The Little Demons Inside

by Micah Thomas

  "You have the look of someone that's been through the system."

  "Which system? Foster homes, halfway houses, the street, and the mother fucking Institute? So, yeah, I have, but I'm not crazy."

  "You don't seem crazy," Del said, offering that smile again. The smile that said, been there, and done that.

  "It was a voluntary thing. An experiment that promised a place to stay and cash on the other side. I thought, why not check in, maybe dodge a little trouble I had coming my way, minor stuff in hindsight."

  "That's alright. Bobbie will be happy to know you're a human with a human story, past and normal shit."

  "What?"

  "Don't tell her I told you, but she thought you might be a skin walker."

  "I don't even know what that is."

  "It's ok. It's a Navajo thing. Don't worry about it. Hey, are you going to try to find your friend again, once you are on your feet?"

  "No. I don't have a clue where to look. I just had an address in Phoenix, and that place, I think it's gone now."

  "Shit. Ok, you said you were in Phoenix. When?"

  "I have no idea what day it was, but that's the last thing I remember before here."

  "Henry, do you know where you are?"

  "No idea."

  "Dude, you are in Nevada. Phoenix is 700 miles, that way, over those mountains."

  Henry's gave followed Del's finger over the horizon.

  "You got a set of wings you aren't telling me about?"

  ***

  Cassie deposited the Black Star Institute check first thing and waited an hour to see if it cleared. It did. "What if I take the work, but don't deliver?" She had asked Don, at the coffee shop where she agreed to meet. "Future checks will stop being deposited to your account." "That's it?" She asked. "That's it," they replied. Oh, and they gave her a black credit card, unmarked, no digits, just a chip and magnetic strip. She'd asked what it was for, and they said, incidentals, should she need them. She now had more money in her bank account than she'd had in the last five years, more even than the car accident settlement check, which had settled the bills but not really fixed her back pain. "Drive out to Surprise. Stay in a nice hotel. Hang out for a few days. Discretely ask around. You know, investigate. If you get a lead, let us know and our agreement continues. Find nothing or change your mind, and we're done."

  She lamented how little of the back story she asked for. "You don't have an exact location? Or any people for me to talk to?" She somewhat began to have doubts, doubts even the cash couldn't shake, of their competency when they replied, "Not at this time. Just take a look. We'll be close by."

  Surprise was just over an hour away. Sitting on the edge of civilization before the desert takes over and only dusty little towns punctuate the highway towards Las Vegas. Cassie checked into the hotel, the "nice" hotel Don was referring to was the Dude Rancher. A cowboy western themed hotel and restaurant, complete with a neon giant cowboy and racist caricatures of American Indians. Still, this was likely going to be the easiest money she'd ever made, if not excessively boring. The hotel internet sucked, and the TV only seemed to have reruns of Reba or the news. She opted for the news as she decompressed from the drive. The parade of horribles just depressed her; awful newly elected president does awful things, chaos in India as unexplained communications interruptions continue amid widespread rumors and conspiracy of aliens, sports team X lost to sports team Y, human tragedy exploited by television talking heads chattering through clenched smiles. Of course, the hotel didn't have a minibar to go with its crud-encrusted microwave.

  The sun was going down when she decided at least to try to earn her paycheck. Why not spend her self-allowed per diem on a few drinks at the Dude Rancher bar, quaintly branded Rhythm and Brews. The dated decor was almost awesome in its tackiness, which included Franklin Mint commemorative plates with the garish portraits of Republican presidents new and old, and of course, a special shrine dedicated to the heroes of 9/11. Cartoon cowboys and cowgirls with pink cheeks and ruby red lips smiled on walls yellowed by ages of cigarette smoke. The carpet smelled vaguely like sweet tarts, telling Cassie's nose that there's some species or entire ecosystem of mold making its home there. She was the interloper. The saucy intruder. And would try not to judge. A sad jukebox, held together with spit and duct tape, crooned out a gunfighter ballad from the '60s about finding forbidden love in a West Texas town. She took a seat at the bar.

