On a particularly bad day, when Khaos was driven almost completely demented, a gruff voice had broken through the clamour in her mind.
‘I have something for that.’ And a half bottle of whisky was pushed into her hand. She could recall how she had hesitated. It was wrong to drink alcohol, wasn’t it? But then, what did she care what was right and wrong?
Then she had made a discovery. After a few mouthfuls of the fiery liquid, the voice was subdued.
Her saviour, the tramp who had shared his beverage with her, was Bottle. He never explained why he had helped her that day. Maybe it had just been to shut her up. He seemed to look out for her though and always shared what he had with her.
From then on, her name was Kay: that was how she introduced herself. Khaos was a forgotten dream, except in those few moments when she was sober enough to remember.
Kay had fallen in with this group of drifters by default. She had started out on her own, just trying to forget everything, but ignoring the Spirit Voice was even lonelier than she had thought. If she didn’t speak to the voice, who did she have to talk to?
It was okay to change your name if you lived on the streets; most people did. Whether they were avoiding the law, their enemies, or their friends. Or themselves. Most people were avoiding something.
Like Ripper for example; he was a pale skinhead with shifty eyes who had joined the group just before she had, claiming he had broken bail and was on the run. At least once a day he would divulge his latest big plan to them all: he would make his fortune on the ponies or the dogs, win big, and get himself a mansion in Los Angeles. Not just a house, a mansion. He was writing a script for a movie that was going to be a box office hit. Then he would be rich and famous, it was just a matter of time. He knew a guy in Vegas who knew how to count cards, and they were going to win big time.
They all knew, of course, that he was a petty thief. He somehow always had a little bit of money and a nearly-full pack of cigarettes. He was always “out at an important meeting” or “meeting a man about a car. Or a job. Or a horse.” The others never saw him with either car or horse, and he certainly didn’t have a job. Whenever asked about his income, he would always just wink and make a humorous comment. Then change the subject.
It was impossible to know what his real story was; he would never give a straight answer.
Georgi and Barden had all the hallmarks of a young new-age couple: fuzzy dreadlocks, bright but shabby clothes, and a penchant for bead jewellery. They did not like being called “drifters”, as they claimed they were only temporarily living on the streets.
They called themselves “Freegans” – eco warriors of the modern world. Ever anti-consumerist, they refused to buy anything new and instead went on bin raids in the nearby town, their favourite being the local “Foodmart”: a budget supermarket which, according to Georgi and Barden, was “always throwing away perfectly good food,” only two days out of date. They had been part of a commune that had broken away from society to start a new life living literally “off the land”.
But for some reason that neither Barden nor Georgi had fully divulged, they had left the commune, and were now, with no money, jobs, or possessions, sleeping rough. They were not really homeless though, this was all temporary until they got back on their feet.
Bottle also raided bins, but he was just a hungry, desperate man. He was a classic example of a drifter: shabby clothes, knotted beard, smelly, incoherent, and permanently drunk. Not stupid, though you might have mistaken him for that. He had a knack for finding money, on the street or amongst the garbage. Sometimes he patrolled the streets of the nearby town, begging shamelessly with a pathetic ripped paper cup if he was really desperate. He always had just enough, usually in small change, to buy the cheapest, strongest alcohol he could get his hands on. He said very little, and it was impossible to tell how old he was; anything between thirty and fifty. It was anyone’s guess what his story was.
It had been just over two weeks now since Kay had joined the gang, but somehow it felt longer. This little group almost felt like a family, nearly friends in a guarded sort of way. It was a blessing that none of them talked of their secrets; it made it easier for Kay to keep hers. Like this group of drifters, she had become invisible. No one in the whole world knew who she was or where she was.
Well, nearly no-one.
CHAPTER FOUR
Melody had decided, at age seventeen, to be a spinster.
She was in the bathroom one day, gazing into the mirror, the only mirror in the house, as it was sinful to look at yourself too much. Rhythmically, she brushed her dark blonde hair, which she kept long as God intended, and it now reached down past her butt. As she brushed, she gazed at her pale skin and brown eyes, and realised she could never allow a man to touch her.
