Genesis. Volume 2

October 4, 1986. Detroit. Jim's Diner. Morning. Marcus had settled in the farthest corner, close to the window barred with a thick iron grille. In front of him sat a mug of coffee filled to the brim—untouched, with a gray, cold film already forming on the surface. The guy was completely bald, wearing a worn army jacket, and his shoulders were slumped so hopelessly it looked like an invisible slab of concrete was pressing down on them. When they approached the table, he slowly raised his head. His eyes were empty. There was no anger in them, no fear—just the dull indifference of someone who had long since stopped hoping for anything. "You actually came," he rasped, barely moving his tongue. "Thought you'd bail." "We made a promise," Lisa said, pulling out a chair and sitting directly across from him. Marcus gave a short, utterly joyless smirk. "In Detroit, nobody keeps promises. Not even to themselves." They squeezed in around the wobbly table. Arthur signaled to the bartender and ordered hot coffee and sandwiches for everyone. While they waited, Marcus stared past them—at the wall, where a torn, faded concert poster hung. When the bartender brought the plates, he didn't even turn his head toward the food. "Why aren't you eating?" Emma nodded at the sandwich. "Lost my taste," Marcus replied dully, not changing his posture. "After that day. Everything tastes like cardboard." "Tell us exactly what happened," Arthur urged, leaning forward and planting his elbows on the table. Marcus leaned back heavily against the worn chair. He spoke slowly, with long pauses, staring at the chipped ceiling: "Three months ago. Me and some guys made a dare. Who could last longest in the abandoned factory on Ford Park. So I went first. Stepped inside—and there was emptiness, rusty machines lying around, and silence so deep it made your ears ring. Then suddenly the air around me turned hot. Like someone had thrown open an oven door. And then—darkness. I came to on the street, about three blocks away. Turns out, three days had passed." "Three whole days?" Lisa asked, her eyes widening. "Yeah, three. What I did during that time—I don't remember a damn thing. My mom later said I came home on my own, but I walked around like a zombie. Didn't touch food, didn't talk to anyone, just stared at one spot. Then I sort of snapped out of it. But the gaps never went away. Now I can't remember what happened yesterday. Sometimes I blank out and can't recall my own name." He stopped abruptly and gripped the cold mug so hard his nails turned white. "What does it look like?" Jenny asked quietly. "The Void?" Marcus slowly shook his head. "It doesn't look like anything. Just ordinary air. But very hot. It doesn't even hide from anyone—it's just everywhere. Nobody notices it until they take a deep breath. And once you do—that's it. It's already inside you." "You wrote in your letter that it steals memories," Arthur reminded him. "Yeah, it steals them," Marcus nodded, a hollow ache creeping into his voice. "Or drinks them, I don't know. After that factory, there were no pictures left in my head at all. My parents' faces are blurry now, like fog. The friends I went to the factory with—I don't remember them at all. I only remember things from early childhood, before that factory. Everything after that is just a black hole." Jenny suddenly flinched. The thin thread tied around her wrist began to grow warm. Barely noticeable at first, but with each second it grew hotter, until her skin started to burn. She nervously shifted her gaze to Marcus. He leaned over the table to pick up a match that had slipped from his fingers, and the tight collar of his army jacket slid slightly to the side. On his neck, right around his throat, a thin red thread was clearly visible, neatly tied in a small bow. "Your neck..." Lisa breathed, pointing. Marcus jerked and hastily, convulsively pulled his collar back up to his chin. "It appeared on its own. Right after that time. I tried to cut it off every which way—useless. The knife blunts like it's hitting stone, like it's grown right into my skin." "We all have the same damn thing," Arthur rolled up his sleeve, showing his wrist with the red mark. Marcus stared at his arm for a long time without looking away, then slowly shifted his heavy gaze to Jenny. "So you feel it too? When one of us—with the mark—is nearby?" Jenny nodded silently, pressing her burning wrist to her chest. "Yes. The thread starts to heat up." "Same here," Marcus scratched his shaven head. "At first I thought I was going crazy, having episodes. Then it hit me—this crap connects everyone it's marked." "What do you mean—connects?" Emma frowned. "Like we're links in one chain for it. It can go through one of us to get to another. Or we draw it to us like a magnet." He fell silent again, staring at the table. Arthur