The Death of Quentin Trent Chalmers

A Tale from the Town of Brixton

“I would like to, once again, direct the Council's attention to 557 Park Avenue, also known as Buzz’s Arcade and Rink. As stated before, since its bankruptcy and following shut down two years ago, there have been concerning noises coming from the building.”

Albert Conchleon, Sal Branford, and Llewyn Wainwright sat, hands folded, lips tight at a short table along the far wall of the City Hall state room. Even Cassius Ballantine, tucked into the left corner of the room, had removed his hands from the stenograph, letting the speech play out in front of the room in real time. This proposal had been well documented over the years and today’s would surely be the same. 

“I speak on behalf of Brixton when I say ‘we will not live in fear.’” Quentin pounded his fist on the podium in time with his proclamation. Right on cue. “There is an evil leaking from that building, a demonic presence that establishes its dominance through its calls, cries, and creeks.” He read his speech from a printed sheet, though after almost two years, the words were ingrained in his head, as well as the heads of the City Council. “Again, I have spent the last month carefully collecting data from a safe distance. I would like to present my log as evidence to the Council.” He lifted a dense manilla folder from the stand and offered it as exhibit. 

Llewyn was already halfway across the room to collect the report. Ever since his incident five years back, when he popped hot for amphetamines in a random urinalysis test, he had been relegated to act as the stand in bailiff-of-sorts for the monthly City Hall meetings. Quentin gave a formal nod as Llewyn took the folder.

“In this report, I have documented the date and time of each noise during my observation periods as well as a description and decibel reading. As noted, the numbers are rising. Each month this issue goes unchecked, the sounds are getting louder. I urge the Council to investigate this matter at once.” Again, his fist fell to the podium. “The safety of Brixton, its women and children, is at hand.”

Quentin stepped back from the microphone, reading the expressions of the three people who sat before him. The three people who could make all the difference, who could save this town. Albert, the long tenured mayor, gave a thin-lipped smile. Sal, the school principal who seemed to perpetually inhabit every board in the town, picked at paperwork in front of him, avoiding eye contact. Llewyn flipped through Quentin’s report. Somehow after almost two years of monthly meetings, monthly proposals, and monthly manilla folders, he still found Quentin’s report entertaining. Though it would end up in the recycling bin within the hour, he always gave it a quick scan. If anyone asked, it was a matter of public safety.

Albert was the first to speak. “Thank you, Quentin. We will have Llewyn do another check of the property as soon as possible.”

Quentin opened his mouth “I…”

Albert cut him off. “And yes, we will schedule the inspection during the peak activity times outlined in your report.”

Quentin closed his mouth and smiled. On a heel, he spun to return to his seat amongst the crowd. Council meetings in City Hall were once a place of neighborhood advancement, heated debate, and spicy gossip. Now, Quentin sat in the first seat on the right side of the aisle, joining the twelve other people in the audience spread sparsely across the hundred and fifty folding chairs that sat unmoved and unused in the assembly hall.

“Moving on to new business.” Albert looked to Sal.

“Yes, thank you. As you all know, the high school will be having our annual Senior CookOut tomorrow. As always we expect quite the crowd so I want to confirm road closures in the public space. First Avenue between Elm and Myrtle will be closed the whole day. Second Ave between Elm and Washington will be closed from eleven a.m. until nine p.m. Additionally, we will be closing the municipal lot at the corner of Randolph and Oak for overflow.” Sal gave a subtle nod back to Albert to signify his time.

“Great. With that, we would like to open the floor to any other concerns not previously stated today.” Albert scanned the room. A fly struck a lightbulb in the ceiling. “Seeing none.” He gathered the papers in front of him. “Council, do we have a motion to adjourn?” 

“Oh, one more thing.” Llewyn threw his hand up to stop the procession. “I have had a few calls from the neighborhood between Park and Kensington Ave about a raccoon that was behaving a little erratically. Approaching people in daylight and whatnot. I don’t know if it’s rabid or just got knocked in the head but we have traps set out. Please be on the lookout and keep your dogs on a tight leash until it’s caught.” He offered the floor back to Albert.