It was not that she didn’t want children or a husband, but it all seemed so difficult, trying to fit a romantic life into the teachings of the good book, to stay on the straight and narrow; it was so hard! How did Mama and Papa do it?
She hadn’t dared look at boys until she was at least fifteen, and even then, she certainly couldn’t speak to them – what if she suddenly started… you know, having thoughts… about them… naked? Or worse – Melody shuddered – sex.
She had accidentally looked at a man’s crotch area once. It was a guest preacher they had at their church just over a year ago. He had been standing up in front of the whole congregation, preaching from the good Book of Revelation. She had been staring at his face, making doubly sure she looked really interested in the sermon, in case Mama was watching. All of a sudden, her eyes had dropped for a split second, and before she could stop herself, she was staring at it.
Obviously, he wasn’t naked, she didn’t see it. But the fact of the matter was that she had allowed herself to be distracted from the words of the Lord Jesus Christ, the holy word of God, for a moment, to look at… well, she didn’t even want to think the word!
What would Mama think if she knew of these thoughts? Melody shuddered. So it was better, she decided, not to bother with boys at all.
It wasn’t that Mama and Papa were too strict on her or anything. They were good people, bringing her up the right way. She was lucky not to be left in darkness and despair like the heathen children.
Life was good in their neighbourhood. The Ministry had set up and maintained a tight knit community in their area; everyone knew everyone, not to mention everyone knew everyone’s business. Pastor Frank lived only a few blocks down from Melody’s family and regularly visited, doing his rounds, checking up on everyone, with his big gut and red smiley face. They were lucky to have such an attentive pastor; Papa always said that the heathen pastors (when they had any) didn’t do visiting at all and didn’t give a nickel about their congregation.
Well, it was nice to have family and friends and Pastor Frank all so close by to help, but Melody could not help but feel… confined. She felt terrible for thinking it and muttered a quick earnest prayer to alleviate her guilt. Sometimes she wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere a bit more private. Where she could think. Was that so wrong?
Pastor Frank seemed to think so, to some degree. He didn’t look too kindly on any modern thinking, especially from a woman.
‘Better to let God do the thinking and you do the obeying,’ he had said to her once. She used to ask a lot of questions at Sunday school. The elders had to have words with Mama.
She tried not to over-think these days. If she found herself feeling doubtful (another sin, to be unsure of the word of the Lord) she just sang hymns quietly to herself or whispered a quick prayer for forgiveness. That way she didn’t have to talk to Mama or Pastor Frank or anyone else, because she had gone straight to the Lord and it was ok.
‘Melody, hurry up in there!’
‘Just coming, Mama!’ Hurriedly, she splashed her face and dried it with a towel.
‘You better not be looking in that mirror! Any more than ten minutes is vanity, Melody! You know that!’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes, Mama,’ she hollered back, reaching for the lock. Yes, for now at least, it would be easier not to worry herself with thoughts of a husband, despite any urges she might have. It was stressful enough trying to live her life how the Ministry had taught her without the complications of a relationship as well.
*
The sunlight gleamed brightly down on the little group of drifters as they made their way along the dusty road through the desert, toward the town. It was still early enough to be quite cool, which made the walk a fairly pleasant one. Their surroundings, though well-lit, were a little bleak; the ground was mainly desert, dotted with the occasional dry brittle tree stump and sparsely bearded with tough grass. The road itself was cracked and worn asphalt, almost covered in dust and sand.
At the moment, the group of drifters were alone on it; it was much too early for traffic. In any case, it was not a frequently used road. All but Bottle had decided to come on the morning trip; he chose to spend his time sleeping, preferring to bin raid and shamble around the streets at night.
