[SEC2014] Anterograde: The Killing of Julian Klass

Anterograde Part#1 - The Man That Might Kill
By Pinke

The man that might kill Frank Tuller was onto his second cup of coffee; New Orleans Chicory bathing in two espresso shots. Always the same. Frank was oblivious, but he knew about the suitcase and the blood. This was a problem.

The warm sound of passing cars breezed past the diner, splashing against the dozy ear drums of Mister Tuller. They reminded him of lazy beach days from a time when tables seemed tall and adults trustworthy. He had overcome the tables at around 12 years old, the adults were an on going project. It was the horn that woke him from his slumber. The horn and the waitress with the leopard print under cut.

“You need another hour or you wanna order something?”
“I-…” It wasn’t where he expected to be. It wasn’t a lazy beach day, it wasn’t the place behind the cracked mirror, and it wasn’t a motel room.
Eyes scanning the room. Everything so plastic and clean, but dirty in subtle ways that implied use or potential health safety violations. Daily regulars mill the room in the miserable brightness, sitting where they would be expected to sit, drinking what one might expect them to drink. Coffee, donuts, flannel, and dirty baseball caps and ... someone familiar. The man that might kill Frank Tuller.

“Hey, are you okay?”
Frank is suddenly in the present.
“This isn’t where I expected to be.”
“Rough night?” She smirks.
“Uhhh … No I- … No,” if there was one think Frank is sure of at this moment, he was well rested.
“Doesn’t smell like it,” the waitress with the leopard print under cut scrunches up her nose. Now that she mentioned it, Frank is aware he smells faintly of beer. Beer and something else. “Come on trooper, lets get you squared up and home to the wife. Whatcha want?” She was patient. Keen even, but that's not what catches Frank off guard.
“I have a wife…?” Frank says, checking his hand.
The waitresses mood dulls, “too early in the morning for that crap. I’ll just put- … a regular latte, and a choc chip muffin.”
Frank stares at her, rubbing the white band around his wedding finger as if it was a fresh wound. It seemed impolite to have a break down in the middle of diner, and he didn’t know any of those people. Apart from-…
“I’ll make it a large,” the waitress mutters ruefully.

The newspaper flopped in front him was little solace, more of a distraction. The date on it meant little. The stories were interesting, but not informative. Still, perhaps it had been a rough night. Perhaps he did kind of belong here. It wasn’t completely above him to work all night and pass out.

------------------

The man that might kill Frank Tuller is almost done with his coffee, but he’s in no rush. He watches from a plastic cubicle, sipping from a plastic cup, and talks to plastic friend.

“What do you think?”
“Seems to be working,” his plastic friend responds.
“Give another couple of minutes?”
“You still have coffee, yeah?”
“That I do.”

A hand reaches into a jacket, snapping the safety on a government issue pistol. He’s still in no rush, but boy scouts prepare ahead of time. He checks his cuff links with a longing sigh, looking to the door that only he can see. It was around then that Frank noticed the man that might kill him.

------------------

“What’s he sitting on?”
“A chair,” the waitress responds.
“He’s a regular?”
“Don’t care,” she slices the muffin into even quarters, and places a square mint next to the ordinary looking ceramic cup. The attention to detail seemed unusual to Frank. “You often worry about what people are sitting on? Or is that just a today thing?”
“I- … guess it’s a today thing?” Frank smiles. It’s the first smile, the first sign.
“Remembered your wife yet?”
Frank sighs, “am still working on that. I’m not normally like this.”

She gives him an amused smile, the lack of sarcasm or disbelief the elephant in the room, but it was an elephant that might get in the way of comfort and latte. Latte seemed especially inviting to Frank right now. The intrusion, not so much.

A brief case slams on a nearby counter. Frank can’t help but stare. The buttery leather flesh, the gold clasps, the numbers spinning beneath worn thumbs … something so familiar. The man who might kill Frank Tuller peers over a tense suited shoulder, tightening a square jaw. Frank knows this is important.

“You’re off?” The waitress smiles.
“I think so.”
“Good. You disturb the customers.”
“That’s my job,” cool blue eyes and a smile. Frank finds himself shaking the man’s hand as he speaks, “Julian Klass, department of consumer affairs.”
“Frank Tuller. I’m uhhh … between jobs. I think.”
“Nice to meet you, Frank,” Julian Klass turns. A hand slips into a suit jacket. “You ever feel like you work under ground, Frank?”

The throw away question hangs in the air. Klass purses his lips. This is the part he has never got used to. There was no real rhyme or reason to it. It could have been him at one stage. It could still be him. The man that might kill Frank Tuller doesn't want to go through with it.