  Cassie expected the bartender to be a Carla or Starla with a smoky voice and a loud cackle laugh. Instead, she was greeted by surprisingly young man in his 30's, dressed in what was either period costume or elaborate hipster garb that complimented his heavily waxed handlebar mustache.

  "Can I get you something?" the caricature of a hipster bartender asked.

  "A Kilt Lifter, please," Cassie replied.

  "Are you here for the festival?"

  "Huh?"

  "The ostrich festival. It's a big thing for us. Last year, a kid got bit and I was on the news."

  "Yikes."

  "It wasn't serious, but you have to respect the animal. Respect the ostrich."

  Cassie snorted and nearly choked on her beer. The barkeep looked at Cassie like she was a goddamn moron, like she farted in church. He sniffed and said, "Well. You should check out the festival anyways."

  Cassie drank her beer in small sips. This is painless, she thought. She knew she was searching for a needle and didn't even know where the haystack was. She wasn't even sure she wanted to find him. She pictured Henry as she met him. Not a particularly good looking guy, but something there in the way he looked at her. She couldn't lie to herself about this. She was drawn to him. Something about his eyes reminded her of the expression common in PTSD. Tired; no, weary. Shell-shocked and accepting of everything that's happened and about to happen. Hyper-aware and also disaffected. She knew this stuff pretty well, having seen it in the mirror every day. Almost anticipating the situation to turn to shit. Welcoming it. How easy it is to get yourself into some shit too.

  Everything, which wasn't much, that she'd found online about Black Star, looked legit, other than that comically ominous name. Not that it's so unique. A David Bowie album, a coal camp in Kentucky, local bands from the Myspace era. Any connection there? Not likely unless the Institute paid its employees in company script, and subsidized bands that never got famous.

  Cassie thought again about Henry's notes. She wished she'd had more time to go over them before he left so abruptly, not that she blamed him. Lab reports about fire, notes mentioning someone named Wiseman. Some one with that name had been on the news lately. Could this be the same person? Coincidence? She'd watched his YouTube clips as he gained fame for appearances on late night shows. He was some sort of mentalist. Not card tricks, but some hypnosis, maybe? To Cassie, that was a connection someone should be checking. If Black Star had a stable of freaks with funny powers, staring fires might not be the worst of them. Fuck. It was like finding out magic is real. What else? Jesus, Santa Claus and the Easter bunny? The devil hiding under the bud? Cassie hadn't believed in anything, despite her Mexican Catholic upbringing. Her experiences in war taught her that humans are all the evil or good that should keep you up at night. More than enough.

  Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber, as Cassie thought of the investigators, didn't seem overly concerned with metaphysical implications. Henry is dangerous, they said, without explanation about how or why, or even more detail about what Black Star can do about it. Why should I care, Cassie thought? Again though, those eyes. Where was he and where was he going?

  A noisy group of ostrich enthusiasts came into the bar together. Who knew there was so much ostrich themed clothing and merchandise? Hats that turn the wearer into bird head, complete with goofy eyes and a bright beak.

  Cassie couldn't follow their conversation. Ostrich culture is very weird. She paid for her beer and went outside. The evening breeze, smelling of gentle citrus and lavender, was the perfect complement to the contemplation she felt inside. The
sleepy mainstream was dark with most of the mom and pop shops closed for the day. In the alley by the bar, a group of people were smoking cigarettes and laughing. They weren't wearing bird attire or period costumes. Cassie approached with her best friendly smile.

  "Hey, can I buy a cigarette?" Cassie asked the group.

  "I've got a spare you can have," said a tall white woman.

  She was a young, white person with dreads and a skull and crossbones band t-shirt. She gave Cassie a big smile and a cigarette.

  "Thanks," Cassie said.

  "I take it you're not in town for the ostrich?"

  "No. No, I am not."

  "Thank god! I live here and the ostrich people are as annoying as fuck."

  "Oh yeah? I think I saw some inside. Hats and, well, loud."

  "They can't drive for shit either, but I guess it's good for the local economy," she laughed and added, "Just not good for my economy. Are you a cop?"

  "I'm a nurse. No cop."

