“—ever met somebody you forget while you’re still looking at ’em? Sure, sometimes those are just dreary numbskulls talking about the weather, but sometimes they’re what we call…”
I’d apparently caught up right as Randall was launching into Monster 101.
“Faceless. Yeah, we got those here too.”
“Shit,” Randall blinked. “That is a way better name. We call ’em Unnoticeables. You know about them?”
“You could say that,” Meryll said.
She was walking a bit too close to Randall for him being a total stranger. Maybe it was the rain, or maybe it was a cultural thing, or maybe she wanted to twirl about on his dick like a helicopter.
The bastard.
“Well, that’s not the end of it; there’s these big black things—”
“The Sludge,” Meryll finished, laughing. “What do you call them, Tar Babies?”
“N-no…” Randall protested. But he didn’t tell her what we do call them. Probably too embarrassed. So I helped him out.
“We call ’em tar men,” I said, and Meryll snickered again. “Pretty sure it was Randall came up with that name.”
He glared at me; she avoided eye contact altogether. Stared down at the sloshing urban sea beneath our feet.
“I, uh…” Randall was defused, all hands-in-pockets awkward now. “You know about the rest too?”
Meryll nodded. “There’s the Husks, the ones that look like people with normal faces and voices and all that, but they got no life in their eyes. And the Flares.”
“The Flares?” I butted in. “That’s new. I don’t think we have those.”
“They’re the big baddies,” Meryll said. “They start it all. There’s not much to them, just a big bright empty spot in your eyes, and static.”
“Oh,” Randall said. “The angels.”
Meryll stopped so quick I ran into her from behind. I didn’t even have time to cop a quick feel before she wheeled on Randall. “Angels? You call them fucking angels? Jesus, but you Yanks really are stupid. They’re not angels. They’re not anything like angels. They’re pure bloody evil, through and through. At least with the Faceless and the Sludge and the Husks, they got something they want. Maybe that’s just to snatch you up, or melt you, or fuck your eyeholes from the inside out—but it’s still an agenda. The Flares don’t want a thing. There’s no reason to them, no telling what they’ll do or why—they show up, and people just stop being and then they’re gone, and they don’t even care. They’re the farthest thing from fucking angels you could possibly get. Jackass.”
Randall was holding his hands up like an old-timey bank robber, trying to figure out how to apologize for something he didn’t understand that he’d done.
“I think it’s ironic,” I said, not trying to help. “Like calling a big guy ‘Tiny.’”
Meryll glared burning holes into my brain.
“Randall named them, too,” I said.
He started to say something, decided on a more effective means of communication, and slapped me upside the head instead. I jumped up to get a headlock on him and we tumbled into the flooded gutter. I pushed his head down—you know, just a bit of playful drowning—and the dickhead punched me in the kidneys. Totally uncalled for.
“Idiots!” Meryll shouted, booting me in the side.
Oh hey, wonder why you didn’t kick pretty lil’ Randall with those fucking hobnails?
“Couple of drooling damned cavemen, playing grabass when an army of Faceless are probably on their way here right now.”
“Relax,” I said, dragging my thoroughly soaked butt out of the chilly, greasy water. “They’re not exactly the Green Berets. Got no organization. They usually just go away for a while after a good old-fashioned ass kicking.”
“Maybe where you’re from,” Meryll said, and she—you won’t believe this shit—she offered her hand to help Randall out of the puddle.
And he fucking took it!
“They’ve got their act together on this side of the pond. If you see one, there are more around. If you get away from them, you’ve got a bloody army coming your way. So would you two morons”—she shook Randall’s hand away, a little display of self-conscious toughness—“put off humping each other long enough for us to get somewhere safe?”
“I’ll try,” Randall said, sheepish grin nudging its way onto his face. “But you see the way he’s dressed. He’s asking for it.”
Meryll laughed. I gave him the finger. He gave me two back. I went to unzip my fly, and Meryll rolled her eyes and walked away.
