Porter's Bookstore - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Brandon

Brandon stumbled and ran his head into the bookcase in front of him. He had seen a woman in the bright flash of light, in the instant before he was free. He had tried to grab her, but she was suddenly gone, caught in the binding, slipping into the text, beyond his fingers. He looked down at his hands, the skin loose and dry and cracked. They looked like his grandfather’s hands, seventy not twenty-three. He blinked and rubbed his face, felt the skin cry out at the roughness of his fingers, the elasticity of the skin on his cheeks gone, begging for moisture.

He had to get out. He stood up and lost his balance, reached out to catch himself and jerked his hand violently away from the books on the shelves as his fingers brushed against the glossy dust jackets. He glanced feverishly around for the stairs and lurched toward them. The wrought iron railing produced a bright spark at his touch, the static following him down the twisting steps as he fled the second level of the bookstore. He hit the wooden floor at the bottom of the staircase and stuck his static burned fingers in his mouth. There was no saliva in it to soothe the pain. He bolted for the door.


“Hey, watch where you’re goin’!” a customer hollered at him as he careened off the man’s shoulder. Brandon turned his haggard face and grimaced an apology as he dragged the heavy door open and fell out into the cold December air.

He stood on the sidewalk and drew in huge gulps of outside air, freezing cold, and filled with the remnant exhaust of the traffic moving past the storefront. He coughed, the dryness of the air raking the back of his throat like sharp twigs and glass. He stood there trying to recover, his eyes closed, hand over his mouth, struggling for air when the woman's face flashed against his eyelids, so shocked, so amazed, on the verge of terror. He knew what she was feeling, knew that now she was ripping at the paper with fingers that were withering before her eyes, screaming and not being heard. He knew.

Shit!

He turned and walked up the block past Loaves and Fishes Cafe, past Step Right In Shoes, and Pet Depot. He shook his head trying to get her face out of his mind. He could hear the scream and put his hands over his ears, felt the loose skin along his jaw, wrinkled and hanging.

Shit!

He stopped in front of the pet store and squeezed his eyes tight. It didn’t help. He could still see her, floating behind the bright flashes of eye-stars and the twisting lights that spun faster the harder he pressed his lids together.

Shit, shit, shit!

He opened them again and stared at his reflection in the plate-glass window. He looked ancient, shriveled, a walking mummy. Beside his reflection the woman’s face appeared, her mouth open in a scream, her eyes wide with terror. Beyond her image, behind the glass and inside the store, white rats, tawny mice, fuzzball hamsters, and a litter of tabby kittens wandered around their display cages. Brandon darted inside.

He located a salesgirl and dragged her to the window display. “I want two,” he pointed as she stared at his face.

She forced her gaze to follow his wrinkled hand. “Kittens? What color?”

He shook his head violently, his stomach turning over. “God no. Rats.”

She gave him another long stare and then stepped over to the cages. “Boys or girls?” she said as she reached into the cupboard underneath and pulled out a collapsed cardboard carry box.

“I don’t care,” he replied. She glanced up at him as she folded the box into shape. He felt his face redden. “Girls. No! Boys. No! One of each. Really,” he muttered, “it doesn’t matter.”

The salesgirl stood back up and set the box on the counter. Brandon leaned towards the cage to watch her remove two of the occupants. They scrambled away from her fingers as she chased them around the cage. Finally she caught one and deposited it in the box. She looked at him again and he nodded. She grabbed a second rat and stuffed it into the box with its cage-mate.

“Do you need any bedding, a cage, some food?” she asked as she secured the top of the box. Two pink rat noses poked out of two air holes on one side of the box.

“No, I’m good.”

She pushed a few treat cubes into the holes before handing the box to him. “Don’t leave them in there too long and not alone. They’ll chew their way out in nothing flat,” she instructed as she stuck a barcoded sticker to the box.

“Right.” He lifted the box from the counter and felt the rats scramble on the smooth cardboard bottom, their claws struggling for a hold that wasn’t there. “Thanks.” He headed for the cashier and dug in his back pocket for his wallet while the rats danced in their box in tiny circles around each other.

