The Sound

by James Sperl

  Inferno's eyes moved immediately to the TV screen over Arlin's shoulder.

  Shit.

  Arlin turned and pretended to play dumb when he saw it.

  “How the hell did that—sorry, Inferno,” he said. He scavenged for the remote control, which he found buried amid a pyramid of empty beer cans on the dining table. Snatching it up, he pointed it at the television.

  “Wait,” Inferno said. He approached the TV and stared at it so intently, Arlin thought he might melt the screen.

  Arlin fidgeted. “Yeah, that one there, she...she was a fun way to kill a morning.” He glanced at Ludi and got a look of pure venom. “She, uh, she had a lot of spunk.”

  Inferno continued to watch the video. As he did, Arlin became suddenly—and uncomfortably—aware that his video likeness was naked and having sex in front of three relative strangers. It wasn't his first time performing in front of an audience, but Inferno and his posse made it weird. He needed to get things back on track.

  “So, what say we get down to it,” Arlin said, his voice struggling to sound chipper. He clapped his hands together emphatically—he desperately wanted to move on. “I'm sure you got a shit ton to do, so if you want, we can just get on with—”

  “Do you know this girl?” Inferno was transfixed.

  Arlin glanced at the TV and tried to pretend he had forgotten what played there.

  “Her? Nah. Nah, she was just some bitch passing through, thank God for small favors.”

  “Passing through to where?”

  Mr. Stitch sheathed his knife at the question and stood tall. He looked at Arlin through soulless eyes.

  Arlin gulped. “Ma...Ma said the girl mentioned something about heading to Ashland somewheres. Something about looking for someone who knows what's going on with the Sound and whatnot, but that's all bullshit.”

  Inferno turned as smoothly as a phantom. “And why is that?”

  “Because some of her crew were talking to the Barlows—er, some local farmers what operate in northern Orion—and the way I hear it, the girl and her group're off lookin' for some codger in the mountains somewhere.”

  Inferno stepped toward Arlin. “So she was here with others?”

  “Yeah,” Arlin said, nodding. “At least three up at the Barlows and another two that come with Blondie.”

  “You seem very sure of that.”

  “Well, all I can say is, you may be the king outside Orion, but in here, me and my family run the show. We got eyes and ears everywhere.”

  Inferno's eyes were pools of ice in the neoprene. Arlin immediately regretted what he just said. His intention had been to convey his family's influence, and not, as it now appeared, to suggest that Inferno was someone of insignificance in Orion. But if Inferno had interpreted Arlin's response as an insult, he chose to ignore it. Rather than command one of his cohorts to re-educate Arlin to the pecking order, Inferno instead returned to the video. The blond's hair bobbed and bounced with each of Arlin's aggressive thrusts.

  Arlin's discomfort skyrocketed. No one said anything while his sexual escapade played out onscreen where he pounded the blond girl with primal urgency. Inferno and his cohorts remained emotionless, even when Arlin flipped her onto her back and full-hip fucked her à la the most extreme hardcore porn. The blond cried out but bit her lip to stifle it.

  Inferno stared at the TV calmly detached. Not with lust, Arlin decided. With something else.

  “So, uh...” he began. “You wanna get down to business or...”

  A soul-crushing moment of silence had passed before Inferno faced Arlin.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let's do business. However, I have a new proposition. A renegotiation, if you will.”

  Arlin's heart fell into his stomach. It was never good when someone wanted to change the terms of a deal, but it was exponentially worse when that someone was Inferno.

  Arlin had heard a story about another dealer across the border in Youngstown, Ohio, who had approached Inferno about reducing his bi-weekly order thanks to an offshoot of Rage he had designed himself. It turned out to be a bad idea. Used first for knife-throwing practice, Mr. Stitch then burned the would-be kingpin alive along with his product.

  In this case, though, Arlin wasn't making a play against Inferno. Even so, the idea of altering their deal sent prickles of ice to his testicles.

  “A renegotiation?” Arlin said.

  “Indeed.” Inferno's eyes penetrated Arlin. “Our previous arrangement stands, however in addition to it, I want every scrap of information you have on that girl.” Inferno pointed a black-gloved finger at the TV.

  Arlin swallowed what felt like glass shavings.

  “But...I already told you. I don't know her. She was just some girl looking to score. I just made the tape 'cause Ma likes 'em blond and young. I think her name mighta been Veronica or Valentine or something, but that's all I know.”

  Inferno stepped into Arlin's personal space.

  “I want to know exactly where that girl went. And you're going to tell me. Being the eyes and ears of Orion, as you say, this shouldn't be a problem.”

  Arlin's knees wobbled, but he caught himself before they gave way. He felt lightheaded, and his heart galloped like he'd just dropped an 8-ball. He didn't understand. What did Inferno want with this girl?