“Good note, Llewyn. On that, do we have a motion to adjourn?”

Sal ran his routine. “Motion to Adjourn.” 

Llewyn followed behind. “Second.”

“Wonderful.” Albert stood with a grunt and well weighted hand for support. “We will see you all next month. For other business please see Cassius to set up an appointment.” He scooped up his papers and walked through a door in the rear corner of the room followed by the other members of the Council. The light crowd bustled about their seats, collecting their belongings and bumping chairs on the way to the exit. 

Quentin sat in his seat unmoving. His eyes were fixated on the wood paneled wall. Each plane of wood like the spine of a room sized book, all of them squeezed into a narrow bookshelf. His mind flitted about. Can it be? In an instant he was through the door, pursuing the Council. 

“Llewyn!” He sprinted down the hallway towards the back of khaki colored uniform. 

Llewyn spun around. This was new. 

“Llewyn, quick. I need my report back.”

Llewyn made a show of scratching his chin. “Hmm, I don’t know. This report has been turned in as official evidence.” Llewyn tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders. “It would be a lot of paperwork to release it to you.” His tone rose with each line. 

“Please, Llewyn. It’s dire.”

“Now, how am I supposed to do my investigation if I don’t have accurate, up to date records…” he tapped the folder in his hand “…of every single utterance from that old building?”

“Forget the investigation for now. It’s bigger than this. It’s bigger than us. It’s a matter of life or death.”

“Well, if that's the case. I guess my hands are tied.” Llewyn offered up the folder which Quentin snatched like a hungry dog. “Now, don’t go losing that document. It needs to be rightly filed.”

“I would never! It will be back in your hands as soon as possible. Thanks, Llewyn.”

The officer smiled and offered a half bow though Quentin was off before he could say anymore.

—————

Quentin’s house sat squished between what was left of a condemned house that hovered in limbo due to some Native American sacred land rights, and a large chain link fence guarding the boundary of the gristmill. A hundred and twenty years since its construction, it still used a waterwheel to draw at least a portion of its power, though, as pretty as it was in passing, the endless click and rumble of the wheel carried far too well over the otherwise barren landscape and uncomfortably through Quentin’s windows.

He slammed the door of his house shut on entry and flipped the light switch revealing his otherwise cozy abode, if not for the stacks of papers, books, and odd ins and outs of computer parts. The walls were covered in yellowing floral wallpaper and while the chaos was substantial, the house was relatively clean. Quentin dropped his report on the side table and made his way around the piles of debris, bee-lining to his computer. His fingers flicked across the keyboard bringing up articles, blog posts, and of course, an auto-transcribed record of the Brixton Emergency Radio Channel. He consumed. His printer neared overheating. Neurons flashed back and forth, looped around, pinged new connections, theories, hypotheses. Time passed. Hours or days or years, he could not be certain. And suddenly he was up, pacing his hallway, searching for something in the stacks, no, in his mind. He needed the board.

Quentin raced to his bedroom, drew the curtain, and threw open a window. He needed air. The dull knocking of the waterwheel echoed through the room. A soft breeze shook the curtain, turning the red glare of the setting sun into a pulsing emergency signal. Spread across the wall at the foot of his bed hung a massive cork board littered with a smattering of papers tacked precisely where they needed to be. He scanned them, tearing away the excess, tossing them to the ether, off to join their brothers in the corners of the room. Quentin raced back to the foyer and scooped his report from the table. As he wound his way back to the bedroom, he ripped through the folder, dropping scraps in his trail. Back at the board, thumbtacks flew from their cup and pinned a new batch of evidence to the display. Hanging in the lower right corner of the board, a spool of crimson yarn spun as Quentin ran ties from times to maps to neighborhood group posts to radio chatter. The board was alive with veins and arteries, pumping with each tug of the cord. 

