A church bell rings. It rings violently and absolutely. It rings with the wrath of god. The pitter patter of sinners' feet strikes the dusty roads.
Retrieving Archived File » 'JUPITER_COUNTY.rtf'
1976
215 Miles South of Denver, Colorado
Seymore S. Starr is driving a beaten Toyota Rav-4 down Interstate Ninety-Five at One Hundred Twelve Miles per hour because he knows that he cannot crash. He stopped looking at the speedometer fifteen minutes ago. He stopped looking at the gas meter two states ago.
He's running. From something: maybe. To something: possibly. But he is running. Not running for his life, but for something so much more than that. He has fucked up, bad. So badly he doesn't even remember what he did, just that it was bad. This he knows for certain, because he has burrowed past every layer of knowing and consciousness within him and he has distilled this one bedrock certainty: he has fucked up bad.
He has lost something, something of great magnitude and importance that he could not live without and that he now must. He cannot remember what this was, either.
He keeps going, the car does not give in because it is his steel steed and it will not fail him. He doesn't have a destination in mind, maybe he just wants to keep driving until he finds something. He doesn't know what exactly that would be either.
He doesn't know a lot of things. But he knows that these highways are long and strange and contain many things that ought not exist.
And he finds one. It's unremarkable, in the grand scheme of things, but it catches his eye; that alone is notable, he's not paying much attention to things.
It's a highway sign, green, stained, and noteless, save for its contents. The sign reads:
Jupiter County
16 miles to exit 6.
He slams on the breaks, returning to the speed limit, he takes exit six. He's found something that ought not exist. He smiles to himself. He doesn't know a lot of things, but he knows these roads.
And he's never heard of Jupiter County.
Jupiter County is, in fact, not a county at all. Rather, the name belongs to a small town, right on the Colorado/New Mexico border. It is, in every way, a small town. Rust lies unabated on discarded metal, local farms provide the food, and the desert is very cruel.
But Jupiter County is not just a small town. Not as he would recognize it, at least. Neon lights pump vast amounts of illumination into the darkness of the night. The buildings, should, by any reasonable construction, be built from brick or EIFS, and some of them are. But others are made from cold, blue, striking steel, their visage like a cool glass of water against the beating neon pink.
The road approaching the town is in a state of disrepair, he does two hundred dollars worth of damage to his suspension from the first six potholes alone, yet, strangely, this concern evaporates once he crosses the threshold to the town proper; demarcated by a sign glowing just as harshly as the rest of the town. Regardless, the roads within the town proper are spotless. A series of bright yellow LEDs have been established along the double-yellow lines of the road.
The town itself rests in a valley, and this entrance road, the only road into town, curves gently downward to facilitate this, it sweeps widely and slowly, allowing him to take in the town and its bombardment of contrasting colors. He squints to see the road as his retinas strain against the attack.
And he spots his mark.
He makes a beeline for the bar, pulling the car off into a barren side alley of concrete. Strangely enough, this alley is starkly clean, there's almost no dust within, and certainly no garbage. A nestled noodle-esque collection of pipes pump water and natural gas and heat into adjoining buildings. He does not see a single other person as he moseys through the town.
He at last arrives at the bar. He was raised agnostic, he does not believe in the pearly gates, but that blue and orange 'open' sign shines like sweet-fucking-salvation.
Of course, his reason for being here is; and must officially be: to get to the bottom of this town that ought not exist and to figure out why it does, a bar is a good place to do that. But, truthfully, his main reason is simply that he wants to feel a little less.
The bar: 'Saturn Tavern', is nice enough. It certainly conforms to the theme of the county. Large sweeping arcs of cold blue steel intersected by sharp contours of brick. The interior is homely, or at least attempts to be, Colorado/New-Mexico state paraphernalia decorates the walls and the lighting is orange and warm and decidedly less-neon. But the interior is also as inescapably alien as the rest of this place. A three foot inset in the mid-level of the wall sweeps about a foot back, providing a dugout for a series of coals. These are lit, but they do not burn orange or yellow or even blue, the coals burn purple.
