Abandoned Story Theater : Inception Zombies
The Inception Crew and Zombies
“A missing girl? Are we working for The Man now, Cobb?” Eames glances around as if to ascertain he’s in the right place before looking back at Cobb. Arthur had much the same reaction when Cobb called him, but Eames is definitely in the right place; an open studio apartment Ariadne found after Cobb enlisted her services. A business expense she said, because she wasn’t going to spend another week in a drafty warehouse sleeping on lawn chairs. She was definitely too good for that sort of thing even if they weren’t. Cobb had rolled his eyes at Arthur and caved to her demands with a helpless shrug.
Ariadne grins at the incredulousness in Eames’ voice (she grins a lot at Eames) and says, “Not quite. Her parents are the ones financing us.”
“Filthy rich, then, are they?” Eames’ eyebrows lower just a bit, money makes everything more understandable, and turns to look at Arthur, expectant.
He shuffles the stack of papers in his hand. “Jessica Winthrob. She went missing two years ago, one of several elementary children to disappear over the span of six months. The police had a suspect, but never managed to get any hard evidence.”
“Let me guess,” Eames says, “the suspect just happens to be in this area.”
Cobb says, “They just want to know where he hid the body. Closure.”
Arthur knows Eames is going to say yes. The money is more than good; Ariadne looks at him with sad eyes and Eames is a sucker for a pretty face, but neither is the deciding factor. It’s something new and interesting, diving into the mind of a potential serial killer. He smirks when Eames glances his way and holds out the file with his name on it. Eames takes it from him slowly, eyes locked with Arthur’s. He could never resist a challenge.
**
“The mark used to have a sister,” Eames tells Arthur needlessly the next day. Needless, because Arthur is the one who told Eames about the mark’s sister.
Arthur says, “She died young,” not lifting his head from his notebook. He’s grown used to the way Eames’ operates. Sure enough, Eames goes on.
“She was murdered in a particularly gruesome fashion while the mark watched.” There’s a flutter of papers and Eames says, “Arthur.”
It’s the tone that makes Arthur look up; that tone usually precedes balls of paper hitting him in the head or feet nudging at his chair. For some reason, he doesn’t feel like going through the motions today. Eames is staring at him, face close to blank except for the slight tilt to his mouth and the intensity of his eyes. Arthur waits, but Eames seems content to stare at him silently.
“Did you want something?” Arthur asks finally and the upward curve of Eames’ lips becomes more apparent.
“I want so many things,” Eames says and the smooth warmth of his voice washes over Arthur like sun baked water.
He resists the urge to ask Eames what exactly he wants from him, because Arthur’s certain of one thing: he’s not ready for the answer. He looks back down at his work to break the moment.
Eames follows suit after a handful of minutes.
**
The mark is a neatly dressed gentleman in his older years. He looks, Arthur reflects, nothing at all like the mental image of a serial killer Arthur carries around in his mind. He owns three pairs of khakis; he wears them to work and threadbare jeans on the weekend. He’s not in terrific shape, but there’s the memory of strength in his upper body.
He volunteers at the local homeless shelter and tutors athletes in math. They take turns trailing him and Ariadne becomes less and less convinced of his guilt with each passing day.
Eames says, “Very rarely does the inner workings of man match the outside,” and Ariadne’s gaze slides over Cobb before dancing away.
Arthur says, “He wears the same pair of khakis two days out of the week.”
“That settles it, then,” Eames says. “I don’t know why he isn’t serving a life term as we speak.” The amusement in his eyes easily predicted.
**
The potential for evil lurks in every person. This is something Arthur has known and accepted for many years, but some people’s monsters are more real than others.
**
“Tell me a story,” Eames says.
Arthur blinks, surfacing slowly from his research. The room has been mostly quiet except for the scratching of Eames’ pencil and the soft sound of breathing. Cobb and Ariadne called it quits hours ago, heading their separate ways or maybe not. Arthur tries not to watch them too closely, because the thought of Cobb moving on makes something inside his chest clench.
“What?” he asks.
