Horror and Science Fiction

Exit Left

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Not many people can honestly say they love their jobs, but Norris Lundgren did, especially on days like today when he could flex his financial muscle, imposing his will on lesser mortals, profiting from the losses of the weak, the clueless. Today's conquest was a small company -- ten million in assets, tops -- but all victories are victories, no matter the strength of the opponent.

Norris cautiously threaded his way through the cone-zone along Broadway and turned down Seventeenth. Wonderful -- every single lot was full and parallel parking a Hummer was next to impossible. He went around the block two more times, looking for any opening large enough to accept his battleship-sized machine. No luck. He slowed down, eying the cavernous entrance to the underground garage. He hated to park underground, disliked dark, enclosed spaces; the thought of millions of tons glass, steel and concrete towering overhead made him claustrophobic. It was an irrational fear, a form of paranoia he supposed, but a healthy dose of paranoia was a good thing in Norris Lundgren's book. Like his old man used to say, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

He glanced at his Rolex; nearly nine-thirty. He was going to be late. He looked up the street, then down the ramp. There was no time to circle the block again on the off-chance a space might open up. There people were waiting for him, business to be done. He swallowed hard and eased his tank down the ramp, nervously watching the side mirrors as he threaded his camel through the eye of a needle. A machine spat a slip of paper at him and the gate rose. He inched his vehicle forward into the perpetual twilight of the garage.

He lucked out and found two spaces together on P1 that could accommodate the bulk of the Hummer. He eased the shiny black monster into the stall, taking up nearly half of the handicapped space next to him. Not to worry, he could afford a ticket but he could not afford to be late. Briefcase in hand, blue-tooth on his ear, he strode to the elevator. His heart thumped, his palms sweated, adrenaline raged through his veins as he psyched himself for battle. He was a Viking warrior and just as his ancestors raped and pillaged their way along the British coast nine-hundred years ago he raped and pillaged unsuspecting companies, leaving behind nothing but smoking ruins.

Two hours later, his mission accomplished, Norris entered the same elevator and stabbed the button for P1. The meeting had gone precisely as planned -- how could it not? Another smoldering ruin lay behind him, another foe vanquished. He whistled happily as the elevator carried him down. Today had been fun, a real treat: The president of the company had cried -- actually cried! -- while begging for his company's life. How sad, how pathetic! Had the man no pride? And to let his employees see such a display of weakness, to shame himself in front of his workers! The man deserved what he got. Business is business, Norris told him, and you don't cry in business. Too bad about about your dreams. Too bad about your employees. You play with the big boys, sometimes you get hurt. Nothing personal.

Only for Norris it was personal, and quite pleasurable, better than sex in most ways; not as messy, certainly, and with no emotional attachments. No, he didn't need to do what he did to that blubbering fool up there, he didn't need to put twenty people out of work, and God knows he sure didn't need the money, but he got off on it. The near-orgasmic climax of closing that deal could never be matched by anything a woman could do to him.

Besides, he had warned them; he always warned them. His proposals were above board and quite clear: I'll give you the money you need, you give me eighty percent, take it or leave it. Terrible terms, right? No-one in their right mind would make such a deal, not under normal circumstances, anyway. Yet they always took it, eagerly signing over their companies on the slim hope that Norris Lundgren's cash infusion might save them. The way Norris saw it he was doing them a favor, giving them one last desperate chance to pull their puffy asses out of the fire. Only they hardly ever did and Norris Lundgren would walk away with all remaining assets, free and clear. And being no fool, Norris always insured his own royal rump was covered. In his twenty-plus years in the game he had never come out on the short end, not once. He was a winner and safely tucked away in his briefcase were the signed papers proving it, papers giving him full control over all assets and remaining inventory of Samuels and Associates. Smooth, real smooth.

If he gave any thought at all to the weeping newly-unemployed up on thirty-one it was simply to hope they would all clear out their personal junk before the truck from the liquidators came. Norris hated cleaning up other peoples' messes.