The bar must be having a bad night, because it is empty. He wonders if maybe it's a holiday or something, that's possible, he's pretty much lost all sense of time after all. But the bar is tended to by a tall man in his forties. He wears a tweed jacket and luxury jeans and has a cockeyed smile that suggests his mouth is used to having a cigarette in it. He introduces himself as Conrad, because that is his name, and they talk.
CONRAD: What brings you to town?
STARR: Business.
CONRAD: Bad business?
STARR: No, just business. I work for an organization called the SCP Foundation. We deal with things that are… off, and I think there's something off about your town.
CONRAD: Huh. Never noticed anything strange myself. I'm pretty sure this is how things are meant to be.
STARR: Then how come I've never heard of your town? How come it's not on any maps?
CONRAD: Well, we're pretty new. Founded in only nineteen fifty. What would you like to drink?
STARR: Alcohol.
CONRAD: What kind of alcohol?
STARR: The kind with liquor in it.
CONRAD: I'm afraid we don't offer that.
STARR: What do you have?
CONRAD: Mostly soft drinks.
STARR: Can you add liquor to any of them?
CONRAD: No.
STARR: I'll take a diet coke please.
The drink, when produced, is about what he expects. It tastes much like cola, but slightly old and a tad sawdust-y and flat despite the bubbles. The two men spend quite a few moments in a companionable but vacant silence. It is only when thirty-four percent of the drink remains that Starr resumes conversation.
STARR: So, what is there to see here? What's your claim to fame? Every town has one.
CONRAD: Well, there's the Hall tree, where little Stanley Hall fell thirty feet and didn't break a bone.
STARR: Hm, alright, but not really what I'm looking for.
CONRAD: There's Jones Rock. That's where Sophia Jones claimed a rock and wouldn't let anyone near it, started taking potshots at people with a shotgun.
STARR: Was she okay? Was she mentally ill?
CONRAD: Not at all! She just thought the rock was hers. I think it actually may have been, some tax law loophole or something.
STARR: Still not really what I'm looking for.
CONRAD: Hmm… well, there is the portal to Jupiter.
It is, in fact, a portal to Jupiter. It's in the town square, where a fountain would traditionally be. It floats about a meter off the ground, and is itself about a meter from bottom to top, forming a rough swirling oval shape. Its edges shine with a neon blue that contrasts with the neon pink of the town. Its center is translucent, he can see right through, he sees virtually endless plumes of gas that whirl by the aperture at terrifying speeds. He swallows. There is a hurricane on Jupiter that is the size of Earth, Seymore S. Starr believes that he is staring out from its eye.
Surrounding the portal are four waist-high metal barricades, the kind they have at concerts. He almost laughs, he could easily step over them and into the portal, they are a totally insufficient barrier compared to the magnitude of the threat.
The portal is either-one way or barely permeable, as dust and gas from the storm does not enter out on to the town. He is comforted by this at least. He considers methods of containment, that's still his job, despite his exile. He needs to destroy the portal, he doesn't have the resources to relocate the town and isolate it. He also can't make the people; what little there are here; forget. But they don't seem to mind the portal, if he can destroy it, that would probably be good enough.
He has no idea how to destroy the portal.
Conrad, standing beside him, interrupts his thoughts.
CONRAD: Pretty neat, huh?
STARR: Yeah it's uh— it's something.
CONRAD: You gonna 'contain' it?
STARR: What do you mean?
CONRAD: Oh, we've had plenty of you Foundation types visit. They all say they're gonna contain it, but they never get around to actually doing it.
STARR: Yeah, I'll probably try. Quick question, what happens if you stick your head inside?
CONRAD: It's Jupiter, you'd die.
STARR: I can't die.
CONRAD: Then I guess you wouldn't die, but I reckon it'd be quite unpleasant.
STARR: Well, nothing I can do about this tonight. I'm quite tired. Anywhere I can stay for the night? A motel or something?
CONRAD: I've got just the place.
Lynn's Inn is, oddly enough, not run by someone called Lynn, but by a person called Midge. He doesn't get their last name, he doesn't really bother to ask, but he does, after several bouts of questions, come to learn that there never was a person called Lynn in Jupiter County. He asks Midge why they named their inn after a person that does not exist, the answer is deceptively simple: 'it rhymed'.
