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Authors: Matthew Quinn Martin
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existed on many levels. Most could only experience the surface, but not Jarrod, not anymore. To him, it was laid bare. He could shift from one layer of reality to the next as simply as flipping the pages of a book. An apocalypse book painted on plates of isinglass, each one revealing some new horror, and he was the one chosen to break the final seal. He knew where the demons were. Knew from Ludwig, from old photos, and from his own memory of the countless times heâd walked past them and never known.
Times Square was once ground zero for video arcades. Thirty years ago, amid neon-clad sin palaces promising carnal decadence 24/7, stood row after row of darkened alcoves, arcades lit only by the glowing screens within. What better place for the demons to stalk?
The peep shows and jack shacks had all moved west since then. And the arcades were mostly a dusky memory, but one remained. One last multilevel temple to the almighty quarter stood proud in Times Square. One last place for the demons to plot their dominion.
Jarrod emerged from the subway in a daze, following the path as if it was lit up for him alone. He entered the building. He stepped onto the escalator that would take him to the heart of the arcade. Among the faces around him, every third one flickered. Scales rippled beneath their illusion of human flesh, their mammo-reptilian gazes boring through his defenses. Demons, and he knew it. A single word flashed across his vision, almost as if he were reading it on the Polybius screen: Sormen.
Sormen.
The escalator deposited Jarrod on a broad esplanade. He looked out; the expanse was rimmed by row after row of game consoles. At each one stood a target, waiting. He was about to draw his guns but stopped. He hadnât expected them to look so human, not here in their nest. Maybe not all of them were demons. He shook his head. It didnât matter. There were bound to be some civilian casualties. He knew that. His brother had known that. And unlike his brother, he was willing to pay the price. This rain will fall on the just and the unjust alike , Jarrod thought as he pulled out his guns. I will not weep for them. They will die heroes.
âDemons!â Jarrod bellowed over the hubbub and din. âDemons! Your reign is at an end!â A couple of security guards turned toward him. Their faces did not flicker, did not betray scales under the probing gaze of his new eyes. Human slaves , he thought. Or traitors begging for scraps. The security slaves edged closer, fumbling for nightsticks and mace. âStand back! My war is not with you.â
He took aim at those his war was with. And pulled the trigger.
Brattleboro Reporter
OBITUARIES
Foster, Jarrod Hanlon, 28
Son of Moira and Simon Foster Sr., Jarrod Hanlon Foster took his own life while in custody of the New York City Police Department. Mr. Fosterâs suicide came shortly after his violent confrontation with law-enforcement officers and subsequent arrest. Autopsy results show that Foster had a previously undiagnosed brain tumor, which may have triggered his sudden psychotic break.
A graduate of NYU, Foster was living in New York and pursuing a career in graphic design. He was predeceased by his older brother, Simon Foster Jr. (b. 1983), a decorated veteran of the Afghanistan war. In addition to his parents, Foster is survived by a sister (Jill-Anne, 24). His remains have been cremated and returned to his family, who will inter them in a private ceremony. The family respectfully requests that those who knew their son remember the man he was and not the person he became in the end.
In lieu of flowers, the Fosters request that donations be sent to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.
NINE
A s they bundled him into the back of a police cruiser, Jarrod tried to remember, to make sense of it. How he had gotten from his apartment to Times Square was still a big void in his mind. And even as he tried to pull up what had happened inside, he
Times Square was once ground zero for video arcades. Thirty years ago, amid neon-clad sin palaces promising carnal decadence 24/7, stood row after row of darkened alcoves, arcades lit only by the glowing screens within. What better place for the demons to stalk?
The peep shows and jack shacks had all moved west since then. And the arcades were mostly a dusky memory, but one remained. One last multilevel temple to the almighty quarter stood proud in Times Square. One last place for the demons to plot their dominion.
Jarrod emerged from the subway in a daze, following the path as if it was lit up for him alone. He entered the building. He stepped onto the escalator that would take him to the heart of the arcade. Among the faces around him, every third one flickered. Scales rippled beneath their illusion of human flesh, their mammo-reptilian gazes boring through his defenses. Demons, and he knew it. A single word flashed across his vision, almost as if he were reading it on the Polybius screen: Sormen.
Sormen.
The escalator deposited Jarrod on a broad esplanade. He looked out; the expanse was rimmed by row after row of game consoles. At each one stood a target, waiting. He was about to draw his guns but stopped. He hadnât expected them to look so human, not here in their nest. Maybe not all of them were demons. He shook his head. It didnât matter. There were bound to be some civilian casualties. He knew that. His brother had known that. And unlike his brother, he was willing to pay the price. This rain will fall on the just and the unjust alike , Jarrod thought as he pulled out his guns. I will not weep for them. They will die heroes.
âDemons!â Jarrod bellowed over the hubbub and din. âDemons! Your reign is at an end!â A couple of security guards turned toward him. Their faces did not flicker, did not betray scales under the probing gaze of his new eyes. Human slaves , he thought. Or traitors begging for scraps. The security slaves edged closer, fumbling for nightsticks and mace. âStand back! My war is not with you.â
He took aim at those his war was with. And pulled the trigger.
Brattleboro Reporter
OBITUARIES
Foster, Jarrod Hanlon, 28
Son of Moira and Simon Foster Sr., Jarrod Hanlon Foster took his own life while in custody of the New York City Police Department. Mr. Fosterâs suicide came shortly after his violent confrontation with law-enforcement officers and subsequent arrest. Autopsy results show that Foster had a previously undiagnosed brain tumor, which may have triggered his sudden psychotic break.
A graduate of NYU, Foster was living in New York and pursuing a career in graphic design. He was predeceased by his older brother, Simon Foster Jr. (b. 1983), a decorated veteran of the Afghanistan war. In addition to his parents, Foster is survived by a sister (Jill-Anne, 24). His remains have been cremated and returned to his family, who will inter them in a private ceremony. The family respectfully requests that those who knew their son remember the man he was and not the person he became in the end.
In lieu of flowers, the Fosters request that donations be sent to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.
NINE
A s they bundled him into the back of a police cruiser, Jarrod tried to remember, to make sense of it. How he had gotten from his apartment to Times Square was still a big void in his mind. And even as he tried to pull up what had happened inside, he
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