Eleven Twenty-Three

By Jason S. Hornsby

Layne Prescott meets a strange man in a Shanghai airport and ends up carrying a mysterious briefcase with an attached wrist shackle home with him. Once back in his hometown, Layne’s world spirals out of control. Each day at precisely 11:23, the small town erupts into violent chaos. Surrounded by a strict military quarantine, Layne and his friends wait with dread as the clock ticks downward.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Aug 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781934861622

Book preview

Eleven Twenty-Three

Jason S. Hornsby

Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.

Copyright 2010 Jason S. Hornsby

www.PermutedPress.com

Ruminations and Acknowledgements

The List seems to have gotten longer this time around.

First, I would like to thank Jacob Kier, my publisher that never sleeps; and also, my brilliant fellow undead junkie and editor, Travis Adkins. I’m honored to be a member of the Permuted family, though if we ever shared a surname it would probably be Manson.

Again, I’m hugely indebted to those artists and humanitarians that came before me and who I will now feebly attempt to properly credit. Charles Bukowski, Bret Ellis, Koushun Takami, Sion Sono, Shinya Tsukamoto, Eric Steel, Charlie Kaufman, Chris Carter, Darin Morgan, Marc Etkind, James Shelby Downard, Charles Fort, Robert Anton Wilson, Sylvester Stallone (I’m being serious), Yumi Akashima, Akiko Noma, Richard D. James, Richard McKenna, and Daw Aung San Suu Kyi—your contributions to literature, film, music, and especially the human condition are immeasurable, and the world owes all of you a happy ending.

From the Academy, I want to thank my fellow staff for everything they have done, and for playing the role of my second family for two years. Without your unwavering support, professionalism, and shoulders to lean on, I may not have been able to keep up with the gargantuan responsibilities of teaching all day and writing all night. Nor would I have wanted to. I’d also like to show appreciation to my partner in academic crime, Jessica Stone. If not for Jessica, I would never have taken this novel in the direction I did. I’m not sure if I adore or loathe her for that. Time will tell. From the same building, I’d like to thank my co-teacher and expatriate friend Joseph Haley for the surreptitious hallway chats, slurred late-night conversations, shoptalk, and Mortal Kombat tournaments. I hope you found happiness in Malaysia. Our next rendezvous will be somewhere in the smog.

To my summer China friends, you may not ever read this, but you certainly helped provoke it. Our short time together in the Orient was among the most invaluable experiences of my life, and you have all made a permanent impact on me. Michael, Tony, Dennis, Andre and Mary, Susan, Frank, Xiaoyue—I dream of another overnight train and lukewarm Tsing Tao one day with all of you.

I’m greatly in debt to my always excessive and often provocative group of Lakeland friends, whose over-the-top weekend adventures, political commentary, ghost hunts, two a.m. Moon Tower discussions, brash and decadent senses of humor, unwavering character and honesty, and total 2012 preparedness will certainly prove to be the inspiration of much nostalgia while I’m away. But not to worry: my move is only to expand our franchise. Shawn Nelson, Brian Corbett, Miles and JD (you’re my honorary Lakeland friends), Kyle Roman, Damon Devorss, Cindy and John Windsor, Clint and Stephani Tolbert, you guys from that local metal band I kind of like, and the rest of you characters—never stop hiding from the sun. Never.

In Beijing, I’d like to give the following people a big awkward hug for their support, drinking games, speeches on the global transition toward socialism, and Mandarin lessons: Liam Holly, Whitney Rosenberg, Dustin Zagars, Winnie Zou, and especially my Jinlv. Thanks to all of you, I’m living in one of my own ridiculous novels.

If not for the occasional monetary support, Sunday dinners, political arguments, reverse inspiration, and emotional turbulence of my family, this book would have been ten pages of notebook paper scribbles hidden away in my hall closet. Josh and Brandie, Dad and Chris, Grandma and Pops, and especially my Uncle Jeff…thank you so, so much. I promise that one day I’ll figure out what I’m doing with myself, and you will too.

Strange and sad as it may be, I also feel hugely indebted to my extraordinary, supernaturally perceptive cat Ellis for his support during this difficult project. Too many times to count, Ellis’s unique and decidedly un-catlike ability to interpret and empathize with my weekly moments of melancholy and melodrama truly saved my life. He repeatedly put a halt to the production of this book by hopping into my lap while I was trying to write it, but I was never too busy for him, even if I was sometimes too busy for everything else. I could never love another cat in China, nor will I try.