Eames eyes are more red than white this late at night, but the amusement shines through clearly. He repeats, “Tell me a story.”
Arthur glances back down at the picture in his hand. Lindsey Miller. Nine years old. Small for her age with two missing front teeth. She disappeared three years ago and when they found her bones, there were teeth marks on the bones of her wrists.
Compelled, he opens his mouth. “Once upon a time…”
“Oh, a fairytale,” Eames says and Arthur glares at him. He mimes zipping his lips and Arthur tries again.
“Once upon a time, in a quiet, country town, a fawn happened upon a hunter’s son playing by the river.
‘Mother,’ she said, ‘what is that?’ Out of all the creatures in the forest, she’d never seen one quite like it.
‘Danger,’ her mother said, stepping closer, white tail on high alert. ‘We should keep moving.’
The fawn followed in her mother’s footsteps, wide eyes looking back over her thin shoulder. The creature playing in the mud by the river certainly didn’t seem dangerous. He seemed soft and clumsy, but she took her mother’s words to heart or tried to.”
The second time, she ran into the hunter’s son, he spied her first. ‘A doe,’ he said, “and it took her a moment to recognize him, because he’d grown tall and lean. Left behind his apple cheeks and mud pies. In that split second, she forgot to run, to play it safe.
It was hard to tell whose eyes were the widest, hers or his, staring across the wild grass, but in that instant a connection was made.”
Arthur pauses and licks his suddenly dry lips. Real fairytales never end happily. Eames is watching him, lips slightly parted and eyes thoughtful. Arthur clears his throat. Nothing good ever comes of indulging Eames; he doesn’t know what he was thinking. “We should get back to work,” he says.
Eames doesn’t protest.
**
When they’re ready, the mark’s schedule makes it easy.
**
The sky is a dull blue grey, pieces of the horizon flickering dark, then bright again as if the world can’t decide if it has enough strength to support color. Arthur’s hand tightens around his gun. The sun started sinking hours ago, but the day has only just given way to this sickly dusk.
“A fan of old movies,” Eames mutters behind Arthur. His voice is smoker rough and Arthur knows if he turns his head he would see blood smeared across Eames’ eyebrow, painted down the side of Eames’ chest. He doesn’t turn around.
Cobb is beside him, a steady, calming presence, only the tightness at the corners of his mouth giving any hint of turmoil. Arthur wonders what Cobb’s thinking; if there’s one thing Arthur’s learned, it’s to never take Cobb at face value. Never to take any of them at face value.
“We can’t stay here,” Ariadne says, words hushed and Arthur turns to look at her. She’s wearing a miniature backpack and her hand is curved pale over Cobb’s bicep, bright against the sleeve of his jacket; the skin beneath her fingernails is blanched, proof of how hard she’s holding on. The curls have fallen out of her hair and her eyes are shock wide, but beyond that, she’s blood and gore free.
Protect the dreamer, protect the world.
“This building wasn’t made to be a fortress,” she says.
Arthur looks away and back out the large windows. Ariadne’s right; they’ll have to move sooner rather than later. This place has too many windows, too many doors to defend. The buildings around them are mostly dark, one or two lights on an upper floor. There’s a two story Victorian mansion little more than a block away, out of place among the rest of the steel and glass structures. Arthur stares at it thoughtfully and a curtain moves behind one of the upstairs windows. He frowns, but before he can puzzle out whether there’s someone there or simply his imagination running wild, a movement out the corner of his eye drags his attention away.
Something’s crawling along the ground toward them, a slow, painful shuffle. “Cobb,” Arthur says and points. Both Cobb and Eames lean over his shoulder for a better look.
“Fuck,” Eames says. He’s resting his hand at the small of Arthur’s back and his fingers dig in briefly. Arthur twists away from the touch and Eames’ hand falls.
“What?” Ariadne asks. “What is it?” When no one answers, she elbows her way between Arthur and Cobb, sticks her nose against the window. “Is that…”
“Yes,” Cobb says grimly. “We need to move. Where are the exits?”
