“Stop!” Tub said, and Randall slammed on the brakes. I crashed into the dashboard, and felt Tub do the same to the seat behind me.
“What?” Randall said.
“We’re here,” Tub answered, rubbing his bruised face.
I looked out the window at nothing. It was dark, sure—but even in the pitch-black, you could tell there wasn’t anything around for miles. You could just feel the emptiness. A scraggly tree here and there, picked out by what faded starlight made it through the soggy blanket of clouds.
“There’s nothing here,” Randall said. “In fact, I’m not sure there’s ever been anything here. I think we left the damn universe. You’re sure this is the spot?”
“It is,” Tub said, stepping out of the cab. His hip crackled like Chinese fireworks.
Me and Randall got out after him. The open air smelled like a basement. Not one of those nice ones from the magazines with shag carpeting and a pool table, either. One of those shady, forgotten, cobwebbed “I’m certain there’s something under the stairs that’s gonna reach out and grab my ankle” kind of basements.
“This place sucks,” I said.
I’m always so much more eloquent in my head.
Tub grunted approval. He pointed at something with his cane. I gave it a minute, and little lights picked themselves out of the darkness. Either small, or impossibly distant.
“There’s no road out that way, is there?” Randall said, but he already knew the answer.
* * *
I do not recommend walking through a swamp in a pair of Chuck Taylors. If you absolutely have to, though, I highly recommend taping up the tears in the sole first. If you can’t do that, I at least recommend wearing socks.
I was following zero of my own recommendations.
“How you doing?” Randall said, somewhere out in the black.
“Fine,” I snapped. “I’m just over here foot-fucking a mound of rotten pudding. How about you?”
Randall laughed.
Tub hushed us.
I could hear it now. I thought the low chattering was birds at first. But as we grew closer to the noise, I could start to pick out an occasional voice in the static.
Happy yelling.
An angry bark.
A sharp, short burst of laughter, abruptly silenced.
We crested a small, soft mound of something. I tripped on a less-soft mound of something else, and fell onto a series of hard somethings. I crawled past them and reached the top of Mount Whatever. There were two silhouettes ahead of me, outlined against the background light.
If they weren’t Tub and Randall, what was I going to do? Fight them in the pitch-black? Run? I couldn’t even fall down properly. I sidled up alongside them, elbowed one in the ribs, and half waited for death.
“Ow,” said a voice. Luckily it was Randall’s.
I started to say something, but he shook his head. The fact that I could see the gesture at all told me something had changed. I looked below us and saw blobs of fire, suspended in the air, surrounded by hollow, ghoulish faces. A series of barrel fires, people clustering around them. Their faces registered as normal, if you weren’t paying attention. If you tried to pay attention, you were rewarded with what felt like the start of a migraine, and a blurry smear of nonfeatures.
The Unnoticeables were having a party.
They were milling around in tightly clustered groups, all along a shallow depression between two hills. At the far end, they had a crude stage set up: a bunch of sawhorses holding up some plywood. I’ve seen dozens of those at shitty outdoor shows upstate. They generally fall over when the band gets too drunk and forgets that they’re playing on a set of Lincoln Logs. In the darkened areas, where the light from the barrel fires couldn’t reach, the shadows churned. Tar men.
It was too dark to even guess at how many.
A couple hundred Unnoticeables. God knows how many tar men. And at the far end of them, Gus and Meryll, standing alone on that rickety stage.
Meryll was lashed to a branch halfway up a massive old tree at the back end of the stage. Gus had his back to me, but I could tell it was him. You know how you can instantly pick out somebody you love from a crowd, even if you’re not really looking? Turns out I can do the same thing with somebody I hate.
It was too dark, and they were too far away to make out details, but by the way Meryll slumped against that tree—like a boxer who’s spent the last ten rounds losing—she was in rough shape. Gus had something in his hands. Long, curved, and off-white. Bone? He reached out to Meryll with whatever it was, and ran it down her face.