The doors parted and Norris got off the elevator. Dead ahead, waiting with patient beauty in the twilight was his Hummer, a giant black behemoth capable of swallowing lesser vehicles whole. God, he loved that car!

Cautiously he backed the big machine out of its stall, watching the side mirrors carefully. He loved the sheer mass of the thing but it was a pain to maneuver in these cramped garages. There was a special part of Hell reserved for guys who designed underground garages, what with the tiny stalls, the narrow driving lanes and those stupid concrete pillars everywhere just waiting to catch your bumper, to scrape your fender. He couldn't wait to get out of there, to see daylight, to breathe open air. He cranked the wheel hard, guiding the Hummer slowly down the center of the lane, following the arrows. The exit sign ahead pointed to the left and he dutifully guided the machine to the left, creeping along, his foot on the brake. But this couldn't be right: The lane sloped down. Surely he must go up to reach the exit? There was no place to pull in, no way to turn the massive vehicle around. A sign just ahead glowed green and white: Exit Left. Warily he turned left. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar. He could almost feel the weight of the building above bearing down on him like a third grade bully on his chest.

All the stalls on the next level were full and the lane was narrower, leaving even less room to maneuver than before. He did not cherish the notion of trying to back the Hummer all the way up to street level, so he inched his way forward, looking for a place wide enough to turn around. Ahead was a flickering sign: Exit Left. There was no other way to go. He went left.

The floor pitched down at a sharper angle here, and the light was getting bad. He must be three levels below P1 now, four below street level. But still, up ahead was another sign, barely visible in the gloom: Exit Left. He went left, and down.

Filling the stalls on either side were dozens of cars, trucks, SUVs, all covered in a fine gray dust. Still no room to turn around. His only hope was to reach the bottom: There must be a loop back to the surface there.

Exit Left, another sign told him. He turned left, down a steeper incline. It was much, much darker now. Overhead tired fluorescent tubes flickered, filling the cavernous space with a sickening stroboscopic light. Norris turned on his headlights, revealing dozens more automobiles, tires flat, windows opaque with grime.

Exit Left. Down he went. A single, ineffectual fluorescent tube flickered far off in the distance. Norris flipped a switch, shooting powerful halogen beams from the light rack atop the Hummer.

He was more than a little nervous now. By his calculation he was six levels below the street. This was impossible! And still the stupid signs all kept pointing left, and down. And still there was no room to turn the stupid Hummer around. Never in his life had he been this far below ground. He felt sick, his gut twisting like a snake in a burlap sack. His throat was dry, his head pounded, his chest hurt. How was a man supposed to breathe down here?

Exit Left. This was beyond insane! There was no way going down was getting him any closer to the exit. Maybe he should call someone. He could get the building manager, tell him to get his incompetent butt down here and guide Norris out of his lousy garage. He stabbed shaking fingers at his cell. Nothing. He stared at the phone. No signal. Well, wasn't that just peachy.

He threw the phone on the dash and started inching his way forward again. There had to be someplace to turn around, there just had to be. He looked left, looked right, hoping for an empty space of any size. He'd sacrifice his paint, his fenders, all he needed was a little maneuvering room. He'd by-God make the Hummer fit! But there was nothing, not an single empty stall to be found.

It was curious: The cars on this level looked as if they'd been here forever. A pickup truck sat wheel-less, stripped nearly to its frame like a rotting carcass picked clean by buzzards. Not one of the cars down here was newer than the early sixties, which was impossible since this building was less than ten years old.

It was growing uncomfortably warm in the Hummer. Norris turned on the A/C but instead of the comforting Arctic blast he expected there came only a trickle of humid, fetid air. Wonderful. He'd just had the car serviced less than a thousand miles ago. Didn't the idiots even check the A/C? He'd have a few choice words for that fool of a service manager tomorrow.