  “Look, Inferno,” he began, “you don't want her. Trust me. There're half a dozen gals over at the Belt that're twice as good as this one. Is that what this is about? Man, you could get whatever bitch you want. Why do you want to hook up with this skanky assed—”

  Mr. Stitch was on him before he knew what happened. His forearm encircled Arlin's throat like a python, the knife he had sheathed finding its way back into his hand. He held the tip of the blade against Arlin's temple using the flat palm of his hand, which he pinned to the end of the knife's hilt to keep it level with the floor. Blood already dribbled in a steady rivulet down Arlin's cheek.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Arlin pleaded, his eyes wide with immeasurable fear. “Hold up now! I didn't mean no disrespect. I's just saying that...”

  Inferno put a finger to his lips.

  Arlin quieted, but he panted almost to the point of hyperventilation. Standing this close to Inferno, he got the most intimate look into his eyes yet, and the sight wasn't pretty. Though they were the purest hazel, the flesh around them was wrong; it was discolored, perhaps even distorted. Arlin could only imagine how the rest of his face looked.

  Inferno glanced casually between Arlin and the TV. Yes, Arlin decided, he definitely had no desire. What he saw was obsession, but it was an obsession of the most visceral, rage-driven sort. In Arlin's experience, only shared history caused that.

  “I'll find out everything I can,” he said between breaths. “I promise. I'll get my whole crew to turn this place upside down until we find out where she done gone. Don't you worry.”

  Inferno said nothing. He only continued to watch the screen.

  Arlin swallowed with difficulty, Mr. Stitch's grip vise-like. His eyes flitted to the knife in his periphery before landing back on Inferno.

  “Do...do you know this Veronica girl?” he said, barely audible.

  Inferno looked at him then, and for reasons Arlin would never fathom—not now or at any time in the future—he took off his mask. Slipping off his hood, Inferno unzipped it from the back and peeled the neoprene like a second layer of skin. It made repulsive, wet sticking sounds. He eased the mask away from his face, tendrils of purulence clinging to the material before they snapped free, then Inferno lowered the mask to reveal his true self.

  Arlin tried to refrain from wincing in disgust, but it was impossible. What he saw was too gruesome. The skin over Inferno's head was a patchwork of melted, raw flesh. Red, pink and tan areas oozed and juxtaposed one another where regeneration had begun. Mangled tufts of hair tried valiantly to sprout from his damaged scalp, but if the twisted rows of deformed skin weren't enough of a deterrent against progress, the glistening sheen of whatever he coated the entirety o
f his charred and blistered head with more than made up for it.

  Inferno got right in Arlin's face. His proximity caused Arlin to recoil, both from intimidation and the stinking smell of rancid flesh and medicinal aids, which made his stomach flop.

  Inferno eyed Arlin with unmatched intensity.

  “Yes,” he said from a hand's width away, “I do know her. And her name's not Veronica. It's Valentina.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Clarissa couldn't believe what she saw. When Kaplinsky led her and the others inside and walked them through the decimated living room, she expected to discover more of the same destruction around every corner. The yard was trashed. The house was in shambles. It was fair to assume the rest of the interior looked like wild bulls had stampeded through it.

  She couldn't have been further off the mark.

  The room into which Kaplinsky invited everyone looked like a display model straight out of an IKEA catalog. A modern burgundy sofa sat opposite two chairs of the same color and design, the pieces brought together by a circular glass coffee table, which had been placed equidistant from both. Bright, contrasting throw pillows adorned all three, and along with the festive, lavender-themed wallpaper, they made the room pop with life. Books and novels filled a rich wood bookcase, the shelves interspersed with scale model replicas of sports cars. Original art encased in rustic frames hung from the walls. Table and floor lamps that had once lighted the room with bulbs were now vessels for candles, which fit snugly into each of their sockets. The room was an oasis of joy in a desert of misery.

  “Holy shit!” Evan said upon first glance into the room. “Is this the same house?”

  “Ev!” Jon snapped. “Language!”

  “Oh, he's all right,” Kaplinsky said, crossing the room to straighten a stack of blankets piled haphazardly in the corner. “I cuss like a fucking truck driver most of the time. It's liberating.”

  “Yeah, well...” Jon looked at Evan and wagged a finger at him playfully.

  “I must admit, I'm a bit confused,” Andrew said, as he passed his eyes over the space. “How can you have such a beautifully appointed room when the rest of the house is in such...”

  Kaplinsky looked at him. “Shit shape?” He shot a glance to Evan. “See? Told you I cussed.” He winked. Evan grinned.

  “With all due respect,” Andrew said, “yeah.”

  “It's a lie. All of it. Window dressing to convince folks to move along. The house was ransacked, don't you see. There's garbage everywhere. Things are destroyed. What chance would a motley band of scavengers have of finding anything worthwhile in a dump like this?” Kaplinsky offered a smile and smoothed his beard.