It would be unfair (not to mention boring) to leave out the following family, exes, and haunts from my acknowledgements, as your cynicism, hypocrisy, abandonment, betrayal, and slight insanity inspired me to burrow into my womb and abandon your world. To the Jessica franchise, the amoral friends, the bigots, the Nanluogu Xiang girls, the old unstable women, the Amazon literature professors, the various other former protégés that shall remain first-nameless, and anyone else who scanned the I-hate-you list looking for your anti-prestige—there’s nothing left to say. You are now…officially…forgotten.

To God…thank you. I’m glad you make international house calls.

I’d like to dedicate this novel to Natalie Ballard, a true soul mate and one of the most passionate and beautiful people I have ever known. She brings me Nyquil when I’m sick, loans me her collection of suicide notes, attempts to convince all of her Internet friends that my writing is interesting, and is much smarter than me to boot. This book only exists because of you, Natalie. Therefore it’s yours.

Finally, to my hometown of Lakeland, Florida: I love you, but it’s over. Lake Mirror is pretty, the swans were a nice touch, and those Oysters Rockefeller at Shucky’s remain truly transcendent, but I want my key, my security deposit, and my gray jacket back (you can keep the railroad spike). I think we would both benefit from a change.

Jason S. Hornsby

Chinese New Year, 2009

Beijing, PRC

Document One

And in my dream the sky eats the airplane and the Western moon drains all hope like two unholy carnivorous ships that pass in the night.

Shanghai, PRC – San Francisco, California – Orlando, Florida

Combined Populations at 10:05 PM GMT + 08:00 on Thursday, December 6, 2007: 19,862,186

Contemporary man has rationalized the myths, but he has not been able to destroy them.

- Octavio Paz, El Laberinto de la Soledad

一般来说, 公司里刚刚从国外回来的年轻游客是最没有教养的.

- Jonathan Swift

Beyond this room, beyond this wall, beyond this man who was not quite the same man seated at the desk that was not quite the same desk…lay an entire world of streets and people. What sort of world it was now, there was no telling.

- Ray Bradbury, A Sound of Thunder

10:22:04 PM

The dead are all around us, I realize for the third time since they found my father yesterday, and continue staring.

In the airport bar where my girlfriend Tara and I are pounding away overpriced Asian beers before our flight, I spot a man with a briefcase attached to his wrist by a long metal coil and thin handcuff about three tables away. He is illuminated in green-gray smoke-light from his own cigarette and the Yanjing Beer lamp burning above his head, and he methodically stirs around whatever the clear concoction is in his glass. Even from where we’re seated I can hear the ice crinkle and collapse into its own melted abyss. When he notices me leering at his wrist, at the silver handcuff wrapped tautly around it, I look back at Tara and pretend to be engaged in a conversation. When he resumes his attention on the soccer game playing on mute from above the bar, I commence gazing at him. I am in awe.

I found out yesterday—of all days, it had to be yesterday—that because of the limited space in China, the dead are not usually buried. They are burned, cremated, and their dust is scattered into the air for the living to eventually inhale. Except not really. Although family and friends will always tell the government that they have cremated the body, this is often not the case. Those cash-strapped and others reticent to let loved ones burn will more often than not simply take the corpses of freshly deceased relatives away from town and dig a shallow grave somewhere along the way. Throughout China this happens, someone told Tara and me at the university today as we were rushing around trying to tie up the loose ends. Across the country, there are forgotten Asians buried just underneath our feet.

Here, the dead truly inhere all around us.

What are you thinking? Tara asks me.

About what? I say, motioning at the sprite little waitress for another beer.

About anything, I guess.

I’m thinking about what Nalan Minghui said at school earlier, about how the dead are buried all over the country and none of it’s marked.

God, I was running around frantically trying to get our shit together before the flight. I don’t even remember.

Well, Nalan Minghui said it.

"So why are you thinking about that?" Tara asks.

The man in the gray suit, black tie, and handcuff notices my gaze yet again, but this time we make eye contact for several sweat-inducing seconds. Something seems to occur to him as he looks at me, and whatever it is causes his facial features to soften and his grip to relax on the empty glass he’s holding. I cringe but cannot look away until he smiles, tips his drink at me, and begins to stand up. He doesn’t look any older than forty, but winces like an old man when he struggles to his feet.

I…guess…I was just thinking… I am lost in my own terrified barroom reverie, watching as the man saunters over to the counter to order another clear drink, and smiles politely as he tosses down a bill for 50 Yuan.