“Two doors in the front and the back,” Ariadne says. She sounds like she’s reciting a poem she memorized in grade school. “One door on each side. The door on the left opens into a blind alley, the one on the right into the forest.”
“Left,” Arthur says. The house with the curtain is to the left.
Eames makes a harsh noise. “Did you miss the part about the blind alley?”
“There’s a house,” Arthur says. “About two blocks up on the left. Someone’s in there; I saw a curtain move.” He looks down at Ariadne. “What’s in the alley?
“Garbage containers, old Chinese food, used condoms,” Ariadne says. She probably pimped Eames on the contents of back alleys.
Arthur sighs. “Is there a ladder, a fire escape?”
“Yes,” she says.
“To the roof, then.” Eames checks his gun, reloading. A few more bumbling shapes have joined the first one past the window. It seems as if they’re picking up speed.
Cobb is moving before Arthur can take the lead and disgruntled is the only way to describe the feeling washing over him. He’s too used to being the protector, the one tense and one edge.
Now, though, somehow he’s become regulated to the middle. Sandwiched with Ariadne in the middle with Eames in the back. It rubs Arthur the wrong way, but there isn’t any time to squabble over pricked pride; he makes a note for when they’re safe.
The building they’re in is empty, but they still step lightly, balancing their body weight on the balls of their feet. The exit sign is jarring. The glowing red too close to the blood spilled on the ground earlier.
Arthur sees Cobb’s back expand as he takes a deep breath, hand resting on the door knob. Cobb looks back at them and Arthur nods. He knows Ariadne and Eames are doing the same. They’re prepared.
Rank air rushes up Arthur’s nostrils. The alley smells like rotten flesh in the summer time, but for the moment, at least, it appears to be empty of everything except mangy cats and trash. He steps carefully over a used condom and an amused huff comes from behind him.
The dim light fades to pure blackness at the back of the alley making it seem as if it goes on forever. The ladder is toward the street; Cobb moves toward the rusted rungs and they all follow cautiously behind him.
A low, tremulous moan floats on the air and Arthur tilts his head to hear it better. The sound is closer than it should be if originating from the shuffling figure from the window.
Eames says, “They’re converging.”
“How are they tracking us?” Ariadne whispers.
Cobb says, “Zombies have an excellent sense of smell. They can discern the location of prey from up to a mile away.”
“I wish I’d never asked,” Ariadne says.
“I’ve seen some unique projections,” Arthur says, “but this is something else entirely.”
“A man with a vivid imagination,” Eames says and it doesn’t sound anything like a sly taunt.
Arthur says, “A man with a sick mind.”
“Come on,” Cobb says and he motions for Ariadne to step in front of him. The ladder stops a good three feet above the ground and it creaks tiredly when Ariadne grabs on to it. Cobb gives her a boost up to get her going and waits to start his own climb.
Eames leans in and whispers in Arthur’s ear. “Do you need me to give you a hand up?” He slides his hand slowly down Arthur’s side to his waist and lingers there.
Arthur jabs him in the stomach with his elbow. “Will you please focus?”
“What is there to focus on besides the delightful image of your-“ Eames cuts off abruptly as a shadow falls across the mouth of the alley a second before a figure appears around the corner.
It only takes a moment to realize the man isn’t alive. The eyeball dangling from his eye socket is the first clue, the awkward angle of his knee, the second. Instinctively, Arthur turns to shoot, but Eames is already pulling the trigger, hitting the man’s forehead dead center.
The corpse hits the ground with a dull thud and another shadow falls across the mouth of the alley.
“Fuck,” Eames says. “It appears we’ve been scented.” He tucks his gun into the back of his pants and places his hands at Arthur’s waist to urge him up the ladder. “Up you go, darling,” he says and there’s no time to argue.
Eames doesn’t wait until Arthur’s several steps ahead before climbing up; they don’t have the luxury of time Cobb and Ariadne did. His body is a wall of heat against Arthur’s back, one step below him the entire climb up.
The ladder jerks alarmingly and Arthur looks down to see a rotted hand mindlessly jerking at the bottom rung. Cobb picks the rotting body off with a steady hand while Ariadne surveys the growing undead mob with horror.