Midge is a person of few words.
He bumbles through his pockets; of which he has many; to produce a wallet and extricate a twenty dollar bill. He pays twelve ninety-five for the night, which he thinks is a good deal, though he earnestly has no idea what inflation is like nowadays.
Just as soon as they take the money and give him his key, Midge disappears into the back, a disappointed expression on their starkly pale face. They spin away from him with fervor; their white satin pants and pastel blue scarf following suit a few seconds later; before they march into the darkness of a backroom.
He turns, his key secured, and waves goodbye to Conrad, who walks out of sight and back towards his bar.
Starr embarks to find his room, it's on the second floor, room six. He trudges up stairs covered in red velvet and illuminated by classical lanterns, still, it is not free from neon, the sides of the stairs containing bright yellow strips of light. After the stairs, he takes a right, then another right, and then a left, weaving through snake-like hallways to arrive at his destination, a fine, rich, mahogany door with his name in the middle.
It's not super extravagant, but it's elegant enough, a small gold plaque with imprinted red text reading 'Seymore S. Starr'. This does not bother him as much as it ought to. He inserts the key and turns, it unsurprisingly works, swinging open enthusiastically. He steps inside with caution, as though the floor might at any moment abandon its corporeal claim, leaving him to fall to Earth.
The interior is nice enough, if a bit kitschy, it certainly runs with the desert theme. Sketches of cacti, animal skulls, and cowboy boots decorate the walls, but these are far from the only imagery. There is a photo album, on the table, which he picks up and begins rifling through. He sees vast deserts. He sees canyons carved by bare hands and fervor. Midnight diners who service only the wicked and truck stops disconnected from the road. He laughs, for he saw a great many of these sights before on his drive to this twice-hollow place. He sees a funeral in a godless church. He sees a prayer to nothing.
He places the collection down and begins his nighttime routine. He hangs up his outer coat, a long gray affair that hangs down to his knees, unbuttons his dress shirt and throws it to the ground, yanks his belt from its loops and hangs it near the overcoat, and pulls off his socks. He left his nightwear in the car, so sleeping in jeans it is.
He roams over to the sink, turns in onto cold, and clumsily intakes a mouthful of water, he gargles for half a minute before expulsing it down the drain. He takes another mouthful of water to drink. He turns the water to hot and splashes some on his face, which trickles down his oversized nose.
He cracks his knuckles, switches off the lights, and crawls into the covers after making a quick sweep for; thankfully absent; bedbugs. He symmetrizes his body, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. It will be an hour and twelve minutes before he actually falls asleep.
Inside the Saturn Tavern, Conrad is meeting a woman who calls herself Maya Anderson. It's not her real name, everyone knows that, but that's the only one they have for her, so they press on. She's tall, but not extraordinarily tall. She's well dressed, but not extravagantly so. She's talkative, but not loquacious. Except, maybe, for tonight. She has a lot to say tonight, as much as she can while taking the time to draft down a can of Pabst.
MAYA: Didya hear about the new guy?
CONRAD: Hear about him? I'm the one who first met him! How did you hear about him?
MAYA: I heard it from Willem, who heard it from Midge, who heard it from someone else, probably you.
CONRAD: And what do you make of him?
MAYA: Well… he's not a good man, maybe even a bad one. But he thinks he can close the portal, and well… that'd get him into my good books.
CONRAD: What's your problem with the portal?
MAYA: I'm ready to move on, Conrad. To leave this place.
CONRAD: You could. You have a car.
MAYA: We both know that's not true.
CONRAD: Your husband?
MAYA: Yeah. I mean— it feels like he grows more distant every day.
CONRAD: It'll be okay.
MAYA: It won't, but you're sweet for sayin' it.
CONRAD: Thanks.
MAYA: Thank you for the drink. See you tomorrow?
CONRAD: Of course. I wouldn't miss it.
Seymore S. Starr awakens confused. He feels well rested, and yet all of his senses combine to provide the compulsion that it is still the dead of night. He checks his watch: nine fifty two ante-meridian. He checks his windows, there's no sun, and its darker than the blackest pits of hell.