Were you thinking about your father? Tara asks. Is that what brought the dead Chinese thing up? Because that makes a lot of sense, actually—

Well, I wasn’t thinking about my father—I was trying to save that awful thought process for the plane ride back to the States—but I suppose I can think about it now, if you’d prefer.

Don’t be a dick, Layne. I was just asking. You’ve been really quiet about it since you found out last night. I was just trying to give you the opportunity to discuss your thoughts on going home under these circumstances.

Take it easy, Sunshine. You can turn the psychology degree off for now. I’m fine.

The bartender hands the man another drink, and he immediately begins heading not back to his own table, but toward us, toward Tara and I at our little corner underneath the mirror. I try not to let him know just how aware I am that he is approaching us, but we match eyes again and I force a welcoming nod, despite the beads of sweat materializing underneath my arms and at the bottom of my spine.

People die, I say, turning away from my girlfriend. Hello there.

Good evening, the man says in a dignified West Coast accent. How are you two doing?

Just great, Tara says, casting me a quizzical glance. How are, um, you, sir?

She suppresses a giggle. I am again reminded that Tara is not entirely used to the adult world yet. She had just finished college a few months before we left.

I’m fine, thanks. But listen, I was just wondering—may I join you two for a few minutes? It’s just that I’ve been here waiting for this flight for a good while now and haven’t spoken to any other Americans in days—

No, absolutely, come join us, I say, pointing at the free chair just behind the briefcase attached to his right arm. Have a seat. My girlfriend and I always love the chance meeting with another expat.

Tara gives me a look of incredulity. Her expression is code for: Is this normal? I shrug, not knowing the answer.

The man sets his drink on the table, pulls over the chair, and sits down gingerly in it, as if the metal legs will deform and collapse under his brisk weight. Then he delicately rests the briefcase on the floor directly next to his heel and brings his right arm—the one with the handcuff attached at his wrist—up to grab his spirit. He raises his glass for a toast, and as he does so the metal coil clinks against his chair. I look away from the sound.

A toast, he says. "To chance encounters. Gan-bay."

"Gan-bay," Tara and I repeat in a way that sounds as if we are asking a question, and we clink our own tall mugs of half-drank beer against his full glass. We drink solemnly and I’m pretty sure Tara wants this man to leave.

By the way, he says, my name is Scott. Jonas Scott.

Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Scott, I say, hoping he will correct me and instruct us to call him Jonas. He doesn’t. A scattered few of the Chinese bar tenants cheer at a goal being made on the TV above the bar. This is my girlfriend Tara Tennille, and I’m Layne Prescott.

So nice to meet you two, Layne and—and, um—Lydia?

"No, Tara says brusquely. It’s Tara. My name is Tara."

I’m so sorry, he says, sitting back hard against his seat and wiping away a single droplet from his neck using the free hand. I’m losing my hearing, I think. It’s Tara, right?

Right…Tara.

I apologize, Mr. Scott says. It’s just a little loud in here, is all.

No problem, I say for both of us, attempting to gauge Tara’s demeanor. So where are you headed tonight, Mr. Scott?

San Francisco at eleven twenty-three.

Wow, what a coincidence, Tara says. That’s where we’re headed too. And then we have a connecting flight back East. Where are you going after San Francisco?

Nowhere, he says, but does not add anything to his statement, and I peer across the bar as a middle-aged German couple discreetly slips their pubescent son a sip of their beer.

We’re heading home for the holidays, Tara says. In Florida.

Where do you two live in Florida?

We live in this little beach town south of St. Augustine and north of Daytona called Lilly’s End.

Oh? Lilly’s End?

It’s where we grew up, I chime in. It’s quaint like a Norman Rockwell painting but just as boring. It’s one of those bona fide nursing home towns where old people from Michigan and Indiana come to die.

Come on, Layne, it’s not that bad, Tara interjects predictably. It really isn’t, Mr. Scott. Lilly’s End is a nice place to live.

I’m sure it’s a charming little town, he says, but with a slightly menacing grin, as if he has seen how dreadful Lilly’s End is with his own eyes and knows Tara is simply wistful for home right now and therefore full of shit.

Have you ever heard of it? I ask.

Actually, Mr. Scott says, I think I have. Didn’t some surveyors accidentally dig up some Indian artifacts or something there not too long ago? It made the news?

Incredible, I say. "I’m pretty impressed. Yeah, that was us, in fact. Right before we left they found a large stone clock or something in the spot where they planned to build a new post office. From what my mother’s been telling me in her e-mails, the archaeologists called out there hadn’t figured out what the spirals in the center are yet, and so the city planners don’t want to move it."