I could hear her scream like she was next to me.
The crowd cheered.
“Was this in your fucking plan?” Randall asked Tub.
He didn’t answer, just ground his teeth.
Gus yelled something to the crowd, but I couldn’t hear it over the hooting and catcalls from the Unnoticeables. I got the sense that it was a question, and the crowd responded in the affirmative. He turned back and cut Meryll again with the bone. She just shook this time, still in shock from the last swipe, unable to get the breath to scream.
The question wasn’t whether or not we were going down there. We were going down there. The question was: How many of those assholes could we take down before they kill us?
Then I thought of a better question: What around here is flammable?
EIGHTEEN
2013. Tulancingo, Mexico. Marco.
“… it’s about family, esse,” this thing says. “It’s about love, y’know? Love from right here.”
This thing thumps the skinny boy’s chest. It is a gesture meant to indicate the heart. It is stupid, to think that emotion comes from a pump located behind the rib cage. Emotion comes from human instincts failing to keep pace with evolution. Humans have fear because, long ago, fear kept them alert for predators. Now they fear abstract concepts—failure, embarrassment, being alone—because they think there are no more predators.
They are wrong, of course.
This thing has been talking, even while it reflects on glorified muscles and evolutionary failures. It finds convincing social interaction difficult, but it has long ago memorized this speech. It has used some variation on it at several charity events, one award show, and thirteen dates.
“… and you can’t let what’s in here,”—this thing points to the skinny boy’s head—“get in the way of all you got in here.” The chest again.
There are tears in the boy’s eyes. He nods. He leans in. This thing scrambles to analyze the cue—is it an attack? This thing could tear the skinny boy apart in seconds. Hook the thumbs into the eyeholes, apply outward pressure to the ocular cavities, and rend the skull in twain—
A hug.
The skinny boy is attempting emotional solidarity through an embrace. After a moment, this thing returns the gesture, because it would be frowned upon to pull the boy’s head apart now.
The director yells cut. Its obnoxious trucker hat is soaked. Its sparse, ironic mustache is dripping with sweat. It is apparently a very hot day in Tulancingo. This thing must practice how to appear bothered by temperature. None of them notice the absence of distress now, but one day they might, and then this thing will have to eliminate them before they can disperse that information.
This thing stands. There is motion all around it. Now that they are freed from the obligation of “the scene,” there is real work to do. This thing is looking at nothing in particular. It is just waiting for the other things to complete their functions. This thing is not looking, but it sees anyway.
The prey moves amongst the crowd. It realizes it has been seen. It flees. This thing pursues.
This thing has forgotten that it must appear artificially slow, bounded by the physical constraints of a human’s worthless, dysfunctional body. This thing hears the gasps from the assembled gawkers as it rushes through them at speeds they consider unnatural. This thing knocks aside two men, one woman, and a small child to get free of the crowd. It has mo
mentarily lost its prey.
This thing scrambles up a drainage pipe to a roof. There are screams from below. They fall behind as this thing runs. It jumps to another rooftop. It squats atop a chimney. It tilts its head and listens.
It hears footsteps more rapid than others. Running.
This thing leaps. It drops three stories. It lands on an overweight man, because the overweight provide superior cushioning. This thing would not be harmed by the fall, but the force of the landing may have caused this thing to stumble, losing precious seconds. It is better for this thing to use the fat man as an impact cushion, so that it may be up and running more quickly.
The impact cushion barks out its own blood on the pavement.
The rapid footsteps are not rapid enough. This thing is gaining.
It skids around a corner, sees a car blocking the alleyway, and jumps atop the roof. There are a series of obstacles littering the path between this thing and its prey. There are animals. There are crates. There are garbage containers. There are people. This thing needs maximum traction and maneuverability. This thing drops to all fours and converts its movement to a quick, scuttling lope. It weaves through the obstacles, and the people scream—is that all they know how to do? Every time this thing does something perfectly logical, the humans scream. It is a useless gesture.