He can feel his subconscious, at least the edges of it, start to transition into panic. He marshals them back into attention to focus. His first instinct is that some sort of end-of-world scenario has taken place, that he needs to contact the Foundation, that no matter how much they hate him they need him right now, but the more he thinks, the more he's convinced that this couldn't possibly be the case.
There is no screaming in the streets. There are no people in the streets. This must simply be par for the course for the citizens here. Another idiosyncrasy of Jupiter County.
He feels his emotions quiet, and begins to recombobulate for the day. He takes a hot four minute and thirty nine second shower, adorns and buttons all of his layers, slips on his shoes; which have no laces as they are slip-ons; and steps outside.
When he finally makes it downstairs, Midge is waiting for him, a bored expression on their face. They give him a half hearted greeting, not caring if he reciprocates, and sigh loudly when he embarks unto an actual conversation.
STARR: Good morning!
MIDGE: Uhh… yeah. Good morning.
STARR: Can I ask you some questions about the weather here?
MIDGE: I'm in no position to stop you.
STARR: Thanks. I guess. So… has it always been night here?
MIDGE: As long as I've lived here.
STARR: And how long is that?
MIDGE: I'm not quite sure anymore. A while at least. You sort of lose your sense of time here.
STARR: So, I guess it's fair to say that more than just the portal is fucked up with this place.
MIDGE: Yeah. More things than you can fathom.
STARR: I can fathom quite a lot. Still, I might call in reinforcements, this stuff might be a bit above, well—actually below, my pay grade.
MIDGE: I don't think the phone lines here have worked in a while.
STARR: That's fine. I'll just drive to the next town over.
MIDGE: Won't work.
STARR: Can I ask why not?
MIDGE: You can't leave.
STARR: I'm sorry?
MIDGE: You should be.
STARR: I mean— why can't I leave?
MIDGE: Because nobody wants you here.
A church bell rings. It rings violently and absolutely. It rings with the wrath of god. The pitter patter of sinners' feet strikes the dusty roads. Suits and dresses are slid into and pulled tight as the wicked don the finest clothes. It's not Sunday, that was yesterday, and it was the longest Sunday there ever was. It's not Sunday, but the church bell still is ringing. It is ringing with the wrath of god.
MIDGE: That's me. Got to go!
STARR: Wait! I still don't understand—
He doesn't get to finish the sentence, Midge is already gone.
He slips between two thirty foot mahogany doors to step into the stone cathedral. It is massive, and he is confused; this church, just in terms of raw construction materials, is worth far more than the town itself. Built from granite and gold and azure-esque stones, built spiraling into the sky two hundred and fifty feet with ornate buttresses and carved edifices.
The cathedral is filled with people. Daylight flows in through the windows. Something is wrong.
At the center of the church is a coffin. It is open and empty. A pastor stands beside it, orating. A thin line of pale skin is drawn across his neck.
PASTOR: And in life, and in love, and in death, we shall find—
PASTOR: Who are you?
STARR: I'm Seymore.
PASTOR: You are not welcome here.
STARR: Sorry I—
PASTOR: Get out!
The townspeople turn to stare at him, the pastor begins to hurl epithets and holy texts. One lands squarely on his skull and he feels blood flow into his mouth. He rushes towards the door and steps outside. He shuts the doors behind him and sits down on the worn granite steps. He spits the blood onto them and grabs his head in his hands, nursing the pain.
Conrad is quick to rush outside, joining him on the stairs. The man places a hand on Starr's shoulder, and wipes the blood off the stairs with his handkerchief.
CONRAD: Sorry about that.
STARR: Yeah, thanks.
CONRAD: You okay?
STARR: Of course. I have a question, though.
CONRAD: Shoot.
STARR: Whose funeral was it? Who died?
CONRAD: No one.
STARR: Then what's the point?
CONRAD: I'm sorry, Mr. Starr. I don't think I can tell you that.
STARR: I'm afraid I have to insist.
CONRAD: I'm sorry, Mr. Starr.
Conrad turns and retreats into the church without saying goodbye. Starr remains on the stairs for a while, staring out at the starless night sky, cut into incessantly by neon. A puzzled look comes to rest on his face.
