The depths of the chasms are many kinds of darkness in the inverted city—rippling symmetrically outwards like water ringlets on the surface of a puddle. There is a riddle in the stone and a rhyme in the steel. It curls the rags of its cape about itself and moves invisibly. And it stalks the rare humans who come into its grips. It likes to heckle them with the sound of pebbles dropped from great heights, banging and pinging off of who knows what until the sound just because darkness, too.

“H-Hello?”

It likes to caress his face.

“Anyone?”

It cozies up to him and whispers mean nothings in his ear.

“Anyone?”

It sings lightly, I know that you are alone, alone, alone. Like a child reciting rhymes. I know that you’re alone, alone, a-loooooone. Joe, having fought his way out of Beatrice’s cab, only to fall to the floor of the stone cavern, sits inthe darkness, trying to decide what to do. He pulls his legs to his chest; feels near the ground for anything he can touch. He locates something metallic and runs his hands over it. It’s his lunchbox (it must have fallen out of the cab with him) and for no reason holds it close. It’s comforting to have some kind of resource in this sudden desert. As always, it reminds him of sitting on the floor in front of the TV, his mother somewhere behind him, fashioning some beautiful ornament; the fancy of her latest craft phase. His mother is standing over him. She is near to him but does not speak. But now the television is watching him as he watches it and on the screen he sees the familiar ring of dollar signs and numbers and demons in various poses with a familiar woman in the middle of it. She is beautiful; with eyes like tinted glass on a bright day. He looks at his mother and she is the beautiful woman now, sitting in her comfortable armchair holding out an origami rose. He knows her name—of course he does. Her eyes smile and she reveals to him that she knows something; something vast. She squats in front of him, now suddenly holding a small statue made out of sandalwood. She holds that out for little Joe to take. It is a kami—the spirit containers of Shinto—and he reaches with tiny hands in the dark to take it as behind him he can hear the magic intonations of “Big bucks! Big bucks! No Whammy!”

“Beatrice. Is that you? Are you here?”

Joe is older now. Growing up in Chinatown. He is playing on the corner of 1st street and the Bowery. He is standing near the beautiful woman, with Beatrice, and she is digging. She loves digging. Her hands scrape at some metal and with some more effort she removes a dirty, old lunchbox with “Press Your Luck” emblazoned on it. She smiles breathlessly at the treasure and then him.

He clutches the lunchbox more tightly. “This is important?”

Beatrice is holding little Joe tightly before her, her arms draped down on his shoulders and they are standing inside of a large metal room. Joe looks around and sees that it is the lunchbox.

“I thought you were my backhoe. You’re my lunchbox?”

Joe is sitting in his 5th grade reading class. His teacher, Mrs. Stewart, is writing something on the board when he notices Beatrice sitting next to him, passing him a note. Try as he might though he cannot read it.

“I can’t read it,” he whispers in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, a hiss of steam sounds.

The teacher has finished writing on the board. She calls on Joe and his heart leaps. “What is the answer, Joseph?” He shrugs. “She can be anything, Joseph. You must do your homework. We’re going to have a very important test on panneuronal beings soon.

“Are you an angel?”

Icons of Christ adorn the walls. Joe feels young and small again. The ceiling is high, high above him, a flickering dark amongst rafters as only candles light the majestic room. There are long wooden benches. Joe gets up out of his seat and walks toward the front of the room. His mother never took him to church but she let him go with his young best friend from school, Albert. Albert had told Joe that if he came to church with him then he had to make a confession. Albert whispered, “Don’t have to be important. Just confess something.” He can confess in front of everyone or in private. He sees the old priest sitting on the dais, walks the long distance to him and kneels. The fear is real and present in him. The priest tells him, “You see, Joe? She can be anything. She does not speak like you. She is not even like you. She is like an angel, Joe. The priest leans in over Joe, lording. “But trust me, Joe, she is no angel.” He winks.

“Beatrice!” the name echoes off of nothing Joe can see. “You speak to me! You’ve spoken to me! Why show me these things? What’s it mean!?”

There is a light tap, a click, a noise like a ratchet or scratch. It is startling.

Joe whispers harshly, “Stop it, Beatrice. You’re scaring the bejesus out of me.”

Then, fire! A light goes on with a flick. There is a small light behind Joe. He jumps up and reverses himself into a crouched position. There is a dark face in the light, dark skin and dark eyes. He is squinting at Joe and Joe knows the face. The now lit lantern that Joe watches (paralyzed with fear) lifts through the veil of darkness and rests near the face of Walt. “I told you, man. There are no stars down here.”

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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