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The soft patter of raindrops on the hood and the metronomic swish-thunk of the wiper blades had almost lulled him to sleep when he spotted the Marquee. He was stopped at a light and sat staring through the rain-beaded windshield at the theater. He'd heard that they were reopening "under new management," but he hadn't really given it much thought- until now. A wistful smile curled the corners of his mouth upward.

He'd practically grown up in that darkened theater, scrunched down in plush upholstery with a bag of hot buttered popcorn in his lap, overpriced drink near to hand, shadow play unfolding on the forty-foot screen before him. It had been at the Marquee that he'd first seen The Undead, and Darkworld, and a hundred other movies over the years. The first hundred people in to see Ratman had gotten free rubber rats; his lay buried in his closet, somewhere, a beloved souvenir with which he would never part. For a moment, he thought that he might actually break down and cry. He'd greatly missed the Marquee, without really realizing it.

The impatient honking of a horn behind him snapped him out of his reverie and he pulled into the Marquee parking lot, where he stopped again. There were only a dozen cars in the parking lot, mostly older models. Most of the people he knew had given up movie going entirely the moment video cassette players had hit the market. Many of his younger friends (those under thirty) had no sense of history whatsoever, and frowned at him whenever he mentioned things like "drive-ins" and "midnight movies."

He eased the Fury into a parking space and shifted into park; killed the lights; stopped the wipers and cut the engine. He sat gazing through the window at the ticket booth. A kid who looked to be no more than sixteen sat immobile behind the glass, like a gargoyle guarding the entrance to some arcane place of worship. Gary found the analogy apt: he had attended the Marquee faithfully, had fed its coffers up until it had closed down "for remodeling." He had cruised past the theater on a regular basis at first, watching and hoping that it would reopen. Gradually, he had come to realize that there was in fact no "remodeling" being done. The theater had simply been run out of business by the chain of video outlets that had sprung up like crabgrass around the city.

He got out into a steady rainfall. Absently, his attention on the marquee above the theater entrance, he locked and slammed the car door. He hadn't heard of the movie that was playing, something called Necropolis, but the title sounded interesting. He knew that "necro" had to do with something dead and that "opolis" usually meant "city," but, beyond that, he was at a loss. Pocketing his keys, he jogged through the rain to the shelter of the overhanging marquee.

He shook raindrops from his fingertips, wagging his head like a dog, and looked at the stills arrayed on the walls just inside the theater. Stepping close to the glass doors, he peered in at color pictures that showed what looked like a futuristic tank trundling across a desert landscape; ancient ruins of some kind, half-buried in sand; a soldier with close-cropped dark hair carrying a short-barreled rifle; a group of what looked like shaggy-headed vampires in ragged clothing staring at the camera.

Damn, Gary thought: It looks good to me…

For the first time in many years, he felt the excitement of a new discovery. Whoever the new manager of the Marquee was, Gary liked his taste in movies already. He walked over to the ticket booth and slid his wallet from his back pocket. He could see his reflection in the glass before him: dark hair framing a face grown pale from lack of sunlight, a young-looking thirty year old with a medium build and a taste for dark clothing. Above his reflection were posted show times. He looked down at his watch: his timing was perfect- five minutes to go before the next feature, the midnight showing.

The kid behind the glass stared at but did not see him. "How many?"

Gary paused, lifting an eyebrow in surprise, and almost turned around to see if there was somebody standing behind him. "Just one," he responded.

"Five dollars."

Gary nodded, slipped a five from the wallet and slid it through the hole to the kid. The kid punched up a ticket and handed it to Gary. He nodded once. "Thanks." The kid didn't bother to reply. Gary took the ticket and went in through the glass doors.

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