downed his cold coffee in two gulps and grew serious. "Do you know how to stop this thing? Is there any way at all?" Marcus reached into the deep pocket of his jacket, pulled out a heavy old key, and placed it on the wooden tabletop with a dull thud. "This is for the side entrance to the factory. During the day it's pitch-black in there, but that's when the thing is at its wildest. I can always tell when it's lurking nearby: the thread around my neck starts to burn. And also..." he glanced nervously at the bartender and dropped his voice to a whisper. "One night I tried talking to it, when my room was completely quiet. I asked right into the darkness: 'What do you want from me?' And I think it answered. Not with a voice, no. Like something hot breathed right into my ear: 'Memories. Give me fresh ones.'" "So you can negotiate with it? Feed it something?" Emma asked quickly. "Maybe you can," Marcus shrugged. "But who in their right mind would willingly give away pieces of their own memory?" A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the table. Jenny gripped the edge of the wooden table until her fingers hurt, took a deep breath, and said quietly but firmly: "I'll try." "What?" Arthur spun around to face her. "I'll try," she repeated, looking him straight in the eye. "My blood... there's something off about it, you know that. I feel like I can lure this thing out onto myself. Distract it while you do what needs to be done." "Are you out of your mind?" Max half-rose from his chair in outrage. "Maybe I am," Jenny didn't even look at him; her gaze was locked on Marcus. "Will you come with us and show us the way?" The boy recoiled in fear and quickly snatched the key off the table back into his pocket, shaking his head. "No. I've been there, and I'm not going back for all the money in the world. But if you actually manage to corner it... let me know. Maybe then I'll at least remember my own name." He started to get up from the table, but Arthur firmly grabbed his wrist. "Marcus. The address. And leave the key." Marcus froze, gave a crooked grin, and finally pulled out the heavy piece of iron, dropping it on the table. Quickly, without hesitation, he gave the street and the building number. "Go now, while the sun's still high. And watch your step—don't leave any traces. That thing remembers absolutely everything." He turned and walked quickly toward the exit. But at the very door, his hand on the handle, he paused for a second and looked back over his shoulder. "You're from Brookfield, right? They say you've got an old haunted mansion there, all that stuff. We've got plenty of stories about this factory too. They say workers started disappearing in droves, and management blamed it all on accidents. Then they found a body in one of the far basements. Completely faceless." "What do you mean—faceless?" Lisa frowned. "Just that. Smooth as a plastic doll's face. Flat, like an egg." Marcus visibly shuddered at his own words and pulled his head deeper into his shoulders. "I thought the locals were just spinning tales out of boredom. Until I went there myself." The door slammed shut; the bell above it jingled mournfully, announcing his departure. The table fell silent again. "Faceless..." Max repeated quietly, staring at his palms. "Just like the ones the Void pulls in." "Or what's left of people after it drinks everything living out of them," Emma added softly. Arthur reached out, picked up the cold key from the table, and weighed it in his palm. The piece of iron was old, with a long patterned bit, and smelled of rust. "Alright, let's go," Arthur stood up, pocketing the key. "The factory isn't going to close itself." They stepped outside, where the dampness and smell of gasoline fumes hit them again. Lisa pulled out her sketchbook as she walked and began quickly sketching a portrait of Marcus with her pencil: the sharp, prominent Adam's apple, those terrible empty eyes, and a thick, bold line around his neck. She took out a red pencil and pressed firmly to trace the spot where the thread was hidden. "He doesn't really believe we'll succeed," she noted without stopping her drawing. "He just feels too awful to believe," Jenny replied, huddling into her jacket. "If he believed now and we screwed up, he'd lose his mind completely from despair." "And are we sure we'll succeed?" Max looked glumly at Arthur. "We'll figure it out when we get there," Arthur cut him off. "There's no other choice anyway." They set off down a wide, completely empty street toward the industrial zone. The sun had risen above the rooftops, but its light remained gray through the thick haze and gave no warmth. Somewhere on the outskirts, a stray dog barked hoarsely, desperately. Detroit hummed dully around them, like a terminally ill patient who still couldn't decide whether it was even worth waking up anymore.