When it was all said and done, he stepped back. It was exquisite, it was magnificent, it was the answer. The sun had abandoned him and now, his brain throbbed. He sat on his bed and laid back taking it all in. Tomorrow he would bring down the hammer, but now, he needed rest. 

—————

“I said it’s an emergency!” 

“I understand, Quentin. But we have a lot of work with the CookOut today.” Albert tapped at the stack of budgeting forms on his desk. 

Quentin started pacing the office muttering to himself, swinging a manilla folder in his hand. He stopped. “Fine, you don’t need to call the whole council, just get the Chief.”

“He’s busy.”

“What about one of the Deputies?”

“They’re all busy dealing with the CookOut.” Albert leaned forward to rest on his desk, closing the distance in hopes of bringing down the tone. “Look, Quentin, I understand the roller rink is important to you, and I want to do the best I can to make you feel safe in this town.” Albert gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. Quentin edged toward it and sat with caution. “Every month you present your case about the noises coming from the building and every month, one of our officers goes out to the property and looks around and comes up empty.” He puts up a hand to stop Quentin’s attempt at interruption. “And I understand you write out your report and I promise Llewyn looks through it, but every time they go out, they don’t hear anything. And what’s more, not a single other resident of Brixton has ever heard anything coming from that building but the wind.”

The moment hung in the air until it was stale. Albert breathed slowly, releasing his foot from the landmine in hopes that it was no longer armed.

“But, I figured it out, Al. Let me at least pitch it.”

Albert let out a long sigh. The light from the hallway flickered as a body moved past. “Llewyn!” He knocked on his desk.

Llewyn stopped in the doorway and looked down to meet the aspiring gaze of Quentin. The wind fell out of his chest. He pulled himself back together and forced a smile.

“How can I help you?”

“Llewyn, our friend here believes he has figured out the cause of the noises coming from the rink.”

Llewyn’s nod grew into a gentle teetering of his upper body. The vertigo of the edge he was standing on was getting to him. He took the leap.

“Alright, Quentin, shoot.”

“Okay!” Quentin popped out of his chair and ripped open the manila folder. Quickly, he spread the papers out on the desk, shoving whatever organizational system Albert had out the window. “When you said there was a rabid raccoon spotted in the area I thought ah-ha! That was it!”

Albert interjected. “Well, look at that. You figured it out. Sounds like it’s just a harmless raccoon.”

Quentin shoved back in. “BUT, I’ve been investigating this for two years here.” He pulled an encyclopedia article forward. “Raccoons only live for two to three years and if they have rabies.” Quentin let out a light chuckle. “It’s only one to three days. It can’t be the raccoon!”

“Aww well.” Albert swung his arm. “The mystery continues.” 

Llewyn folded his arms in preparation.

“But, it doesn’t! Don’t you see? It’s not just one. It’s all of them. It’s a whole pack of them! They’ve taken over!” Quentin threw his hands in the air. “There must be hundreds. Thousands over the years! And what more, I think they’ve evolved. If you look at my reports, you’ll see. They’re on a schedule. It’s the same. Five days after the new moon there’s a surge.” He pointed at his most recent report. “And then!” His finger flew into the air. “Every tenth day between 3:42 p.m. and 4:28 p.m. there is a noise that spikes at over a hundred and twenty decibels. Raccoons aren’t that loud. There’s no way. Unless…” Quentin lowered his head offering an opportunity for one of the other two to jump in. They didn’t. “Unless… Unless they were all screaming out at the same time! Yes! Hundreds of rabid raccoons screeching in unison. Don’t you see.” He grabbed a fist full of papers in his hand and shook it in Alberts face. “Don’t you see they’ve colonized. They are communicating on unprecedented levels. They know our schedules. They know our moves before we take them!” He pointed at Llewyn. “You’ve been investigating right.”

“Yes.”

“And did you see any raccoons?”

“No, I did not.”