It was a few biblically flooded blocks to the train station. I wasn’t much interested in watching their foreplay, so I hung back out of earshot. Either Randall was killing it, or Meryll was harder up than I could have imagined. She laughed at every other word out of his mouth. They bumped into each other a little more than Randall’s six-beer buzz would account for. If they hadn’t just met in a brutal bus wreck after nearly getting abducted by faceless attackers, the scene would be downright romantic.
I turned my head to look at a chick passing by on the other side of the street—damn the hippie movement all you like, but I’m all for the lack of bras—and when I looked back, Randall and Meryll were gone. Just vanished. My guts clenched up and I went into fight mode, looking around for body snatchers. I didn’t find any. I jogged up to where I’d last seen them and spotted the culprit: A set of stairs, each a tiny waterfall in this downpour, leading down to the trains. They were halfway to the landing already. I thought about riding the wet railing all the way to the bottom just to beat them there—surely that’ll prove me a worthy lay—but my hip and shoulder throbbed just thinking about taking another fall. I decided to walk instead.
Must be getting old.
The stairs were slick, and the torrent of water pouring down from above made just keeping on your feet a chore. It took forever to get to the bottom, and my hip ached with every awkward step. I thought I’d probably lost Meryll and Randall in the crowd—there weren’t many people up on the street, but this was still New Year’s Eve in London; the tube had to be crowded—but no such luck. They were stopped right there in front of me, blocking the stairs. They were staring at a solid wall of punks. The whole station standing room only, and every last occupant was wet and nasty and riding the climax of an amped-up drunk.
The fucking show had just let out. I had forgotten all about it. And judging by the impending violence in the air, The Ramones had either done the best set of their lives, or personally pissed in the nostrils of every one of their fans on their way out the door.
It was mostly reflex. I can’t see a crowd and not look for things I’m not supposed to look for—the faces I skip over, the people I forget, the overpowering urge toward inattention. I couldn’t pick out individuals. There were too many people, too much anonymity—but I recognized that feeling in the pit of my stomach. Those hairs on the back of my neck.
We were stuck underground in a dismal concrete cave rapidly filling with water, surrounded on all sides by pissed-off punk rockers itching for a fight, and at least some of them were Unnoticeables. And we had to wade right through it all to get to the train.
Well, only one thing to do, really.
“Let’s start a riot,” I said to Randall’s back.
He turned around to look at me, feigning shock for the benefit of the girl.
You goddamned phony. Wait until the punches start flying and you just fuckin’ try not to have some fun.
“Hell of a show, right?” I practically screamed it, at a slab of beef wrapped in a leather jacket with a picture of the queen on the back. Her eyes were blacked out and somebody had drawn a crude dick slapping against her mouth.
“Fuckin’ right,” he answered. And that was all I needed to know: English accent.
“There’s nothing like good old-fashioned American rock and roll,” I said, feeling a twinge of mania building in my chest.
You are my favorite vice, adrenaline. Well, behind beer. And wh
iskey. And sex. But definitely ahead of cigarettes. Okay, maybe slightly behind cigarettes—but only slightly.
“Some of it’s pretty good, yeah,” the slab of meat agreed, hesitantly.
“I mean, what’s it got?” I turned to Randall, snapping my fingers, looking for help with the word. “What am I thinking of, that American rock has and British doesn’t?”
He glanced over to Meryll, who shook her head. My heart sank. I was going to have to do this one my own.
I was turning back when I heard him chime in: “Authenticity,” Randall said.
I smiled with every inch of my face. “Thaaaat’s it. It’s got fuckin’ authenticity.”
The slab of meat was making a face like he was trying to hold in farts with his mouth.
“Not like this British bullshit,” I said, louder and louder, “all wrapped in politics, tryin’ to pretend they’re about something they ain’t. It’s pretty … what’s the word?” I snapped my fingers again, not looking back.
“Pretentious,” Randall supplied happily. I could hear Meryll sigh.
Ooh, we had an audience now. All eyes watching, even the ones too far away to hear the conversation. They could just feel it crackling in the air. Confrontation. Sweet lady fistfight dancing around in her low-cut shirt. Everybody just watching, hypnotized, wondering when something was gonna pop out.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, mate,” slab of meat said, and tried to turn away.