Kay's morning drink was wearing off fast, and she found herself getting more and more lucid as the day wore on. She shivered, though it was not cold. The memories began to creep back across her mind, trying to grab at her, forcing their way back in. She found herself, once again, mulling over the glimpses of her mother and the brown arms that had saved her: her father. What had they been like? And what had happened to them? Were they dead? Had she been a good daughter? Part of her had always doubted this. Memories of her mother, in particular, were always tainted by a strong feeling of guilt. Especially the vision of her mother sitting on the bed, looking at the piece of paper, or whatever it was.
The memory of her mother standing with her back to her was a new one. Occasionally this happened to Kay: she got another little piece of the puzzle and tried to figure it out. Her mother had been younger in this memory. And Kay had been young, toddler age. Possibly about the same age as she was in the drowning memory, though it might not be significant. She could still recall the worn-out fabric smell of the soft toy and the comfort it brought. Her mother had been clutching something small and tubular, a jar of something, perhaps. She wasn’t sure. It had been small anyway. What could it have meant? It may mean nothing. Just another fleeting dream.
Her memories had all been taken from her. With a touch of anger, she recalled the culprit. Loka. That scheming, white-haired fiend. Kay recalled how Loka had poisoned Kay and left her unconscious and helpless. But it wasn’t just Loka, was it? No. The mortal that Kay once was was long gone, taken over by the Spirit Voice.
The other part of her knew it was pointless to try and remember. Give up. Start a new life. Very easy to say, quite another thing to do. Somehow though, she was sure that the few memories she did recall meant something. They had to. They somehow managed to get into her dreams, despite everything else she had forgotten. They must be important for her mind to cling on to them so.
She tried to focus on the better memories, the ones of her past life, before she was Khaos, though they were very few. It was better than recalling the bloodshed, the burning flesh, the feel of a throat in her grip, how easy it had been to squeeze, the terror in her victim’s eyes…
‘Oh God. Leave me, dark thoughts!’ Kay muttered. She had not meant to speak out loud. Luckily, the others were used to her mad raving and barely looked up.
By the side of the dusty road as they walked by was a beat-up old car; beneath the dust and scratches and dings it was black. Kay was careful not to look directly at it; she knew it was no ordinary car. Khaos knew it to be Nyx, the shape-shifting creature sent to transport Khaos to any destination, past or present, in search of the demons.
Since Khaos had turned her back on her quest, Nyx had always been following her. Not in any obvious way; always incognito, unassuming, an old vehicle, silently waiting for her. To the untrained eye he was nothing more than an un-roadworthy rust bucket, like the many other burnt-out old cars strewn around this desolate land. But to Kay, he seemed always to be calling to her, inviting her, the door slightly ajar; was that a flicker of fire and metal just visible inside? Only Kay knew what was in there. Somehow, he followed her without seeming to move.
But no, Kay was not going to go back that easily. Her thoughts immediately returned to her current goal: find more alcohol. Stop these thoughts.
Something was being offered to her; it turned out to be water. Georgi smiled at her, sharing the little she had. Why did she care about Kay's thirst? Kay had done nothing to deserve anyone’s concern, yet somehow Georgi persisted, still trying to be her friend. Kay always sensed something a bit desperate about her; did she have anyone else apart from Barden? Family? Friends? How much had they given up to live this supposed “better” life? Kay tried not to wonder too much. She did not want to get involved with any more mortals; she had already decided this long before, after what had happened with Marla and Carm… the girl who she would not speak of. Mortals were too fickle. One minute they were your friend, the next, they hated you. Their hearts were too easily broken.
Kay could easily, of course, find out all about Georgi or any of the others. All she had to do was take off her gloves, use her powers to look into their hearts and minds, read their lives by the touch of a hand… but no. She would not do it. It was easier to remain aloof. Besides, she had already discovered in the past: any use of her power brought the Spirit Voice kicking and screaming into the forefront of her mind. The last thing she wanted was that thing in control.
After about an hour or so, a dilapidated billboard came into view, marking the edge of the town. Its faded, peeling poster advertised some sort of American beer, heartily endorsed by a picture of a grinning cowboy. It had been the same since Kay had arrived there and looked like it had not been changed in a long time.