Exit Left. Norris wiped cold sweat from his eyes with a trembling hand. What the hell was he doing down here and how was he going to get out? The thought of leaving the Hummer and walking to the surface flickered briefly through his feverish brain but died quickly as he caught a motion out of the corner of his eye. He pointed a spotlight at the row of cars on his left, sweeping slowly back and forth across the rusted out hulks of assorted nineteen-fifties Fords and Chevys. Nothing. Nerves, that's what it was. There was nothing out there, and even if there was, he was safe as long as he didn't leave the Hummer. He reached in the center console and pulled out the shiny black revolver he'd bought last year when that idiot Morgan threatened to kill after Norris took his company. He felt an heartening sense of power as the cold steel warmed in his hand. Come and get it, he chuckled. If you dare.

He pulled ahead slowly, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching the gun, his eyes scanning row after row of antique coupes and sedans. Maybe he'd stumbled onto someone's car collection, or maybe this was a storage facility for antique cars. But these weren't collector's items, they were rust buckets, literally disintegrating where they sat. Bumpers hung limply from frames, tires sat flat, their rubber gone all powdery. Shattered windows hung like spider webs from their rotting frames. These cars had been down here a very, very long time, abandoned and forgotten.

Pure terror clutched Norris by the throat with a cold, bony hand. Even the comfort of his gun felt shallow. This place was not right, not natural. Nobody ever built a parking garage like this, ever. And no way had there been an underground garage here when these cars drove the streets of Denver.

Exit Left. An unlit sign hung from a single wire, its arrow pointing cockeyed down a pitch black ramp.

He wanted to cry, to scream, to kick and punch, to hurt someone. Someone was responsible for this and someone was by-God going to pay. Where was the building manager? When Norris got out of this he'd see to it the man never worked in this town again. Hell, he'd make sure the guy's kids never worked in this town, ever. Norris Lundgren was a powerful man, with powerful friends who could make things happen. Just wait and see!

Exit Left. He'd had enough. He put the Hummer in reverse and starting inching his way back up the nearly forty-five degree incline. It would take time, but he'd make it. He reached the top of the level, cranked the wheel to make the turn and slammed on the brakes. Something was there, something that hadn't been there just moments ago. Cars, dozens of them, formed a barricade, completely blocking his only way out. His mind raced with the implications -- the cars on this level were basket cases; it would take a tow truck to move them and yet there they were.

None of this made any sense. Not the stupid Exit Left signs, not the stupid antique cars, not the scorching heat, nothing. Yet here he was, stuck in some modern level of Dante's Hell.

Hell. He shivered despite the heat. The word chilled his soul. Could this be Hell? No torture racks, no demons, no fire pits with molten lava, only this insane, never-ending parking garage and its damned Exit Left signs?

He'd never believed in heaven, had always hoped there was no Hell, but what if it was all true? What if this was his punishment? He'd ruined a lot of people in his times, done a lot of things some folks might say were evil. What if he had been judged guilty by some unseen force in the universe and sentenced to an eternity of torment in this parking garage from Hell?

He considered praying but quickly realized he didn't know how, didn't really even know who to pray to: If there was a God, surely He was far from this place.

Norris sat alone in the dark for a very long time, collecting his thoughts and coming at last to the realization that he was going to die down here in this subterranean hell-hole. No one would ever find him, no one would even miss him. He had no family, no friends, no one who would care enough to search for him. His lawyer might notify the authorities when he failed to file the papers in his briefcase and Samuels and Associates might wonder why the ax never fell but that would be the extent of anyone's concern for the late Norris Lundgren.

Tears trickled down his cheeks as Norris cried for the first since third grade, when his old man left him and his mom to fend for themselves, but not before making sure young Norris understood it was all his fault.

So here, now, as the end drew near, Norris Lundgren, successful businessman, self-proclaimed financial genius, found himself alone in the dark, no better off than the frightened third-grader he was all those years ago. His money worthless, his power rendered impotent, he resigned himself to whatever fate awaited him. After all, Viking warriors don't cry, they throw themselves into battle, giving no mercy, expecting none in return.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he cocked his revolver and put his sixty-thousand dollar coffin in drive.

Exit Left.

He smiled. Whatever happened, it was going to be a hell of a ride.

The End