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The thing Cecil wanted you to look at turns out to be the floor in the break room, which has started to groan. And swell. And surge up under the feet of idle break-takers, tipping them headfirst into the open vending machine, as in the case of Intern Judith. Cecil is fastidiously pulling fly larvae out of her hair when you get there; also pinning her in place through a combination of soothing nonsense and stepping on her toes. You don’t ask why there were maggots in the vending machine. The answer is in any case obvious, since it contains not chips or soda but the fresh carcass of a slaughtered wildebeest. The tail, sticking limply out of the dispensing slot, looks like a brunette length of human hair.
"Hi," you say.
"Oh," says Cecil, pausing mid-murmur, "hi.”
Judith says something that might be “ugh" and then again might be “oh god, oh god, oh god!" Freed from the coaxing loops of Cecil’s vowels, she bends over and starts to hyperventilate. The floor rises another three inches.
When everyone, including local topography, has calmed down a bit, you collectively give up on the break room and troop back out to the office to regroup. “So sorry about this," Cecil is saying; you take the imported beer he’s waving at you mostly because otherwise you’re worried he’ll pour it out on his shoes in distraction. “From your secret cache?" you ask, mostly joking, and he gives you a strange look.
"No, that’s from the vending machine."
You half-empty it in one swig. “Well," you say. “You were looking for… a scientific explanation…?"
Cecil looks relieved you’ve cottoned on so quickly for once. “That’s exactly it. I thought, well, who do I know around here who has seismology equipment, and, and depthless courage—"
You focus on the mental image of an earthquake thirteen feet square. “No," you say finally. “No, probably not. I mean, it was more like—something moving underground—"
The next thought occurs to all three of you at once. Cecil pales; Intern Judith darkens from ‘maggot-bedecked pink’ to ‘maggot-bedecked mauve’. "Leland," she hisses. "He always was an early riser."
You used to set your alarm clock for 5 a.m. before you discovered the basic futility of clocks, and 5 a.m., and alarm. You cough. “Maybe," you say, “maybe… I don’t like to suggest this, but how deeply buried were the bodies in the break room? And—and were there coffins involved? Because otherwise, um, gases released from the corpse could…"
Cecil is getting that expression he takes on when you randomly trigger an unrelated line of thought by trying to offer objective explanations of reality. You think this happens pretty often, although usually when you press him about it he gives you a dazed look and murmurs “the eyes, the eyes!" before reassuring you that your increasingly desperate estimations are “fly." He’s said that: fly. Also “cool" and “wicked." You don’t know how far back his slang reservoir goes, but you’re glad, at least, that as unscathed by time as Night Vale sometimes seems to have been, it wasn’t unscathed by the eighties.
On this particular occasion he has something more immediately relevant on his mind. “You know, this seems like a wonderful time… to introduce you to Khoshekh!" he says. “Judith, why don’t you go freshen up a bit—a wet towel will work miracles on those little worms. And barricade the doors.”
Then he pulls you across the hall to the men’s bathroom, with Judith, presumably, legging it for the ladies’. “This is really not how I wanted to handle the tour," he says, slamming the door closed with one shoulder and following that up with a chair under the knob. “But, well, every day a new adventure, plus a little remodeling from the management if I don’t miss my guess."
There’s a crack from the hallway outside, as of a thorough eater making for the marrow. “Cat," says Cecil.
"That’s not a cat," you say firmly.
"No, behind you," says Cecil. “Hello, Khoshekh, who’s a good levitating boy?" He moves past you to the sink, and you see that there is, in fact, a cat floating level with the faucet. It’s a big fucking cat. You can’t see its face, which it has demurely tucked into its capacious and ginger stomach, but if Cecil said “Gotcha! Disguised corgi!" you wouldn’t be, as such, surprised. It is making a noise like a chainsaw, which you understand is a symptom of cats, but there could be any number of causes for that, just like there could be any number of causes for it hanging suspended four feet above the ground. Maybe. There has to be at least one.
"Nice cat," you say, approaching. Its tail lashes.
"Whoa there, Khoshekh," says Cecil, stroking its shoulders. “This is Carlos! Carlos is a nice, holistically perfect primate, such as you should be proud to be introduced to." You are starting to remember that Cecil is a dog person. The impossible cat hasn’t bitten him yet, though. “Shh," says Cecil, using pretty much the same tone he quelled Judith with. “You’re representing Night Vale Community Radio here, buddy—don’t tell me you want to scare off our guest?"
The glutinous sucking that starts up in the hallway outside wipes out whatever else he was going to say. By the end of it, Khoshekh has uncurled. He’s not a corgi. You feel a strong urge to sit down, but the only chair is holding the door shut, and as much as your weight would probably help you’re not sure you want to be the first line of defense.
Cecil’s features are slowly reverting to the ‘nervousness’ formation. “What is it?" you ask. “Do you know what was doing that to the floor now?"
"No!" he says. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s just—" He folds his arms, probably unconsciously. “You… me… an empty bathroom—no offense, Khoshekh—with its walls still unbreached… I hadn’t quite realized how…"
You stare at him.
"How intimate this all was," he finishes, looking pleased to have found the right word. “That is to say—Carlos, you know I worship the ground you traverse with those dashingly scuffed and fragrant Nike sneakers, even, nay especially, when that ground may harbor bus-sized eyeless worms and the vampire Leland—do you want to have a quickie in the stall?"
You look at the chair. You look at Cecil, smiling hopefully, and Khoshekh, who’s rolled onto his feet and begun to growl at the floor, and who probably doesn’t have X-ray vision—who probably doesn’t have pupils.
"Well," you say, “all right." At least the stall’s got a lock.