“A missing girl? Are we working for The Man now, Cobb?” Eames glances around as if to ascertain he’s in the right place before looking back at Cobb. Arthur had much the same reaction when Cobb called him, but Eames is definitely in the right place; an open studio apartment Ariadne found after Cobb enlisted her services. A business expense she said, because she wasn’t going to spend another week in a drafty warehouse sleeping on lawn chairs. She was definitely too good for that sort of thing even if they weren’t. Cobb had rolled his eyes at Arthur and caved to her demands with a helpless shrug.
Ariadne grins at the incredulousness in Eames’ voice (she grins a lot at Eames) and says, “Not quite. Her parents are the ones financing us.”
“Filthy rich, then, are they?” Eames’ eyebrows lower just a bit, money makes everything more understandable, and turns to look at Arthur, expectant.
He shuffles the stack of papers in his hand. “Jessica Winthrob. She went missing two years ago, one of several elementary children to disappear over the span of six months. The police had a suspect, but never managed to get any hard evidence.”
“Let me guess,” Eames says, “the suspect just happens to be in this area.”
Cobb says, “They just want to know where he hid the body. Closure.”
Arthur knows Eames is going to say yes. The money is more than good; Ariadne looks at him with sad eyes and Eames is a sucker for a pretty face, but neither is the deciding factor. It’s something new and interesting, diving into the mind of a potential serial killer. He smirks when Eames glances his way and holds out the file with his name on it. Eames takes it from him slowly, eyes locked with Arthur’s. He could never resist a challenge.
**
“The mark used to have a sister,” Eames tells Arthur needlessly the next day. Needless, because Arthur is the one who told Eames about the mark’s sister.
Arthur says, “She died young,” not lifting his head from his notebook. He’s grown used to the way Eames’ operates. Sure enough, Eames goes on.
“She was murdered in a particularly gruesome fashion while the mark watched.” There’s a flutter of papers and Eames says, “Arthur.”
It’s the tone that makes Arthur look up; that tone usually precedes balls of paper hitting him in the head or feet nudging at his chair. For some reason, he doesn’t feel like going through the motions today. Eames is staring at him, face close to blank except for the slight tilt to his mouth and the intensity of his eyes. Arthur waits, but Eames seems content to stare at him silently.
“Did you want something?” Arthur asks finally and the upward curve of Eames’ lips becomes more apparent.
“I want so many things,” Eames says and the smooth warmth of his voice washes over Arthur like sun baked water.
He resists the urge to ask Eames what exactly he wants from him, because Arthur’s certain of one thing: he’s not ready for the answer. He looks back down at his work to break the moment.
Eames follows suit after a handful of minutes.
**
The mark is a neatly dressed gentleman in his older years. He looks, Arthur reflects, nothing at all like the mental image of a serial killer Arthur carries around in his mind. He owns three pairs of khakis; he wears them to work and threadbare jeans on the weekend. He’s not in terrific shape, but there’s the memory of strength in his upper body.
He volunteers at the local homeless shelter and tutors athletes in math. They take turns trailing him and Ariadne becomes less and less convinced of his guilt with each passing day.
Eames says, “Very rarely does the inner workings of man match the outside,” and Ariadne’s gaze slides over Cobb before dancing away.
Arthur says, “He wears the same pair of khakis two days out of the week.”
“That settles it, then,” Eames says. “I don’t know why he isn’t serving a life term as we speak.” The amusement in his eyes easily predicted.
**
The potential for evil lurks in every person. This is something Arthur has known and accepted for many years, but some people’s monsters are more real than others.
**
“Tell me a story,” Eames says.
Arthur blinks, surfacing slowly from his research. The room has been mostly quiet except for the scratching of Eames’ pencil and the soft sound of breathing. Cobb and Ariadne called it quits hours ago, heading their separate ways or maybe not. Arthur tries not to watch them too closely, because the thought of Cobb moving on makes something inside his chest clench.
“What?” he asks.
Eames eyes are more red than white this late at night, but the amusement shines through clearly. He repeats, “Tell me a story.”