Maybe they should leave it be and just build the post office somewhere else, he says quietly, taking a gulp of his drink. Maybe they should not look any further into the matter and just leave it where it sits and forget about it.

Maybe you’re right, Tara says, nodding.

It seems to me that the world would be a much better place if we just left the myths alone sometimes and forgot about rationalizing everything. Some events are better left unexplained, or better yet, explained in some kind of obscure, Fortean manner. Things are much more interesting that way.

I’d agree with that. I miss having the Loch Ness monster myth, I say, realizing how stupid what I just said was but remaining unable to stop myself when I add, That clock or whatever it is will probably mean something much more prosaic and mundane than what we all imagined it to. It will turn out to be some kind of agricultural chart or something far less exciting than what the townsfolk will project. I say just let it sit there and perplex us forever.

Mr. Scott does not respond, just stares down at the case on the floor. Tara inspects her lap and picks at a small white bump on her jeans that cannot be scraped away by her fingernail. There is a moment of quiescence between the three of us. Nervous swallows of beer and frantic glances around the bar ensue.

So uh, what brought you two to Shanghai? Mr. Scott finally asks us. His metal coil sounds like a spinning roulette wheel when it slides carelessly against his chair as he drinks.

Actually, we’ve both been teaching English in Suzhou now for the past four months. At Soochow University.

Very nice, Mr. Scott says. I’ve been told the market for English teachers here has swelled a great deal in the past couple of years.

But not the pay, unfortunately, Tara adds.

Where were you two again? Suzhou?

Yeah.

The Venice of the Orient, they call it. Beautiful city. I’ve read that the most stunning women in Asia live there, as well.

I don’t think all that much of them, Tara says, chugging from her glass of beer. I take a large gulp of my own but swallow only pangs of regret and traumatic flashbacks.

But that’s what they say, anyway, I throw in.

If you don’t mind me asking, it’s pretty early in the month, Mr. Scott begins. Aren’t you two going home for the holidays a bit…prematurely?

Well…yeah, sort of, I admit, though I don’t want to mention anything further. For the last twenty-four hours I have been on the edge of screaming at the next person who offers their condolences, and about thirty people have offered their condolences so far. There was a death in the family, so we’re heading back early. We’re lucky to be able to leave at all though. The birth of Christ isn’t exactly a headline in the PRC.

Or in the End, for that matter, Tara mutters. Not to mention our semester here doesn’t end until January.

A death in the family? Mr. Scott repeats. My condolences. I’m sorry to hear that.

I force down the scream and go on smiling.

It’s okay. It wasn’t anyone I was close to.

So why the early trip back? he asks, rather rudely in my opinion. He tilts his head back and swallows whatever’s left in his glass, including the ice. What he places back on the table is an empty cup stained just slightly on the rim with what looks like blood.

I notice that Tara is staring at the blood now as well. Then she stares at me.

It just seemed like I should be there for the family, I suppose. My mother wants me back for the service, and everyone at home is missing us, so it seemed like a good time to go.

I’ve always noticed that death has the odd latent effect of bringing people closer together than they would have been if the departed still had a pulse.

"So what brings you to China, Mr. Scott?" Tara asks, in an obvious effort to veer away from the odd area of conversation we were getting into. As she speaks, I look for a cut lip, a gash, or a bruise, something to cause the red stain on his glass. There’s nothing.

Me? I was just here on business, he says.

He removes a cigarette from his coat pocket. Tara and I respond to our cue and remove our own. When I can’t find our pack of matches, Mr. Scott ignites both our cigarettes with a butane lighter. Through the tiny blue flame, I see two elderly Japanese businessmen examining us worriedly from the terminal outside. One of them answers a cell phone and speaks in a hushed, halted tone to the person on the other end.

Do you come to China a lot on business? I ask, unnerved by the two stoic men hovering in my peripherals.

No, never before this time, actually.

At this moment, over a quarter of the bar patrons leave simultaneously. I glance back at the plasma screen across the room and notice that the soccer game is over. The bartender changes the station to a CCTV news broadcast. The oversized LED clock above the television tells us in ominous red numbers that it is now 10:28, and flights are leaving the airport. Tara and I will not be able to drink much longer with this man, as if we’d even want to. Tara checks her watch and gives me a furtive look that I am fairly certain Mr. Scott notices.

Never? I find myself asking him.

Never, Layne. And to be honest, I don’t think I will ever need to come back again. Not after this trip.