  "Ah. We say you walking out and thought, hmmm... 5-0.? You're very, I dunno, aware. That and, you look familiar. Why come to Surprise?"

  "I guess that's not surprising."

  "Oh! A pun!"

  "I didn't mean to."

  "It comes with the territory."

  "I'm trying to find my friend. He... He has issues and went missing. Last seen out here," Cassie said, thinking of cop shows and how phony she must sound.

  "Oh shit. My grandma has old timers. She disappeared, went off without anyone seeing her go. We found her sunburned and dehydrated out in the desert."

  "That's terrible. She ok?"

  "I guess. She's in one of those places now."

  "Hospice or a retirement home?"

  "Yeah. It's sad, but I guess that's the thing to do. What's wrong with your friend?"

  "He's got something like, I don't know exactly, like epilepsy and something else, too. I don't know, but his family is worried about him, so I thought, I have time off work and might be able to find him. He always trusted me."

  "I get it. What's he look like? Maybe we've seen him?" she gestured to her friends that were half listening.

  "I don't have recent photo. Wait, um, hold on." Cassie pulled out her phone and called up the YouTube video, "Something Strange Afoot at the Circle K," which was still garnering likes and shares on social media. Thankfully, she wasn't tagged... Much.

  "This is him," Cassie said.

  They watched with wide eyes, "Oh shit! Guys! This is the chick from the gas station fire! The version I saw was set to Prodigy's Twisted Fire Starter. Oh my god, that was funny."

  "It was pretty scary, actually."

  "Fuck. Right."

  "I bet he's going to la playa," her scruffy bearded and man bun wearing friend chimed in suddenly.

  "You know what? That's a good idea."

  "What's that?"

  "There's a burning man-type thing, community art thing, the Bonhurst Art Festival, and a lot of burners pass through here on their way. Lot of hitchers picked up along the way too. Maybe your friend is hanging with the rainbow children? The hippies."

  "I'll check it out. Thanks for the smoke," Cassie said and stamped out her cigarette before turning to leave.

  "Hey. Do you get high?"

  "Not usually. Actually, not since high school. It makes me paranoid," Cassie said.

  "You look like you could use it. That aware look. Looks exhausting! Here's a joint, on me, because I don't meet internet celebrities every day. It's the chill kind smoke, not paranoid. This will just help you sleep."

  Cassie accepted it and gave her thanks.

  "Don't sweat it. Hope you find your friend."

  "Me too."

  ***

  Private investigators Don and Peter were strangers to each other before being hired onto the Black Star account. Now they've been sitting in the car on long drives through the southwest. Not a bad sort, was the mutual understanding they held of each other, but at arm's length. Conversations were mostly mundane. Don had a slightly more academic approach and Peter was more accepting of reality, especially the reality of cash payment for services rendered. This evening, the conversation got interesting while they sat in the car, starting to smell of coffee and potato chips, and observed Cassie in her hotel room. They had their own rooms at the ranch of course, but still spent a lot of time in the car.

  "Are you religious?" Don asked.

  "No. Not really. I stopped going to mass around the time I split with my ex. You?"

  "Not especially," Don said with a shrug.

  "This kid, he's like some mutant freak, right?" Peter cocked an eyebrow. They worked together, but there was some testing of the waters left to do.

  "You saw what he did to that guy, not to mention, what our employers showed us. You still think it's bullshit?"

  Peter's gears were working at their maximum, which didn't seem too bright to anyone watching, but he had a devious intellect beneath the affable idiot appearance.

  Peter laid out his concern slowly, but it made a certain sense, "That's a totally separate issue. On one hand, if he's so dangerous, why us? We've done divorce, cheating husbands, corporate blackmail, yeah, that little stint in Cyprus with the Russians, but really, why us and not some ex-CIA or just soldiers?"

  "Maybe they thought since you're half-retarded that you'll be flame retardant?" Peter knew that ball busting was natural and expected.

  "Hardy har. I read the internet. People think it's the end times. Strange shit is happening. You know that like a million people have disappeared in the shitty provinces around Jalandhar. That's India."

  "I don't know about that," Don said, "but how about this one, we know our employers do experiments on people. Maybe we're the bunny rabbits and this hunt is an experiment on us?"