Arthur glances back down at the picture in his hand. Lindsey Miller. Nine years old. Small for her age with two missing front teeth. She disappeared three years ago and when they found her bones, there were teeth marks on the bones of her wrists.
Compelled, he opens his mouth. “Once upon a time…”
“Oh, a fairytale,” Eames says and Arthur glares at him. He mimes zipping his lips and Arthur tries again.
“Once upon a time, in a quiet, country town, a fawn happened upon a hunter’s son playing by the river.
‘Mother,’ she said, ‘what is that?’ Out of all the creatures in the forest, she’d never seen one quite like it.
‘Danger,’ her mother said, stepping closer, white tail on high alert. ‘We should keep moving.’
The fawn followed in her mother’s footsteps, wide eyes looking back over her thin shoulder. The creature playing in the mud by the river certainly didn’t seem dangerous. He seemed soft and clumsy, but she took her mother’s words to heart or tried to.”
The second time, she ran into the hunter’s son, he spied her first. ‘A doe,’ he said, “and it took her a moment to recognize him, because he’d grown tall and lean. Left behind his apple cheeks and mud pies. In that split second, she forgot to run, to play it safe.
It was hard to tell whose eyes were the widest, hers or his, staring across the wild grass, but in that instant a connection was made.”
Arthur pauses and licks his suddenly dry lips. Real fairytales never end happily. Eames is watching him, lips slightly parted and eyes thoughtful. Arthur clears his throat. Nothing good ever comes of indulging Eames; he doesn’t know what he was thinking. “We should get back to work,” he says.
Eames doesn’t protest.
**
When they’re ready, the mark’s schedule makes it easy.
**
The sky is a dull blue grey, pieces of the horizon flickering dark, then bright again as if the world can’t decide if it has enough strength to support color. Arthur’s hand tightens around his gun. The sun started sinking hours ago, but the day has only just given way to this sickly dusk.
“A fan of old movies,” Eames mutters behind Arthur. His voice is smoker rough and Arthur knows if he turns his head he would see blood smeared across Eames’ eyebrow, painted down the side of Eames’ chest. He doesn’t turn around.
Cobb is beside him, a steady, calming presence, only the tightness at the corners of his mouth giving any hint of turmoil. Arthur wonders what Cobb’s thinking; if there’s one thing Arthur’s learned, it’s to never take Cobb at face value. Never to take any of them at face value.
“We can’t stay here,” Ariadne says, words hushed and Arthur turns to look at her. She’s wearing a miniature backpack and her hand is curved pale over Cobb’s bicep, bright against the sleeve of his jacket; the skin beneath her fingernails is blanched, proof of how hard she’s holding on. The curls have fallen out of her hair and her eyes are shock wide, but beyond that, she’s blood and gore free.
Protect the dreamer, protect the world.
“This building wasn’t made to be a fortress,” she says.
Arthur looks away and back out the large windows. Ariadne’s right; they’ll have to move sooner rather than later. This place has too many windows, too many doors to defend. The buildings around them are mostly dark, one or two lights on an upper floor. There’s a two story Victorian mansion little more than a block away, out of place among the rest of the steel and glass structures. Arthur stares at it thoughtfully and a curtain moves behind one of the upstairs windows. He frowns, but before he can puzzle out whether there’s someone there or simply his imagination running wild, a movement out the corner of his eye drags his attention away.
Something’s crawling along the ground toward them, a slow, painful shuffle. “Cobb,” Arthur says and points. Both Cobb and Eames lean over his shoulder for a better look.
“Fuck,” Eames says. He’s resting his hand at the small of Arthur’s back and his fingers dig in briefly. Arthur twists away from the touch and Eames’ hand falls.
“What?” Ariadne asks. “What is it?” When no one answers, she elbows her way between Arthur and Cobb, sticks her nose against the window. “Is that…”
“Yes,” Cobb says grimly. “We need to move. Where are the exits?”
“Two doors in the front and the back,” Ariadne says. She sounds like she’s reciting a poem she memorized in grade school. “One door on each side. The door on the left opens into a blind alley, the one on the right into the forest.”