Um, okay, I say. Mr. Scott motions for yet another drink from the waitress, and I take the opportunity to break away. So Tara, do you want anything else, or do you want to go back to our terminal now?

Let’s go back soon so we don’t miss any of the boarding calls. I also need to go into my bag and take one of my pills before the flight.

I motion for our check and immediately begin rummaging through my pockets for the last Yuan we have left after making the conversion back to American dollars to pay for our drinks. The drum and bass music in the lounge shrinks down to barely discernable levels, and I can hear someone’s baby screaming in Mandarin from the terminal outside.

I don’t think they will be boarding for some minutes, Mr. Scott says. I can buy you two another drink, if you’d like.

Oh, thanks for that, I say. But no. Tara worries. We really should be heading back, I guess.

Look, I’ve got to ask or I’ll hate myself later, Tara suddenly blurts, glancing at the coil leading down from his wrist. But, I just have to know, Mr. Scott—

You want to know what I do for a living? he asks pleasantly.

Yes, very much so. I mean, if you can tell me, that is.

I laugh nervously at her shocking breach of barroom-spy protocol and await an answer. I fear the worst.

Mr. Scott must notice my alarm, as he looks at me and says, It’s okay, Layne. No big deal.

Oh, good, I genuinely sigh with relief. Sorry about that, though.

It’s fine. Tara, I am actually a professional courier.

Wow, she says, inhaling thoughtfully on her cigarette. "I’ve always wanted to meet a courier ever since I was a kid. This is great! So you deliver important packages around the world and stuff?"

Sort of. It’s complicated.

And did you make a delivery here in Shanghai? she asks.

Not just yet, Mr. Scott says, concentrating on the burning orange embers of his cigarette.

Did something go wrong?

No, not at all, Layne. I just haven’t made the delivery yet. It wasn’t time. But soon, I think.

Tara and I ponder this for a long moment, but I can tell that neither of us wants to pursue it any longer. It seems like a bad idea to mention the finally obvious truth: that his delivery will be somewhere in this airport, and that the black briefcase on his wrist is the package to be delivered. Further, that it must be delivered very soon, if he is to make the 11:23 back to the States.

Well, we certainly have met some fascinating people here in China, haven’t we, Layne? Tara says, nodding while stubbing her cigarette out.

Indeed, I agree. This will be quite a chapter in our future Chinese memoirs.

I slowly rise from my chair and wait for Tara to do the same.

Well, we have to be going now, Mr. Scott, Tara says. "But it was so nice to meet you."

Yes, he nods. So nice to meet the both of you, as well. I never thought I’d meet the next guy to—

He catches himself and falls silent, focusing on the wall behind our table, at the strip of missing wallpaper and the exposed gray underneath. I exchange a quick glance with my girlfriend and look back down at the shadowy man sitting across from us. His eyes are on me now, as if he is fascinated with my every movement in the same way I am fascinated with his.

The next guy to do what? I find myself pressing.

Who…has the courage to live abroad for a year the way you do, he says, stubbing his cigarette out. I’m in awe of that kind of adventurous spirit. I was absolutely terrified of the world when I was your age.

Oh.

So maybe we’ll see you on the plane? Tara says, trying to sound hopeful.

It’s certainly possible, Tara, he answers. Chance encounters, you know? Or, as my father used to say about meetings such as these: ships that pass in the night.

A wind sweeps through the bar like a ferocious beast. The candles at two separate tables go out. I swallow the cliché.

Right, I say, backing away from him. Ships that pass in the night.

10:40:20 PM

That last fleeting memory of my father plays in static and garbled sound in my head, like the damaged recording of a wedding for a couple now long deceased. It’s of the night in the sushi restaurant. But I can’t hear the argument between us when I remember those moments. I only discern the silent pleas of another boulevardier hiding behind useless reputation and his own deflated ego.

"I will be so glad when our flight leaves, Tara says, pulling me out of my thoughts. Look at this bullshit up ahead."

Pudong Airport is crowded tonight. Unrest builds. Since four different flights out of Shanghai were all simultaneously postponed due to an earthquake or cyclone or some other typical disaster to the west, visitors from Thailand and India have gathered outside of Terminals 17 and 18 and are shouting in various annoying languages. A young Tibetan man opens a complimentary water bottle and splashes it across the two terrified girls working at the terminal. An old lady of indeterminate origin shouts in what I believe is Wu dialect since I am unable to pick out any of the words. She is waving her shriveled and disfigured arms about wildly as she rants. Babies cry. The room seethes and boils with anger and body heat.