“Ummm … No?” Frank slurps some coffee. “I don’t think this place is that bad.”
The quiet relief of a safety catch snapping back into place. Klass dismissively fixes his suit. “Good! Then one of us is crazy.”

The man that might kill Frank Tuller evaporates … for now. Julian Klass stands or, more accurately, walks relieved but uncomfortable in his place. Tuller watches as the suited stranger exits the diner, pondering the buttery looking suit case. A part of him might be walking out with Mister Klass, but he thinks it’s worth it for a mug of coffee and the company could be worse.

“Don’t mind him,” the waitress mutters, hands pressed on her hips. “He likes to make my job difficult.”
“So he was a regular then?” Frank asks cheerfully, amused at his own keen perceptions.
“Just like you!” She smiles, “refill?”

a reply to: Pinke

Great imagery and a fun read! Can't wait to read part 2!

Anterograde Part#2 - Figments
By Pinke

Voices echo in the darkness, but he knows he doesn’t have to listen. It’s just Frank Tuller. Frank Tuller and the others, whispering in the dark to a leopard haired waitress who doesn’t exist sitting in the diner at the end of time. Their neurons fire in bright repetitive patterns, over 80 million flashing bright and dark in each dying brain; feeding fleshy synapses with memories till they start to harden, solidify like concrete with sweet recollections of nothing. A healthy brain might be able to hold a thousand years of memories. In the last 24 hours Tuller’s capacity has vastly diminished. In a few days he might remember nothing at all. Nothing new anyway.

Klass lets out a slow stuttered breath. A breath of relief and fear tied together. He walks down a long twisting corridor. He should be used to the geometric shapes and shadows by now. To the chattering voices and whispers. To the chunky circuit boards hanging from old server racks and the buzzing gas lights clinging to the ceiling. Sometimes he has nightmares that they finally come for him; shadows tumbling down the corridor, fleshy bloodied slaps of bare feet on sharp rocks, metal and plastic. They cry his name and drag him to the diner where he starves to death on lattes and smiles. Still …

He pushes a finger against a thick chunky plastic button with a pounding clack and leans into an old telecom system jutting out of one of the many corridor walls.
“Hello?” He whispers.
It wasn’t the first time he had tried this. Over the years it had become a desperate habit.
“Hello??” He tries again through freshly lapped lips.
The telecom stares back accusingly. He could feel the tension flowing through him. It hadn’t answered since those first times almost a decade ago. He was pushing thirty five now, still had that hint of youthful life in him, but there was something missing in his cool blue eyes.
“HELLO?!!” The thunderous scream burns lungs.

The sound is only air, and it has plenty of space to swim. It touches walls that spiral for kilometres, it kisses breathing and whirring mainframes, and licks the dry asphalt. It repeats and bounces through the jenga of pipes and hoist rails that make the ceiling, and it taunts the chattering damned in their sleep. Somewhere in a diner buried in the hardening synapses of Tuller’s brain the word whispers in his dreams, but he won’t wake up. Not now.

“Are you trying again?” It’s an answer, but not the answer Klass was looking for. Klass turns to his plastic friend, the radio clipped inside his jacket.
“Yeah,” he swallows, “yeah I was trying again.”
“It’ll answer when it’s ready.”
“Do you think it can hear us?” Klass asks, and begins to walk down long ever familiar spiralling corridors.
Dying yellow lights wink and splutter overhead. They had been slowly replacing them with more modern lanterns plugged into the conduits through the flooring, but they were lucky to have one every thirty meters. Sometimes they went missing.
“Probably,” the plastic friend answers with guarded interest. “Its heard us before.”
“How do we know it won’t do the same to us?” Klass wipes his face.
It was never clear what it could see. If it was dead perhaps they might never know.
“What do you mean?” The voice asks.
“You know what I mean. Tuller. Ucnik. The others. The same.”
“Frank’s still alive,” the voice whispers, “you have to keep that in mind.”
A hand touches against the distressed walls, trailing fingers across the worn out letters of the discarded tunnel complex, skipping parts where thick panels and sharp wires dangle. Various coloured lines slip and flow between walls, floors, and doors. Klass follows the green one with precision.
“How do we know it hasn’t done it already?”
“It needs us,” the voice raising with some authority now, “can’t really do anything without us.”

Indeed. What could it do without them? To anyone listening it might sound like a reassurance, but Klass knew what it was. It was a threat. The same threat that had been hanging over The Agency for the last fifty odd years. He had to be strong. He didn’t want to end up like Frank. He knew he should, but he didn’t have the courage. The elevator is descending now. Bringing back some sense of normality. Klass tries to keep his mind off Frank Tuller. If it could still see, if it had eyes, then it knew he had a single guilty tear rolling down his cheek. In a couple of weeks time Tuller would be another star on a wall, another nameless hero fed to the machine. Today he was just a mild strain on a broken man’s conscience. It was starting to become too much.