“Left,” Arthur says. The house with the curtain is to the left.
Eames makes a harsh noise. “Did you miss the part about the blind alley?”
“There’s a house,” Arthur says. “About two blocks up on the left. Someone’s in there; I saw a curtain move.” He looks down at Ariadne. “What’s in the alley?
“Garbage containers, old Chinese food, used condoms,” Ariadne says. She probably pimped Eames on the contents of back alleys.
Arthur sighs. “Is there a ladder, a fire escape?”
“Yes,” she says.
“To the roof, then.” Eames checks his gun, reloading. A few more bumbling shapes have joined the first one past the window. It seems as if they’re picking up speed.
Cobb is moving before Arthur can take the lead and disgruntled is the only way to describe the feeling washing over him. He’s too used to being the protector, the one tense and one edge.
Now, though, somehow he’s become regulated to the middle. Sandwiched with Ariadne in the middle with Eames in the back. It rubs Arthur the wrong way, but there isn’t any time to squabble over pricked pride; he makes a note for when they’re safe.
The building they’re in is empty, but they still step lightly, balancing their body weight on the balls of their feet. The exit sign is jarring. The glowing red too close to the blood spilled on the ground earlier.
Arthur sees Cobb’s back expand as he takes a deep breath, hand resting on the door knob. Cobb looks back at them and Arthur nods. He knows Ariadne and Eames are doing the same. They’re prepared.
Rank air rushes up Arthur’s nostrils. The alley smells like rotten flesh in the summer time, but for the moment, at least, it appears to be empty of everything except mangy cats and trash. He steps carefully over a used condom and an amused huff comes from behind him.
The dim light fades to pure blackness at the back of the alley making it seem as if it goes on forever. The ladder is toward the street; Cobb moves toward the rusted rungs and they all follow cautiously behind him.
A low, tremulous moan floats on the air and Arthur tilts his head to hear it better. The sound is closer than it should be if originating from the shuffling figure from the window.
Eames says, “They’re converging.”
“How are they tracking us?” Ariadne whispers.
Cobb says, “Zombies have an excellent sense of smell. They can discern the location of prey from up to a mile away.”
“I wish I’d never asked,” Ariadne says.
“I’ve seen some unique projections,” Arthur says, “but this is something else entirely.”
“A man with a vivid imagination,” Eames says and it doesn’t sound anything like a sly taunt.
Arthur says, “A man with a sick mind.”
“Come on,” Cobb says and he motions for Ariadne to step in front of him. The ladder stops a good three feet above the ground and it creaks tiredly when Ariadne grabs on to it. Cobb gives her a boost up to get her going and waits to start his own climb.
Eames leans in and whispers in Arthur’s ear. “Do you need me to give you a hand up?” He slides his hand slowly down Arthur’s side to his waist and lingers there.
Arthur jabs him in the stomach with his elbow. “Will you please focus?”
“What is there to focus on besides the delightful image of your-“ Eames cuts off abruptly as a shadow falls across the mouth of the alley a second before a figure appears around the corner.
It only takes a moment to realize the man isn’t alive. The eyeball dangling from his eye socket is the first clue, the awkward angle of his knee, the second. Instinctively, Arthur turns to shoot, but Eames is already pulling the trigger, hitting the man’s forehead dead center.
The corpse hits the ground with a dull thud and another shadow falls across the mouth of the alley.
“Fuck,” Eames says. “It appears we’ve been scented.” He tucks his gun into the back of his pants and places his hands at Arthur’s waist to urge him up the ladder. “Up you go, darling,” he says and there’s no time to argue.
Eames doesn’t wait until Arthur’s several steps ahead before climbing up; they don’t have the luxury of time Cobb and Ariadne did. His body is a wall of heat against Arthur’s back, one step below him the entire climb up.
The ladder jerks alarmingly and Arthur looks down to see a rotted hand mindlessly jerking at the bottom rung. Cobb picks the rotting body off with a steady hand while Ariadne surveys the growing undead mob with horror.