Tara is nervous as we pass the tumult and whispers in my ear that this would never be allowed to happen back in the States. What I do not whisper back is that in the States I would be a twenty-seven year-old unemployed teacher waiting on tables at Applebee’s. I would hate my life again just like I hated it before we left and luckily only halfway hate now.

It has been a longer four months than I ever anticipated with Tara. In typical Tara fashion, at first she was ecstatic over the possibility of leaving the country to teach abroad for a year. She learned terrible broken Chinese catchphrases and memorized the history of Suzhou and Shanghai. She became a Wikipedia zombie and came to bed every night with pseudo-encyclopedic knowledge on practically every aspect of life in the China, and when she finally got bored with that, she started looking up Bhutan and Myanmar.

Did you know that all tobacco products are banned in Bhutan? she asked me one evening. On another, she said, I’m afraid that something big is about to happen in Myanmar, Sunshine. Have you read what’s going on over there?

I was happy for her enthusiasm about moving, but she was annoying me at a time in my life when I was very easily annoyed.

Now, ever since we arrived back in August, things have steadily declined for her. At first she found the stares, the aromas, the language barriers and open markets and poisonous tap water and superstitious fruit stand ladies and fingerless street children charming. She danced in the park with housewives practicing their Tai Chi. She sampled grilled snake in a Cantonese-style restaurant far removed from the suave bars and cafes of the French Concession in Shanghai. We had frantic, sweaty sex in the back of a boat-ride down the primeval canals of Suzhou and giggled about it for days.

Then one night when we got home from the university, Tara complained that Chinese college students hate the Japanese to a frightening degree. The next week, it was that Chinese students don’t like participating or getting involved in class, and that it was very difficult to break them from their old habits of sitting quietly at their desk as teachers driveled on and on about useless shit. Nongtang of the Damned, she called them while stupid drunk outside of a club one night. And it got worse and worse thereafter. The water in our shower was purportedly making her break out all over. She was sick and goddamned tired of the public restrooms and the pit in the floor she was expected to levitate over to pee. The only easily accessible American food consisted of KFC and McDonald’s, and the ice in the drinks at those places always gave her diarrhea. I listened to spiel after spiel about Myanmar and how the time to help those people was now, even as Tara squirmed free from the weak outstretched hands right in front of her face. Our apartment started to get cold around November and she insisted we caulk the windows to keep the cold air out and so I did, though I had no idea what caulking was or how it was done or whether it required a condom. For the past three weeks, she has been tossing and turning in bed, having bad dreams about her mother not recognizing her when she finally returned home and instead of hugging her, attempting to bite into the flesh of her neck and drink her blood.

Two days ago she mentioned the marriage thing again.

I have to admit I am almost thankful we’re going home early. The thought has occurred to me that maybe she will just stay back in Lilly’s End and won’t return with me on December 29.

When we get to Terminal 23 and find out that our flight will be boarding very shortly, Tara smiles brightly, kisses my cheek and cuddles up haphazardly against me. She mouths an eat shit to a wild-eyed Chinese scene kid who keeps raping her with his eyes.

We do not speak for several minutes.

Ships that pass in the night, she whispers.

What about them? I ask, feeling slightly drunk.

What a weird thing to say, is all.

It was certainly different, I agree. I’ve heard that expression before though. In college one of my professors said it in reference to his wife cheating on him, I think. It was one of those bizarre lecture moments that tend to happen every so often.

Sunshine, I’ll tell you what’s bizarre: that man Mr. Scott. That guy totally creeped me out.

He’s a courier with a briefcase on his wrist, Tara. I imagine they’re quite a unique breed. I’ve personally never met one. He was probably just lonely and looking to impress us.

I hope we’re not seated near him on the plane. What if he has Semtex or something in that case and he’s actually a potential suicide bomber?

That’s impossible, sweetie. First of all, one might argue that he’s definitely the wrong skin color for that. Second, if it was anything even remotely dangerous in there, do you think he would be traipsing around one of the largest airports in the world right now? From what Fox News tells me, they’re making it pretty tough on those darned terrorists nowadays.

I guess not, she agrees, obviously relieved. Will you hand me my bag? I want to take a Xanax before the flight.

May I have one? I ask. I can’t sleep in recycled air.

I hand Tara her bag from underneath my seat. She rummages around and produces a prescription bottle full of different kinds of pills—Xanax, Valium, Adderall, Percocet—and not a single one prescribed to her. We both take a bar apiece and swallow it down with our bottled water, which we seem to perpetually hold with one free hand every second we are awake in this country.