The prey is cornered. It is only a low fence. Eight feet high, at most. This thing could be over it in seconds, but the prey is handicapped by its own shell. It is scrambling for purchase. Its hands are looped through the links, but its shoes are too broad and have no traction.
This thing considers laughing, to show its disdain.
The prey is old. Not ancient, but it appears much older than it is. It has not taken even minimal care of the disposable flesh that it occupies. Its face is blanketed by wrinkles, tanned, covered with innumerable small scars. Its hair is cut short and receding. It is so skinny that this thing can see its ribs through the hole-ridden T-shirt. Though it is hot, the prey is wearing a jacket. The same jacket it always wears: Black leather with worn metal spikes on the shoulders.
The humans call this thing “Carey.”
This thing feels fury welling up inside of it. This thing hates that sensation. It should be beyond even these thin vestiges of emotion. But certain extraordinary circumstances still provoke the response.
The thing called Carey interfered with this thing’s mission. It prevented the candidate from ascending. It destroyed something beautiful. It helped kill an angel.
This thing is too angry to even consider torturing its prey. Humans enjoy living, and despite extraordinary difficulties, will attempt to continue doing it. Their lives are ruled by sensations: Pleasure. Angst. Anger. Lust. Torture allows the humans several more hours of life, blissfully full of sensation. It is an honor this thing will not bestow upon the thing called Carey. This thing will dig its fingers into the chest of its prey and it will hurl its organs on the pavement, then it will squish them beneath its feet and dance in the gore.
That seems the appropriate response.
The thing called Carey seems to guess at this thing’s intent. It holds its hands up in a fighting stance.
This thing smiles and is on its prey before the other thing can even register the movement. It cracks the prey in the nose with its forehead. The other thing staggers. This thing kicks its legs out from under it. It falls. This thing brings its fist down on the prey’s chest. Then its genitals. Then its neck. Then its face. Again and again. The prey is convulsing and twitching from the blows. It tries to breathe, but every gasp is hammered out of it before the lungs can fill. The prey spews blood, but this thing clasps its hand over the prey’s mouth. The blood pools in its mouth, and the prey begins to choke. This thing laces its fingers in the spaces between the ribs. It will latch on, and pull the entire rib cage from the body in one swift movement. Then it will—
A sensation. This thing takes a moment to register it. Pleasure? Cold?
Pain.
Something has struck this thing in the back of the head. This thing stands, and turns around, prepared to eviscerate the distraction.
This thing sees the candidate. The one who devoured the angel. The one humans call “Kaitlyn.” It is holding a bottle. It has apparently just thrown one at this thing, and is prepared to throw another.
This thing feels a sensation.
It thinks. It tries to categorize the feeling, but it is having difficulty.
At last, it comes: Fear.
It is consuming. It is controlling. This thing does not often experience that sensation. It is not good at controlling it. It has no practice. This thing is surprised to hear that it is screaming. This thing does not recall telling its legs to move, so it is also very surprised to learn that it is running.
NINETEEN
1981. Los Angeles, California. Meryll.
Carey and Randall are trying to sing “Sugarlight,” but they’re too pissed to even stand, much less enunciate. It’s coming out as a series of gargled howls. They don’t seem perturbed by that fact. The louder one yells, the louder the other yells.
It’s just past midnight, and they’re lying on a couple of lounge chairs beside a bright blue pool. The underwater lights cast undulating shadows on the walls of the slick little mansion behind them. I figured they must have hopped the fence, and are just hoping nobody’s home. Can’t imagine anyone inviting them into a place like this.