“Exactly!” Quentin threw the papers from his hand like a magician releasing a cage of dead doves. “They knew you were coming! They are experts at hiding. It says so right here.” He gestured to the desk and then looked around at the scattered papers on the ground. “No, wait. It’s here somewhere.” He started rustling through the papers on the floor.

Albert let him struggle. “So, you’re saying there is a pack of a few hundred, rabid, hyper-intelligent raccoons living in the old arcade?”

Quentin scratched his head and muttered to himself. “Where is that article?”

Llewyn took a step back to let him crawl around. “Okay, Quentin. Say you’re right. Say these raccoons are all in there. What do you propose we do about it?”

Quentin jumped up. “Yes! What do we do?” He grabbed another document from the desk. “Well, if we go try to find them they’re gonna hide. We know that. So, I was thinking, ‘well, hell. The place is old and decrepit, let's just burn it down.’”

Albert’s eyes fluttered with the course this was taking.

Quentin continued. “But, we can’t do that. They’ll all just evacuate into the sewer and find a new home and that would be a much bigger problem. No, no, no. Our only option…” He patted the slice of paper with pride. “We blow it up.”

Llewyn let out an involuntary laugh, tried to stifle it, and laughed harder.

Albert shook his head in defeat. “Quentin, we’re not blowing up the roller rink.”

Quentin placed a hand on the mayor’s shoulder. “Al, I’ve run the numbers. It’s the only way.”

“It’s simply not going to happen. Now I have a lot of work to do. Llewyn, can you please escort Mr. Chalmers out of the building.”

Llewyn settled his outburst. “My pleasure, sir.” He turned and took Quentin by the arm. “It was a good laugh there, bud, but the fun’s over.” Llewyn walked him to the door. Quentin started to fight.

“But, but, Al, your honor.”

“I’m not a judge, Quentin. We can revisit this next month at the meeting.” He returned to his desk, trying to reorganize his thoughts among the newly dumped discord of his desk.

Quentin opened his mouth but quickly backed down and complied. 

“Oh, and Quentin,” Albert called from his desk. “If I catch you anywhere near that property again, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

Quentin was silent as his feet were shuffled out.

—————

Back in his house, Quentin paced his bedroom. The day’s light was starting to fade, resuming the walls to their amber glow. In the distance, the music and commotion of the Senior CookOut beat with a low rumble. He stared, again, at the board. The revolution was coming. Small ticker tape printouts of the last six months showed decibel readings growing. Week after week, month after month, the signs were evolving. He sat on the bed and drifted off into a somnolence. A fly landed on his hand forcing an instinctual scratch of his left palm. He sat up and looked at his hand. Both of his hands. His hands. Albert and Llewyn put it in his hands. He couldn’t blow up the place, that would be nearly impossible. But, he could prove he was right. 

Quentin sprung from his bed and changed. Black pants, black jacket. He hurried to the garage and lifted a pair of bolt cutters from the tool chest. In the kitchen he stocked up a headlamp, a trash bag, and a large knife. His decibel meter hung from a strap by the door. He just needed one. Kill it, throw it in the bag, bring it to City Hall. They can test it for rabies and they’ll know he was right. Plus, they wouldn’t be expecting me now, not this late. He paused in the threshold. Albert’s threat flashed across his mind. No, they’re all at the CookOut. He carried on.

A mile and a half later, he stood on the sidewalk across from the roller rink. The sign still hung silently above the door. From the outside, the cement walls were cold and stoic. Windows lined the sides though he knew they were blacked out from the inside to keep it dark. It would be very dark. Checking his surroundings he made a dash around the back. They’ll never expect a rear attack. He tramped quietly in the tall, un-mowed grass, praying that it would dampen his approach, though he knew once he cut the bolt, all bets were off. On the rear door hung a padlock, its long shackle inviting him to break it off. He took three deep breaths, checked the position of the knife tucked in the back of his belt and clipped the bolt. Into the fray he went.

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