Despite the rising vociferations and tirades from Terminals 17 and 18, everything around us numbs and goes quiet. I let my head slump on the leather seat. There are not many people milling about our terminal, and I grow hopeful that our flight is half-empty and that we will be able to stretch our legs and fart undetected and maybe even fool around underneath the thin airline blankets they hand you upon boarding a red-eye.

It occurs to me that the Xanax may not have been so great an idea after three bottles of beer back in the lounge just as I drift off to sleep.

In my five-minute dream, Mitsuko is on top of me, peeling off slivers of her own flesh with razor-sharp fingernails. She foams at the mouth, and I try to push her naked bleeding body off of me, but she won’t stop. She’s gyrating back and forth, pouring blue-white spit from her mouth, roaring incoherent nonsense. When I look away and peer out into Hajime’s old hallway outside of his bedroom, the corridor protracts, becoming miles in distance. Yet I can still see clearly when my best friend guzzles Tara’s blood as it pours down from her severed head. I can see every detail of my father’s clean-shaven face and that impeccable business smile as he comes toward Mitsuko and me from the hallway. I peer through a fog that shrouds all hope. I can see my father approaching us, approaching me, trying to say how sorry he is for everything through gritted teeth covered in ripped skin and gore. I see myself screaming, see the grandfather clock above my head as the minute hand passes and the evil within us suddenly washes away like a retreating tide, and we are left paralyzed on the beach waiting for it to start again.

I awake.

When I come to, some onomatopoeia-like noise escapes me and Tara shudders into consciousness as well. For a couple of minutes we try to collect ourselves, and shortly after, they begin the boarding of our flight out of China and Tara and I can barely keep ourselves together long enough to find our passports.

We’re in the coach bulkhead right behind the bathrooms on a 747 jet. Tara fully extends her legs and immediately leans back in her seat, to which a passing flight attendant explains in broken English is against the rules and that her seat must be in the upright position for take-off. Tara rolls her eyes and sits up.

I’m glad to be going home, she says quietly.

Are you? I ask her, looking up and down the aisles to see how full the plane is. It’s quiet and vacuous all around me, a good sign.

I really, really am. It will be great to be with everyone for Christmas. I miss my mom and dad and Hajime and Mark and Julie and Jasmine—Mitsuko not so much, but that’s okay.

Tara has never been a huge fan of Mitsuko. Mitsuko never thought much of Tara either, now that I think about it. They’ve just always managed to tolerate each other for the greater good of the group.

God, that reminds me, I say. I just had a bad dream about Mitsuko and her brother in the terminal. It scared the hell out of me. Don’t you have any Ambien? Xanax makes me groggy when I wake up.

Beggars can’t be choosers, Layne.

Tara pushes up the armrest and rests her head on my shoulder. I fasten my seatbelt and watch as the doors close. The passenger cabin is only about three-quarters full.

I haven’t seen the man from the bar, Mr. Scott, on board the plane. He lied to us about the 11:23. I find that I don’t really care why.

Do you think everyone back at home missed us these past few months? Tara asks.

Hajime said they did whenever I talked to him. So yeah. I think so.

"Of course he said that, Layne. He has to. He’s the good friend and we’ve been gone a long time. He’s obliged to tell us how much everyone misses us."

Tara, I don’t think Hajime has ever been obliged to do anything.

"Yeah, maybe. But still—do you think everyone missed us? That they really did?"

Probably, Sunshine, I say, kissing Tara’s forehead. I’m sure everyone will be pretty glad to see you and me, yeah.

Tara looks past me into the black space beyond the double-plated glass of the airplane.

I just don’t want to be forgotten, she murmurs dreamily, by now the rambling product of the Xanax. I don’t want to be one of the ghosts of Lilly’s End, you know?

"Sweetheart, how can you be a ghost if you’re walking around and living there?" I ask.

Believe me, Layne, it can be done. You of all people should know that.

I turn away from the conversation and look out the window, my thoughts no longer capable of being communicated.

No one else sits in our row, so Tara and I are left with an extra seat between us. Not long after the doors are closed and everyone is half-asleep in their full and upright position, beautiful women with pale tan skin and well-pressed uniforms demonstrate how to operate the oxygen masks stored above our seats. Then they demonstrate how to use our cushion as a life raft when we crash into the Pacific. I stare out the window and listen as Tara whispers a useless story about her and her sister fighting at the last two family Christmas parties in a row. Very quickly it seems, the plane heads for the runway and the Chinese attendants sit down in foldout seats a few feet away from us. They buckle their safety belts. One of the moon-faced girls smiles wanly at me.