They’re wrong about the place being empty, though: Lights are coming on inside. Somebody slides the patio door open. A young black kid with a shaved head. He’s in a pair of Mickey Mouse boxers and nothing else. He looks pissed, but not surprised. Carey and Randall see him now, and they start yelling greetings. The black kid says something low and unhappy, but they’re too oblivious to catch his tone. They holler back at him, all blissful ignorance. Carey holds out a beer and says something. The black kid smiles. He takes it, cracks it open, and downs the whole thing in a matter of seconds. I hear the ensuing belch all way up here on the hill. Carey and Randall applaud. They hold out another, the black kid takes it and sits down. He nurses this one. Soon all three are yammering a bit too loudly. The patio door opens again, and this time a pretty blonde steps out in an oversized T-shirt. The guys fall silent. She glares at each in turn, then pulls up a deck chair. She sits down, crosses her legs, and holds out her hand. They all cheer as Randall passes her a beer.
It took me forever and a day to find the two of them after they left London. I went to New York first. I trawled the Manhattan punk clubs for months with no luck. Some kids remembered Carey (not fondly), but they all said he took off for England a while back. So I stopped following the guys, and I started following trouble instead.
There were rumors of Unnoticeables all over the place—Baltimore, Detroit, Chicago—but LA came up the most often. I hopped a series of trains, bummed a few dozen rides from assholes expecting road-head. A few got aggressive. I broke some bones. One had a gun. I didn’t mean to, but I did something to him, that thing I swore wouldn’t happen again. I saw a little piece of his insides, and I changed it. Then the rest of him changed. His jaw fell off. His upper teeth wouldn’t stop growing. They plowed down into his stomach and grew right through his skin until they pierced his back, pinning him to the driver’s seat. I bolted, leaving him there to pull at his own canines.
When I got to LA, I started hitting up the seediest clubs I could find. Carey and Randall were regulars at every single one.
I’d followed them back to this house after the X show. I guess they were staying here legitimately after all. Certainly a step up from the Rape Office.
How the fuck do they deserve this? After everything we’ve been through—everything they put me through—they’re the ones that get a happy ending in a Barbie Dreamhouse? To hell with that.
I could jump down there and beat them all to death without much fuss. Maybe I could do that thing again, change them all into something else.
Or maybe I could just go down an
d say hi. They’d yell and holler like they did at the black kid and the pretty girl. They’d hand me a beer and we’d all get right and properly pissed.
Right?
I remember the way Carey looked at me, when we last saw each other. That horror in his eyes.
No. We’re not drinking buddies anymore.
I could take their fairy-tale ending away. I could do it right now. I’m so much stronger than I was, and I was always pretty strong. It would be over in a matter of seconds.
But tonight, down there, they’re not thinking of anything. Of the Husks, or the Faceless, or what happened to me. They’re not remembering the blood and the loss. They’re just friends around a pool, drinking too much and bugging the neighbors. They don’t deserve this happiness. I deserve it. But I can’t have it, so I at least deserve to watch.
TWENTY
2013. Tulancingo, Mexico. Kaitlyn.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.
Sure, girl, just whip a bottle at Marco. You broke his neck and he didn’t so much as blink, but the recycling will totally kill him. Empty bottles of Fanta are like silver bullets to his werewolf.
The glass exploded across the back of Marco’s head. It didn’t even draw blood. He stood up slow, then turned around so fast I couldn’t even see the movement. He silently appraised me with those black doll eyes.
I was more or less just waiting for him to kill me. I still felt like shredded crap from the car wreck. My knees were boiled rubber. I had a blinding, dry headache—like my sinuses were packed to bursting with sand. I was freezing, even though it was a hundred goddamned degrees out. I could no more fight than I could do a standing backflip. I thought about running, and nearly passed out—even thinking burned too much energy.
Marco took a step.
Backwards.
Something feral took over his face. His lips peeled back over his teeth. He hunched low and hissed. Then he leapt ten feet, straight up, over the chain-link fence behind him. He ran down the length of the alleyway, his fading screams high pitched and feminine.
The Empty Ones Page 18
