely an inch. I stand in place and watch his shoulders and upper back shake violently as the kid sobs and moans on the floor.
“I just want it to be over!” he yells.
I shrug. “Me too, kid.”
Still on the floor, the kid’s life story comes pouring out of him, the double-feature end result of total dismay and verbal diarrhea. It’s not dissimilar to my own, except he was a bit of an amateur in the old message board flaming war thing. I feel sorry for him, because it hadn’t even been his idea to jump into the internet fray. His idiot friends talked him into it and he, being a typical eager to please young’n, went along with it.
“Some crazy dude called Flame101,” he says shaking his head so hard it might actually pop off his neck. “At least, I think it’s a dude. Sick fuck.” He gets to his feet and walks over to sit in my favorite chair.
“We’ve met.” I sit down on the couch across from him with a heavy sigh. “He doesn’t take well to being told he’s wrong.”
The kid snorts. “No shit, he doesn’t! Dude must be, like, the awesomest hacker ever! He even started sending me text messages!”
That’s news to me; my cell phone was the one thing he never hacked. However, considering the age of the kid, he most likely has an I-Phone or PDA. I’ve stayed old school with my cells, meaning I use last week’s technology as opposed to the flavor of the moment.
“Kept telling me he saw me.” The kid looks up, his expression desperate, pleading. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like, kid.” I stand up and walk over to my PC. “Once you piss him off, it’s like he tags you for life. I’ll bet there are dozens of us out there. Shit, maybe even hundreds.”
“Maybe more.” The kid’s voice is tiny and far away.
My monitor flares to life, filling with three words that make my legs quiver.
TOGETHER AT LAST
The kid appears next to me. “Dude, did you…”
“No.”
The world becomes chaos.
“This is never gonna stop, is it?” The kid’s voice is shrieky, nigh hysterical. “Is it?”
I don’t say anything. He already knows the answer.
Beneath us, the floor becomes soft, pliable. We stumble into each other, grabbing hold of arms and hands in order to steady ourselves. The walls seem to reach for us, growing closer, less substantial. I hear muted laughter and look at the kid to see if he hears it, too. He’s too busy screaming.
My monitor goes black.
The lights go out.
I see them.
Oh, God I see them as plain as day.
The kid sees them, too, judging by the soprano squeal he emits from a mouth so wide open it becomes a cavernous maw leading into his frightened soul.
They move forward as one, shrouded in light and shadow, amidst flame. With each step, I see more of them, not just the exterior but what is inside, what they represent. They will devour us if we don’t escape. I know what they are now.
“Do you see it?” I ask the kid. “Do you understand?”
I can’t reach him anymore. He just keeps screaming and pointing.
I turn to run but find my feet uncooperative. My monitor flashes three words over and over:
We always win.
They move forward again, soldiers in an army of absorption, ready to devour those unworthy of conscription. I tell the kid to stop screaming but he’s not listening. He doesn’t understand.
In that moment of total realization, they move forward faster than humanly possible, heading first for the kid whose screams have now grown hoarse and helpless. I watch as they tear him apart, pulling first flesh and then appendages free in a spray of blood and fluids and pieces of bone and muscle. Then they turn towards me and advance. I run for it.
I hear myself screaming but it sounds like it’s coming from far away. I can’t believe they haven’t caught up with me as I throw open the door to my apartment and bolt out into the hallway, ready to run down all twenty fucking floors if necessary.
They’re behind me in an instant, marching, moving as one. I yell again and start pumping by rarely used muscles to evade certain capture.
Not without a fight, you fucks!
Somehow I reach the end of the hallway and round the corner, temporarily elated by the sight of the EXIT sign looming ahead. Maybe if I can make it to the stairwell…
I blink and the sign no longer says “Exit.”
“No way!”
The sound of advancing “troops” thunders behind me, one loud tandem step at a time. I stare at the sign and feel my body go limp as the words “We always win” flash over and over.
Christopher Nadeau is the author of the novel Dreamers at Infinity's Core available through COM Publishing's Sword & Science imprint and Amazon as well as the short story, "Rosa, Rosa Come out of Your Room" in the horror anthology, Saturday Evening Ghost. His latest book titled Not in the Brochure is available on Kindle.
He was recently interviewed on Suspense Radio as part of its up and coming authors program and has collaborated on a “machinima” film with UK animator Celestial Elf called The Gift, which can be viewed on YouTube. He has also written and published over a hundred print and online articles ranging in subject matter from local politics to pop culture and New Age cults, the latter providing inspiration for a novel currently in the works.
Christopher lives and works in Southeastern Michigan and is an active member of the Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers.