He set the carry box on the counter and pulled out a credit card. The cashier looked at him, her mouth slightly open, and then at the box. A pointed rat nose covered with twitching whiskers was sticking out of an air hole on either side.

“Eighteen fifty,” the girl mumbled. He handed her the card and she took it, staring at his hand and then glancing quickly at his face. She ran it through the machine and got an error message. She tried again and got another one.

“Here,” he muttered softly and handed her his debit card. Same result. Error times two. She handed the cards back and he reinserted them before digging in the bill pocket for some cash. She glanced at his driver’s license and then at his face. He pulled a twenty out, shoved it across the counter, and jammed his wallet back in his pocket. Still darting looks at him, the cashier punched in the amount. The drawer dinged as it popped open and she pulled a one and two quarters from the till.

“One fifty is your change,” she said and set the bill, coins, and the receipt on the counter and slid them towards him. She snatched her hand back before he touched the money and then looked mildly apologetic.

“Thanks,” he stammered and grabbed the money, stuffed it in his front pocket and picked the carry box off the counter. The rats did their mad scramble dance as he hurried to the door.

“Wait, do you want a bag?” the cashier called after him as the door swooshed shut. He didn’t bother to wave off the question, just hurried back towards Porter’s with his rats.

The bells above the doors jingled as he pushed his way through and half-walked half-ran to the twisting staircase. He felt exhausted and in desperate need of a drink, but all he could see was the woman’s face as the pages closed in around her. He managed to take the steps two at a time, twisting himself around the center support, the carry box rocking wildly from side to side as he climbed, the rats skittering around inside.

Overhead, slipping quietly through the dry air of the store came the manager’s voice. “Good evening. Porter’s Bookstore will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please make your final selections and bring them to the front registers for purchase. We wish you a warm and comfortable evening and thank you for stopping in to see us.”

Brandon took a hard right at the top of the stairs and headed back towards the Self-help section. The air filled with the scent of ozone, the hairs on the back of his neck started to rise. He reached the aisle and watched in horror as the sales associate, his little corner cart sitting nearby, reached down to pick the book up off the floor. Even under the weight of his coat the hair on Brandon’s arms stood up.

“NO!” he shouted and the man turned his head, a question on his face as his fingers closed over the book’s spine. There was a tremendously bright flash, a sharp crack and the sudden appearance of a woman, who fell shoulder first into the bookcase across the way. The sales associate was gone.

Without thinking Brandon ran to the woman and grabbed her. She looked up and let out a strangled cry of relief. She looked twenty years older than she had when her face had flashed in front of him as he was flung from the book’s grip.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She stared at him and then nodded, blinking her eyes. She reached up and wiped her cheeks and then looked down at her hands. “I can’t cry,” she muttered and then looked back at Brandon. “There’s a man.”

“Yeah, one of the staff. He tried to pick the book up.”

“That’s what I did,” she said, her voice soft and perplexed.

“We’ve got to get him out.”

The woman looked down at her hands, turned them over and back. “My God. How long…”

“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen,” he said, helping her to her feet. She stared at him as she stood, reached out and touched his ravaged face.

“How long?”

“I don’t know, an hour, maybe.” He reached down and picked up the carry box. The rats were starting to chew the edges of the air holes. “We’ve got to get him out,” he said again. “Here, move over.” She stepped aside and watched as he moved closer to the book.

“Wait! What are you going to do?”

“Drop the rats on it. Them for you, I mean, for him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Obviously the book grabs the next living thing that touches it and throws the used-up one out. At least it does if the used-up one is still alive.” He had an after image of the dust scattered all around his feet while he had struggled between the pages.

“No, God, don’t do that!” Her eyes were wide with horror.

“They’re rats, he’s human. What? Are you going to touch it again to get him out?”

She took a step away from him and shook her head. “No. Just…wait,” and she turned on her heels. “Just wait, please!” She ran down the aisle and towards the staircase. “WAIT!” she shouted and he heard her feet smacking the iron steps as she hurried towards the first floor.


~ Peace....