The theme of neglect and disrepair carried on into the town; the few buildings were constructed of worn and damaged concrete with corrugated iron roofs, weeds dominated back yards, the sidewalks were like the road leading in: dusty and cracked. Old cars lay rusting in driveways, and in the background, a dog barked repeatedly. They could hear the jingling of its chain as it paced listlessly.
Kay did not mind the dilapidation; the town had everything they needed.
The welcoming sight of the Foodmart came into view, and at this point, Ripper parted company with the others, carrying on along the street toward the liquor store that was further on, with purpose in his eyes.
Barden and Georgi sidled up behind the Foodmart, testing the strength of the high chain link fence that surrounded it to see if it would take their weight. Their goal was not the normal entrance, whose darkened windows suggested it was still shut anyway, but the large bins at the back.
Kay left them and followed Ripper, though she stayed well behind him; chances were he was going to cause some sort of trouble. It didn’t do to be seen to be his friend. But Kay had learned that while all eyes were on him, she could help herself to whatever beverage caught her fancy. Okay, so it wasn’t ethical, she knew that. But she wasn’t a heavenly servant anymore, so she reasoned it did not matter; she was doomed anyway.
Kay stumped away from the store, hood up, hands in her pockets, trying not to look conspicuous. Across her face was a rare grin. Success! Both hands clutched a half bottle each of strong liquor, concealed in her pockets. Stealing alcohol was one of the few buzzes Kay enjoyed lately, the only thing better being consuming the alcohol.
Up ahead, she could see Barden and Georgi, striding away from Foodmart in haste, their hoodies bulging; they must have had some success as well. Kay jogged a little to catch them up. They exchanged gleeful grins but did not speak, not until they were safe out of town.
Luckily, they made it to the outskirts unchallenged and stopped just outside for a breather by the side of the dusty road. Kay took the opportunity to open one of her spoils and take a pull. Ahh. That felt better. The fiery liquid softened the edges of her perception again.
She offered the o
ther two the bottle but they politely refused.
‘So how did you do?’ Kay pointed with the bottle at their bulging clothes. They grinned triumphantly, and Georgi reached up her jumper and produced, with a flourish, a pack of meat, holding it forth like it was a rare and wonderful treasure.
‘Wow. Meat.’ Kay was genuinely relieved. Last time they had raided, all they had managed to find was a brown lettuce head and four very hard loaves of bread.
Georgi’s brow furrowed suddenly.
‘Hey, where’s Ripper? Was he with you?’
Kay gulped, realising she had left the liquor store with such haste that she had not stopped to wonder whether he was ok.
‘Probably doing some dodgy deal. Don’t worry about him, he can look after himself.’
‘I’m sure he will follow us back, when he’s ready,’ agreed Barden. ‘Come on, we should get back, we shouldn’t have this meat out in the heat.’ They turned back up the dusty road, leaving the silent, sleeping town behind them.
They made their way back up the incline to the hill with the billboard on it. Kay, feeling momentarily light-hearted, watched her feet pace forward, one at a time, marvelling at how her body kept moving without conscious instruction. It ploughed on, no matter how confused her thoughts were.
She happened to glance up as she got to the top of the hill, and without warning, stopped dead; her heart rate suddenly doubled. On the back of the billboard, the opposite side to the faded cowboy, was a new advert. A picture of a woman, a face she recognised. A face she had not expected to see. The face of a woman she had thought dead. Damned to Hell. A face which brought her out in a cold sweat.
Loka.
CHAPTER FIVE
'Loka,' Kay muttered through gritted teeth, staring in disbelief at the ten foot image of her enemy. She had different hair, much longer and voluminous, spilling round her neck like a lion’s mane, though still white-blonde. Her eyes were a pale, violet shade; had they not been green? Or blue? No matter. It was definitely her all right. She recognised the arrogant, feline smile.
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