What the hell, man? Nobody that big and ugly gets to be a pacifist.
“You motherfuckers should get down on your knees and give us Americans a nice, wet, sloppy blow job of gratitude for inventing punk in the first place. Gave you lovely boys an excuse to play dress up for a while.”
Slab of meat swiveled around slowly. I could see him trying to process what he was hearing—Surely nobody is this stupid? Couldn’t he see he has a whole train station of pissed-off drunken English punks in front of me? I’ll never live it down if I don’t kick his ass now. By the time he’d wobbled all the way about to lock eyes with me, I could see the resignation in him. He’d run the scenarios, and there was no way he was getting out of this without punching me in the face.
My hip throbbed. My shoulder ached. I really hoped I could at least keep my feet.
Motherfucker hit me like a rocket ship.
I have no idea what happened next, exactly. I picture myself flying cartoonishly through the air, body stiff as a board, hitting the ground and sliding to a stop, my head pushing up a little mound of dirt that covers my body, then a little gravestone and a pretty white flower popping up above the spot where I finally settle.
You’re never knocked out for long. Movies get that shit wrong. It’s a second or two if it’s anything, but by the time I opened my eyes, the train station had already gone full Vietnam.
Randall had slab of meat in a leg lock, and was pounding on his thick white dome with both fists. I couldn’t see Meryll, but there was a section of crowd substantially more screamy than the rest, so I assumed she was there. A busty blonde arced up out of that spot like a bottle rocket and slammed into the concrete next to me. Her leather jacket was open to the waist, and she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. I could vouch for that, because she rolled straight out of it when she landed, and just sat there, tits-a-heaving, a big red welt already covering half of her face.
Holy shit, Meryll, you slapped that girl topless.
I jumped to my feet, intending to get a bit of momentum for a nice, hearty two-footed dropkick.
Gotta make an entrance.
But my body had other ideas. My hip flared, the world swam, and I fell straight on my face. I tried to rally my balance, but no luck. I settled for a slow crawl instead, and started biting knees. It was not going to be a dignified night.
I sunk my teeth into some stovepipe jeans that tasted like fried chicken and motor oil. There was a yelp and a swat from above, so I moved on to the next. Loose black trousers. Recently washed. They tasted a little like detergent, but were otherwise a pleasure to bite into. I felt blood well into my mouth, and spat it out right onto the trousers’ bright white loafers.
“Aw, my damn shoes!” somebody moaned.
I moved on. Bit into a couple more greasy blue jeans; bit into a bandana with the Jolly Roger flag on it; bit into a nice bare kneecap under a dark purple skirt (but not before stealing a quick look). I caught a couple of knees to the head and got hit with a few decent smacks, but everybody’s mind was mostly on the greater riot. I went largely unnoticed, and chewed my way across the platform until I hit an empty space. I crawled out into the clearing on all fours, and saw a dozen swollen punks trying to leave plenty of space between Meryll’s fists and their faces. She was squaring off in a vaguely kung-fu stance, but you could tell it was more an impersonation of Bruce Lee flicks than any actual training. Still, she’d provided plenty of evidence of ass kicking, and nobody seemed in much more need of convincing.
“I’m sorry,” said a voice like gravy thickened with sawdust. “Stop! Please stop!”
It was the slab of meat. Peering through the gaps in the crowd, I could see Randall still had him in that leg lock, and was drumming on his face with open hands now. Randall had his eyes closed, lost in the rhythm.
“Randall!” Meryll hollered. “Get over here. We gotta go before the Faceless get their shit together!”
No response. He was tweaking the slab of meat’s cheeks now, laughing as the ugly man blubbered and squealed.
“Randall!” I tried. “Come on, man. Your pussy’s getting cold.”
He heard that.
He let the slab of meat go, and the guy seemed to think of reprisal for a second. Randall pointed sternly at the stairs, and the slab of meat slunk away like a chastised puppy.