He sighs, gears turning inside his head, trying either to understand or to remember; even he does not know which. He swallows, and he speaks unto no one.
STARR: I know how to contain the anomaly.
The general store is called, boringly enough: 'General Store'. It's a small white building, though the white paint has long since started to flake away. A slim gray roof decorates the top providing much needed contrast. A worn table and two chairs mark the porch. An empty ashtray sits on the table.
Starr walks inside, he is greeted by countless collectables, baseball cards and lollipops and big-league chew. An overused milkshake maker lines the shelves behind the bar and two smudged chalkboards advertise an impossible number of items. Maya Anderson waits absentmindedly behind the counter, barely noting Starr as he enters. He comes to the counter and rests his elbows upon it, getting coffee grounds onto his sleeves for his troubles.
STARR: Nice store you've got here.
MAYA: It's not mine, it's my husband's. I'm just looking after it now.
STARR: I see.
MAYA: What can I do for you?
STARR: I need dynamite.
MAYA: Why?
STARR: Does there have to be a reason?
MAYA: Kind of, yeah.
STARR: I need it for work.
MAYA: Is that the truth?
STARR: It's not a lie.
MAYA: Fine, that'll be thirty six dollars and fourteen cents, American money.
STARR: Highway fucking robbery.
MAYA: Good luck getting it anywhere else.
STARR: Fine. And thank you.
Starr pulls out a small leather wallet, producing the money, which has not been neatly folded and instead shoved inside. He forks it over to Anderson, who reaches under the counter and pulls forth a stick of dynamite, plopping it down on the countertop with inappropriate gusto.
MAYA: Go crazy.
STARR: Don't worry, I'll be careful.
MAYA: I certainly hope so.
The four metal barricades that once surrounded the portal to Jupiter have been cast aside, they lay in a pile on the edge of the square covered in the dust that they once stood upon. In their stead, vicious dynamite has been deposited, its fuse stares upwards at the portal, hungrily, wanting nothing more on the entire Earth than to explode.
Seymore S. Starr sits besides the affair, holding a silver lighter in his hands and playing with it, flicking the cap open and closed and open and closed with abandon. He is quite careful to never actually produce a flame. He stares off into space, into the glowing hues of the swirling portal.
MAYA: You're barking up the wrong tree.
Maya Anderson approaches him, placing a hand on his shoulder and sitting down nearby. The dust coats her garments, but she doesn't really mind.
MAYA: Don't do this.
STARR: Don't contain it? Is that what you're saying? That's my job.
MAYA: You're not containing it. You're destroying it.
STARR: What does it matter so long as it's gone?
MAYA: When the portal first showed up, we weren't happy about it either! Something like that changes everything you know, but you can't just make it go away. I'm not gonna peddle that 'everything happens for a reason' bullshit, but… if there is a reason, you owe it to yourself to at least try and find it.
STARR: I just don't know how else to end it. The story, I mean. Am I just supposed to leave? Without resolving anything?
MAYA: Don't talk about stories, this isn't a fucking book. Your life is a story, Mr. Starr. And that story can be a comedy, and a tragedy, and all of these things at once.
He looks away from her, chartreuse tears erupting from cerulean eyes. He does not remember what he has lost. He cannot remember. His body remembers.
He shudders with guilt.
STARR: What if the story hurts? What if I don’t like it?
MAYA: It doesn’t matter. You keep telling it.
STARR: What if I don’t want to?
MAYA: Who asked what you want?
STARR: —
STARR: What was the point of the funeral?
MAYA: It— it’s not that easy. I can’t tell you that.
STARR: Why not?
MAYA: Just because the story got tough or confusing doesn’t mean you get to leave the fucking theater.
STARR: You didn’t answer my question: what if the story hurts?
MAYA: Yes, I did.
Starr flicks open the lighter again, a flame bursts forth.
STARR: I'd like you to leave now, please.
With caution, he brings the lighter to the fuse. A spark ignites it, traveling down the length of the wire. He stares at it, before stepping a bit back, following Maya Anderson's retreating footsteps.