  They looked at each other for a serious moment, then started laughing.

  "Look," Don said. "End times talk is always somewhere in the collective unconscious, but this is different. If I feel the slightest heat in my direction, even if it's just the noon desert sun making me sweat, I'm pulling the god damned trigger. I don't care about money enough to burn for it."

  "I thought you were the smart one. That ain't smart thinking."

  They'd been traveling together long enough that they even shifted in their seats at the same time. Peter readjusted the microphone on Cassie's room.

  "What's any of this got to do with believing in a higher power?" Peter asked, digging into his bag of fragrant Funyuns.

  "I've been thinking that maybe BSI made a deal with the devil and now the devil is loose."

  "This firebug is the devil?"

  "Maybe. I did a little digging in their server. We have some access, you know. He's not their only little experiment."

  "You think she's gonna smoke that doobie? Maybe put on a little show for us?" Peter's attention had obviously moved on.

  "I don't know and I don't care. You gonna creep on her when she changes for bed? Get a little woody and make us bigger assholes than we already are?"

  "Only every chance I get."

  "This is so stupid. She's looking for him, and we're watching her. It's reasonable to think that someone is watching us."

  Peter didn't answer, but did shift again in his seat and ripped a loud wet-sounding fart. Funyuns. Fuck.

  "Oh, Christ. I told you if you were gonna fart, get out of the car or at least open a window."

  Peter laughed and adjusted the camera on Cassie.

  "My wife is some kind of evil bitch. It really makes you think. The hot ones, the ugly ones, the ones you want, the ones you get, all of them, if given a chance turn into massive fucking cunts eventually. "

  Don wasn't as nearly as far on the misogyny spectrum as his partner, but in the company of men, these things just slide. It was conversation, not a time to debate manners. This job was fucking weird, but they weren't paid to ask that sort of question. Nonetheless, Don was perturbed. Not at all about the ethics of putting a young woman in front of him into potential danger
, but at the implications. It was over his head, he knew that, but the world seemed different since he took this job. Like unreality was stepping to close to the real world.

  "Tits. Look, look, tits."

  Don looked at the telescopic display just a second before turning it off.

  "Let's call it a day."

  "You're seriously a fucking tool, man."

  "How'd you know that shit about India?"

  "It was on the news."

  "CNN?"

  "Not the fake news, dipshit. Underground news. The chatter. The internet," Peter said with absolute sincerity.

  They headed back to their respective rooms, happy to get away from each other's smells, Peter thinking about Cassie's tits, and Don thinking about the world turning upside down.

  ***

  This was one podunk piece of crap town, Cassie thought on her second day in Surprise. Her initial fear, based on the dramatic story from the investigators, that fear that she'd find Henry and there'd be danger and, she didn't know, maybe excitement, appeared to be entirely unfounded. It was like handing out fliers for a lost dog, but it's not even your dog, so you don't know much about it. No one on the main drag, little tourist shops, pharmacies, and of course, ostrich paraphernalia shops had ever seen anyone matching Henry's description. It wasn't even a case of, maybe or could be, no. It was a solid, nope. Cassie was already sick of the food options, and what was with the insistence of serving tater tots with every meal? She'd checked off all the stores in downtown strip and was headed over to the flea market on the edge of town. It was supposed to be the social hub of the place, for locals anyways. She'd gathered that outside of the seasonal hullabaloo for the ostrich, this was largely a retirement community.

  It was hot inside the flea market, even though she could hear massive fans blowing in an effort to circulate the stale, warm air. It smelled of mold, dust, and other unsavory things likely resulting from the combination of questionably-manufactured goods sold in bulk commingled with artifacts fresh from moldy garages. She could imagine these artifacts cluttering up a grandmother's mantle, eventually being shuffled here, only to be purchased and placed on another grandmother's cluttered mantle. Brik brac, commemorative plates, bootleg VHS tapes. One man's garbage, she supposed. She idly checked out tables, knowing she couldn't buy something at each in an attempt to barter for information. In a way, she was having fun. Not being at work and playing hooky while playing detective felt good.