Meryll was already making her way through the motley crew of beaten, bloody punks. They parted like the Red Sea. I crawled after her, trying to look like I just happened to be sauntering in the same direction … on all fours.
Who, me? Nah, I’m a fuckin’ man. I ain’t following some chick in the desperate hope she’ll keep me safe. Just crawling over here to check out the newspapers. Grab the sports page. You see the game last night?
Nobody was buying it.
I wasn’t really buying it either. With each shuffle my hip let out a dull, nauseating throb. I was getting dizzy, which was either from an acute lack of beer (ain’t a good idea to stop drinking once you’ve gotten a nice running start at it), or maybe a mild concussion.
Do concussions come in “mild”?
Shit, even my thoughts are crawling. I zeroed in on Meryll’s ass, giving myself a point of focus.
Just follow the ass. It will lead you to safety.
The ass was my everything. The world around it was turning fuzzy and red, but that didn’t matter. The ass was all. The ass was me, and I was the ass. Its cheeks wobbled a bit with each footfall. Each step sent one buttock into the fabric of the miniskirt, highlighting its contours. The ass was confident. The ass was sure. The ass knew where it was going. The ass stopped, jiggled a bit, and then disappeared altogether. I was left alone in an assless world.
So this is what it feels like to lose your faith.
I blinked. I swallowed hard and looked around me. Meryll was gone.
Randall bumped into me from behind. Nearly sent me sprawling into the shadowy ditch directly in front of my filthy hands that I was just now noticing.
“Mary went down there?” Randall asked.
“Meryll,” I corrected him. The rat bastard. “And I guess so. You first.”
Me and Randall stood at the edge of the subway platform, unwilling or unable to move.
Do they even call them trains here? These Brits all have weird cutesy terms for normal shit. They probably call them “wonkers” or “moveys” or “side-lifts.” I bet this is a “movey-cliff.”
Concussion was seeming more and more likely.
We peered down the tracks in either direction, into the
absolute darkness there.
Last year I threw a beer can at a living monster of tar because it cockblocked me, then jumped into a sewer to fight an immortal Iggy Pop wannabe. Just last week Randall trapped an Unnoticeable in a Dumpster and pushed it down a hill just because he thought it would be funny (it was).
We do not have a firm concept of mortal danger, is what I’m saying here.
But neither one of us wanted to jump down onto those tracks. Me and Randall and Jezza and Wash and the goddamned parasites used to get hammered at the South Loop some nights, but we knew that station was shut down. If there was any possibility a train could have come through there, we would’ve found a different drinking spot. Because, growing up in New York, every one of us had heard the stories: Some hobo pissed on the rail and got himself electrocuted. Some stoned girl passed out down there and they had to identify her by the teeth they picked out of the wheels. A secretary slipped and fell right as the train was coming in. It split her in half, and then stopped right on top of her. They couldn’t move it or her guts would spill out. They brought her family in to say good-bye first.
Who knows if that shit is true? But you hear it enough as a kid that it gets inside you.
Staring into the darkness there, I couldn’t help but think a train was idling just out of sight, sitting with its lights off, waiting for me to jump down so it could cut my damn legs off.
“What are you boys scared of, ruffling your Sunday best? Let’s fucking go, already,” Meryll said.
She was straddling the tracks and looking up at us with disapproval.
“Maybe we’ll just keep kicking these guys’ asses,” I suggested, helpfully.
Meryll scoffed.
“Carey, I think we should go,” Randall said. He hopped down onto the tracks and instantly looked like he was gonna be sick.
“What, really?”
“Look behind you,” he said, already backing away toward the westbound tunnel.
I knew it was standing-room-only at this station. I expected to see a few score of pissed-off punks waiting to give me a firm kick in the ass. I turned my head, though every inch hurt, and behind me I saw … nothing. A blank wall of disinterest. It felt like looking at fifty solid feet of DMV pamphlets. I couldn’t have paid attention if I tried. There were dozens upon dozens of faces staring at me, and I couldn’t make out a single one. They must have been pushing up past the normals this whole time, just behind us.
The Empty Ones Page 5