“Klass?”
He didn’t feel like talking.
“Klass?”
But he had to pull himself together.
“Klass, are you there?”
He pushes a damp sleeve against wet eyes. Counting in his head.
One. Two. Three.
It wasn’t always helpful.
Four. Five. Six.
Sometimes it was downright unhelpful.
Seven. Eight. Nine … Ten.
It was helpful just now. It kept his mind off the fact he should have killed Frank Tuller. It brought his thoughts back to the brief case. Not the one in Frank’s dreams, but the real one they had to find and the blood they had to clean.
“Klass?!”
“I’m here. I’m on my way to the stage coach. Keep your shorts on.”
“Klass, we have a problem.”

a reply to: Jennyfrenzy
Thanks you Jenny!

Just learnings. Makes me feel tiny that you took the time to read. Thank you so much!

I enjoyed it

made me think of hitchhikers guide

dang computer edit

Its a good read

" Sometimes he has nightmares that they finally come for him; shadows tumbling down the corridor, fleshy bloodied slaps of bare feet on sharp rocks, metal and plastic. They cry his name and drag him to the diner where he starves to death on lattes and smiles."

You got skills Pinke Girl.

Great read. I feel kinda crazy now.

S and F

a reply to: Pinke

Star and Flag for You Here!! Awesome Imagery and I got the feel of the atmosphere You told the Story in!! Great Stuff!!! You have unearthed some good Talent here!!
!!! I Loved It !!!
Later, Syx.

I was really engaged in your writing, Pinke. Tons of great detail and imagery that kept the story about something strange and mysterious very real and grounded. Great job! I felt really bad for everyone abandoned in the underground 'hell' - suspenseful with a touch of horror...

Thanks so much for posting it!!!

- AB

Thanks persons >.<

I should try something less ambitious next time probably. :/ Easy to over estimate how much story you can cover vs word count. Should totally be disqualified on generally principal for not revealing my underground civilization thingo

a reply to: Pinke

Very good read with a cup of coffee in the morning. Thank you for sharing.

Will there be more?

a reply to: LesMisanthrope

Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaybe.

Mostly not sure. Might just start something new since I learned a bit from this!

Well! You have the drawing the possible dramatics out down pat.

You know it was almost like watching a dragon ball episodes. Not one episode that is, but like the entire series all put down in a few sentences, some people just know how to drag something on and on, those animes and even some books and most especially Sunday morning and nights shows do that, and yet. It generally goes like this, everybody says there piece and then a bit of a hint on the backdrop and background, and then somebody asks a question and then makes a speech, and then there is close up on the characters eyes then they get ready to fight. And then? Tune in next week boys and girls.

Its a cool short story I suppose, sounds like something that is set half way through a murder mystery. Sometimes its better to start at the end and go to the beginning. And sometimes not. Whatever you know. I almost forgot they had a writing section on ATS.

a reply to: galadofwarthethird

Feedback always welcome. Even the zany dragonballZ kind.

a reply to: Pinke
Well no problem I ques. Just remember there better be something, you know plot twist or something, or else the gist of what you have there is two guys sitting around a coffee house talking about nothing and hinting about things, and most of them cant even remember there own name. You take all that out and it would be about as exiting as a bunch of dudes and gals sitting on a roadhouse cafe and well be baking pies and chatting up the locals about corn or the weather or football. I mean its all mysterious and all, but if nothing comes of it. That would suck. You know every story has to have a like in star wars "luke I am your father" thing, and some guy screaming NOO.

Either that or well just look at this vid, this thing and the story and plot and premise of this short story put out like a movie preview has been redone a few times, first it was Nazis on the moon, then nazis on the moon with aliens, and then something else I dont remember. And now? Well apparently its nazis in the earth and hallow earth theory, and off course dinosaurs, and when you see Hitler on a T-rex, then your like "OMG it all makes sense now, So that's why he was so evil" I do believe its one of them plot twists authors talk about...Or not...Just saying.

a reply to: galadofwarthethird
Yes, pay off is important.

There is something at the end of what I've been writing, and I guess that's been my main concern. How do you get that information on the page in a fast paced but enjoyable and believable way? There are some shows that I've hated for this kind of thing like 'Lost' and a couple of books too.

The longer the wait, the better the pay off needs to be I think for people not to get mad, but too quick and its just a massive information dump.