Soon there is roaring and build-up. The lights rush by outside the window, which is covered in little pellets of rain. Then they dim beneath me, and are quickly gone underneath a blanket of darkness.

Almost immediately, it is as if China doesn’t exist, that it never did for either of us.

Tara is quickly sprawled out on her two seats with her head burrowing into my chest, and I stare out into the clouds and wonder if things will be okay back at home. I think about my depressed wine-slogging mother and the pin-up girl my father was married to when he died. I think about Hajime and the security cameras strewn about his kitchen table. I think of Mitsuko, of her whisper soaking into my flesh and contaminating my blood.

I begin to fall asleep several times, but am always quickly reminded of the nightmare from the terminal. So instead I end up fighting to stay awake.

Reviews for Eleven Twenty-Three

[jasonbrownpdx · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Unlikely to become a best seller, but a decent fun read. Lots of questions, lots of trash plot line, some amazing prose. a fair amount of nearly putting it down and moving on.Central storyLayne and Tara come home from teaching ESL in China for a year, to attend the funeral of Layne's estranged father. Overnight, the sleepy hometown becomes a bloodbath. Beginnning at 11:23 am and repeating at each consecutive 11:23, mass portions of the population go ape shit and start mass killing. The government has quarantined them. The outside world believes that smallpox is rampant.Layne and Tara work to escape the town and ensure their survival as well as the global knowledge of what their town went through.Zombies? No.. Insanity? Maybe.. Alternate dimensions? Mind control? Ghosts? Petro chemical allergies? God? Cost of tea in china? Who the heck knows what this is about.It is reasonably priced ($6) but I have seen it in free preview and $1 sales as well. It is a good spend for a couple hours of quick paced fiction, but don't get it with the expectation of a story that has real staying power. Pick it up for some seriously brilliant passages intermixed with confusing blah blah. Pick it up for some pulp fiction dawn of the dead cross genre joy, try to ignore the Seinfeld episodes that break up the scenes. There is some serious gore in a few scenes.. Serious. Not for the squeamish.More review? Yeah, I don't really know what to tell you. It was wordy. There were vast section of vivid and amazing prose. There was also a lot of confusion and lofty 'coffee shop' drivel. Red herrings and dead ends in the plot line also work well/pissed me off for seeming to wasting time.

[toast.x2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Unlikely to become a best seller, but a decent fun read. Lots of questions, lots of trash plot line, some amazing prose. a fair amount of nearly putting it down and moving on.Central storyLayne and Tara come home from teaching ESL in China for a year, to attend the funeral of Layne's estranged father. Overnight, the sleepy hometown becomes a bloodbath. Beginnning at 11:23 am and repeating at each consecutive 11:23, mass portions of the population go ape shit and start mass killing. The government has quarantined them. The outside world believes that smallpox is rampant.Layne and Tara work to escape the town and ensure their survival as well as the global knowledge of what their town went through.Zombies? No.. Insanity? Maybe.. Alternate dimensions? Mind control? Ghosts? Petro chemical allergies? God? Cost of tea in china? Who the heck knows what this is about.It is reasonably priced ($6) but I have seen it in free preview and $1 sales as well. It is a good spend for a couple hours of quick paced fiction, but don't get it with the expectation of a story that has real staying power. Pick it up for some seriously brilliant passages intermixed with confusing blah blah. Pick it up for some pulp fiction dawn of the dead cross genre joy, try to ignore the Seinfeld episodes that break up the scenes. There is some serious gore in a few scenes.. Serious. Not for the squeamish.More review? Yeah, I don't really know what to tell you. It was wordy. There were vast section of vivid and amazing prose. There was also a lot of confusion and lofty 'coffee shop' drivel. Red herrings and dead ends in the plot line also work well/pissed me off for seeming to wasting time.

[hayduke_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

This book should have been a quick, enjoyable read, but it ended up feeling like work. Hornsby takes an interesting horror concept and fills it with overwritten prose that bogs down the narrative. To be fair, I should sprinkle my review with examples such as "mendacious hazel eyes" and ice that crinkles and collapes into the melted abyss. But in reality, I was probably not predisposed to like this horror novel. I enjoy a good tale of terror as much as the next reader, but I also appreciate a well-written book, and I wish this book had been both.