It approaches the dynamite, a glowing orange against the sea of neon pink and cyan. There's a hiss. A massive shine dapples his eyes.
And it goes.
The roar is deafening as the air broils and the dust dies. Enormous tongues of flame speak words of ash unto the night. Color is burned from the world. The second wave of smoke crests like a tsunami over the sullen Earth, decrying its darkness, its superiority over even the dark of the lightless stars. Particulate rapturously fills his lungs and he begins to cough and choke, his ears ring in a way they haven't since he was a little boy. The dynamite is detonated. Man's contempt for nature is decreed.
And dismissed.
And absolved.
Cyan light begins to pump through the gaps in the smoke. The portal still stands and still swirls. A prayer to nothing has been made. It has been heard. It has gone unanswered.
He sighs, though he cannot hear nor feel himself do so. Eventually, the ringing clears. He hears the rapid pitter patter of feet approach. He looks over his dust-and-ash coated shoulder. He sees Conrad's warm and worried face.
CONRAD: Are you okay?
STARR: Yeah.
CONRAD: Maya Anderson sent me.
STARR: I figured.
CONRAD: —
CONRAD: So, why'd you do it?
Starr pauses, trying to remember. A trickle of blood flows from his nose. He laps it up with his tongue, and smiles.
STARR: Well—
He pauses again. The words take their time to flow to him, but they arrive regardless.
STARR: I've seen this all before, or at least things like it. Entropy, darkness, dystrophy. It's— familiar. I’ve lived a million of your lives. I’ve seen everything there is to see and done everything there is to do. I haven’t been surprised in a hundred and twenty years.
STARR: —
STARR: But I still don’t understand the funeral.
CONRAD: The people here hate you. If they didn't before they do now.
STARR: I know. It doesn’t matter.
CONRAD: All of our hate combined… it’s not one one thousandth as much as you hate yourself.
STARR: That's not true.
CONRAD: You don’t hate yourself?
STARR: I do, but not that much.
CONRAD: —
STARR: I guess I’m trying to understand this place. To read between the lines.
CONRAD: You can try, but there’s just paper.
STARR: What was the point of the funeral?
CONRAD: I don't know.
STARR: Hm.
CONRAD: —
STARR: I believe you.
Starr stands, swatting at his knees to dust them off. He looks up at the portal with both fear and hope at once.
STARR: I know how to contain the anomaly.
He takes a deep breath, squats, locks his knees, and dives head-first into the portal.
Gale force winds strike his body at four hundred miles per hour. Gases more toxic than those of Hell fill his lungs lacerating them from the outside in. Dust older than oceans tears through his skin and fills his veins.
His consciousness is stolen away from him within the first ten seconds, yet the darkness behind his eyes is as red as the storm. A number of non-essentaial muscles snap, they are joined by a few essential ones.
He spins and spirals around the portal for a several minutes that would feel like an eternity if he were feeling at all.
Eventually, he drifts back through the portal.
Seymore S. Starr awakens on the ground beside the portal, which continues to swirl. He is covered in dust and blood and vomit. He has four new scars that he does not remember. One significantly impacts his appearance, which wasn't all that great in the first place. Dried blood sticks in circles around his nose and respective ears. He feels like shit. He has massive hypoxia. Both lungs are collapsed. He should be dead. He cannot die.
Against a mountain of pain and wickedness, he opens his eyes. Conrad is standing over him, and apologetic look crests the man's face.
Starr slams into his own ribcage with a powerful fist. Fifteen separate parts break inside of him. He takes a shuttering, painful breath. He exhales, but there is more phlegm inside of him than air.
He looks towards Conrad, at last ready for conversation.
CONRAD: You made it to the other side. How do you feel?
STARR: Good, I think. A little empty.
CONRAD: Yeah. That’s how I feel too.
STARR: I saw vast cities, swathed in shadow.
CONRAD: What had happened?
STARR: No one ever remembered to turn on the lights.
CONRAD: How does that happen?
STARR: I don't know.
STARR: —
STARR: I saw men who weren’t men, who wore names that weren’t theirs. I understand the funeral. I saw the inside of the coffin.
CONRAD: And what did you see?
STARR: Not a body.