Chapter 25
The film playing that afternoon at Midnight Matinee just happened to be Quantum Guardian .
A grungy-looking kid scrolling on his phone told Alex it was five bucks to get in and she handed the money over. Instead of some sort of ticket stub in return, all she received was a grunt and a head nod.
The hallway the kid indicated was narrow and dark, with three of the half dozen bare bulbs affixed to the navy-blue ceiling having long since burnt out.
From there, it opened to an equally neglected anteroom. To the left stood what had once been a concession stand. Now, it was just a colorful tabletop riddled with cigarette burns. The only indication of its intended purpose was a sign behind the counter, faded, splattered with a thick, yellow substance, that vaguely resembled an overflowing box of popcorn.
Across from the stand was a set of double doors and beside those, a smashed poster box containing a hand-written note. It read, Quantum Gardiens and hung askew by a single tack.
Alex grimaced as she touched the filthy silver door handle, wishing she had a long shirt to wrap her hand in, and then stepped into the theater.
It was dark, dank, and filled with the unmistakable odor of burnt rubber.
The seats had probably been reclaimed from another theater that had tossed them out while doing renovations.
Tossed them out in the rain, where they’d stayed for a month before the proprietor of this fine joint decided to appropriate them.
The screen had yellowed with time, and the image on it, a fight scene she recalled from the beginning of the movie, was faded yet somehow over-saturated at the same time. The image quality in the bottom right-hand corner was particularly poor, as the frame was warped there. Like the concession stand outside, this area was riddled with even more cigarette burns.
But at least there was a movie playing. And there was sound, too. Tinny, way too much treble and not nearly enough bass, but at least Alex could hear something coming out of the speakers.
Alex spotted two others in the theater, a man and a woman in the second row. And then there was only one; the man put a hand on the back of the woman’s head and guided her out of sight.
No voyeur was she, Alex opted for a seat in the aisle, near the back. The foam cushioning was nonexistent. During her first few weeks as an NYPD officer, Alex’s superiors had taken her and a couple of the other boots out for drinks to celebrate. They’d bought round after round of shots and when the night was through and the rookies wanted to go home, their colleagues had other ideas.
They’d driven them back to the station and locked them all in the drunk tank overnight as part of their initiation.
Alex, being the only woman in the group, had been courteously given the concrete slab in the cell to sleep on.
That was arguably more comfortable than the theater chair.
While she waited for a runner to approach, Alex focused on the movie itself.
If this was a pirated version, there was no difference—video and audio quality aside—that she could tell.
That is until about six minutes after she’d sat down.
During a scene where the protagonist held hands with a redheaded superhero, foreshadowing a romantic relationship that never actually came to fruition, there was a slight flicker to the image on screen. It lasted for only a fraction of a second and, initially, Alex chalked the change from the characteristic blue and red hues endemic to superhero flicks to something black and gray up to faulty equipment.
Then it happened again, lasting almost three-quarters of a second this time.
And in this change, Alex thought she saw the dark outline of a human shape.
This definitely wasn’t in the version that she’d watched using a legitimate streaming service on her laptop yesterday. But before she could offer this much thought, someone approached from behind and Alex tensed.
It was just a kid, not unlike the one who had taken her five bucks at the door. Thin, acne on his chin, wearing a black T-shirt that was far too big for him. A gold chain, way too yellow to be real, hung around his neck.
“What you need?” the kid hissed as he leaned down to her level. His breath was fetid, awful.
“ H —one bag,” Alex said quietly.
The kid pulled back, his lower lip disappearing as he took her in.
“Thirty-five,” he said, still baring his teeth.
“Thirty-five? I only got thirty.”
“Can’t go no bag for thirty. But you can get a nugget for that.”
Alex was familiar with the term; he wanted to sell her crack. It didn’t really matter to her what she bought and was about to agree when the kid’s sneer grew into a lecherous grin.
“You know what? I’ll tell you what: I’ll give you some H for thirty if you throw in a sloppy toppy.”
She knew that slang term, too.
No thanks.
“A nugget is fine,” Alex said, producing thirty dollars from her wallet. The kid took it and then his eyes darted.
The runner was trying to be sly, but Alex knew what he was going to do perhaps even before the idea fully formed in his adolescent head.
He was going to bolt.
“Don’t even think about it,” Alex said. Her hand shot out and she grabbed the kid’s wrist.
Her FBI training, and before that her experience in the NYPD, had left her with more than adequate hand-to-hand combat training.
Still, she knew her limitations and suddenly wished that she hadn’t left her gun in Con’s car. It wasn’t as if they were going to search her.
“Let go,” the kid snarled. “Let—”
The action on screen kicked into high gear and the speakers erupted with a static-filled explosion.
The kid used this to his advantage and shoved Alex in the chest with his free hand. She was partially out of the uncomfortable seat and the push made her fall backward on top of one of the armrest dividers.
It dug into her spine, and she winced.
Alex tried to sit back up, but instead of running, the kid continued forward and laced a forearm across her throat. She could barely breathe, with her windpipe being constricted and the added pressure of their combined body weight driving the divider even deeper into her back.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Spit hit Alex in the face and being this close to his mouth was unbearable. She felt vomit rise in her throat.
“FBI,” she croaked.
“Shut up.” The kid pushed even harder making it impossible for Alex to utter another syllable. His smile grew into a hideous rictus. “You ain’t going nowhere now, you stupid bitch. I’m taking your thirty bucks and you’re giving me that blow job.”