  “Hell, for a time, I considered hauling a dead body up here to further sell my fable, but they're not as easy to come by as you'd think. I guess I never really needed it, though. My little white lie of self-preservation has worked pretty well without it. Until today, that is.”

  “Have you had people come up to the house before?” asked Rachel.

  Kaplinsky crossed to a hutch on the far side of the room. “Plenty of times.” He removed wine glasses from a hanging rack. “Just never to the point where someone wanted to kick in the door.”

  “Yeah,” Jon said. “Sorry about that.”

  Kaplinsky waved him off with a handful of stemware. “Don't worry yourself over it. It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose. Just glad I stopped you before you did any damage. Not too many Home Depots open for business these days.”

  “You never had anyone else try to force their way in?” Andrew said.

  Kaplinsky looked at him and shook his head. “Believe it or not, no. Most get as far as the porch, peek inside, then bitch about having wasted their time. I've had a few take a look around back, but it looks worse than the front. So far, that's all it's taken to convince folks to leave. Then again, none of them had an ulterior motive for coming here.” He moved to each person and handed him or her a wine glass.

  Clarissa studied him as he passed them out. Though he wore a dress, he was all man. In addition to his unshaven legs, he possessed none of the feminine daintiness required to pull off the gender-bending look he craved. Was he a cross-dresser? Was he experimenting with a new look? Whatever his motivation, Clarissa thought he had a long way to go if he intended to switch sides and play for the other team.

  More than his appearance, though, lingered the elephant-in-the-room question: This man was a scientist? The more cerebral-minded tended to be a bit eccentric, and no one knew what impact living in relative isolation had had on Kaplinsky, but even inclusive of those parameters, the idea of him as a former, high-ranking man of science was a difficult pill to swallow.

  “Now, I don't mean to be a bad host and tease you all with the prospect of imbibing on some Jesus juice,” Kaplinsky said, as he handed the last glass to Andrew, “but it's been a long time since I've entertained. Paper cups just won't cut it. Hope everyone's okay with water.”

  “You're more than generous, Mr. Kaplinsky,” Clarissa said. “Water's great, thank you. But we don't want to be an imposition. We only want to talk to you then we'll be on our way.”

  “Nonsense. It's no imposition. It's nice to have company for a change. And, please, call me Kap. Kaplinsky's such a mouthful.”

  “Don't take this the wrong way, Kap,” Cesare said, seating Elenora in one of the chairs, “but you're awfully accommodating for having just met us. Why are you so sure you can trust us?”

  “Ah,” Kaplinsky said. “Yes, that elusive beast, trust. She's a hard one to come by these days, isn't she?” He returned to the hutch and pulled out a plastic milk jug full of water. He moved around the room filling glasses. “But the bigger question, I should think, is why are you so sure you can trust me?”

  Eyes darted about uneasily.

  “Think about it. Here you are in a crazy man's house in the middle of nowhere with no idea about him except that he must be crazy, right? I mean, just look at this dress.” Kaplinsky stepped back and held out his arms as if putting himself on display for the entire room. “Who wears floral prints like this so close to the end of summer?”

  Clarissa shifted nervously, suddenly becoming keenly aware that no one had retrieved the weapons from the front lawn before they entered the house. She and the others outnumbered Kaplinsky, sure, but his erratic behavior prompted another question: was it just him? Her mind flooded with theories: Was he part of a larger group? Were there others waiting in the wings somewhere ready to attack them? Was he a cold-blooded killer, or worse yet, was he some deranged backwoods cannibal, who had lured them into his home (was it even his?) to become his food source? She eyed the water in her glass warily.

  Kaplinsky burst into a round of throaty chuckles.

  “Boy, the looks on your faces,” he said. “You all have been on the road too long. You've got no sense of humor left.”

  Everyone shared curious smiles.

  Andrew crossed his arms. “You'll forgive us if we don't find that funny.”

  Kaplinsky regarded him and held up a hand. He toned down his laughter to a fit of giggles.

  “Point taken, point taken. You're right, of course. I apologize.” He returned the water to the hutch amid watchful eyes. “I used to be quite the jokester back when people knew what humor was. I loved to pull pranks. I hope you'll forgive me for trying to have one last go. When you look like this...” He twirled like a gleeful ballerina. “...people only tend to see and not hear.”

  “Look like what?” Evan said as he crossed to sit beside Valentina on the couch. “Your long beard? Yeah, I can see how that might put people off.”

  Evan elbowed Valentina, amused by his own wit, but she barely looked up. Clarissa caught her eye briefly, but she shot them back to the floor. She had been that way since they left Orion. Distant and bothered. Something had happened there, but any attempt to get it out of her resulted in unconvincing responses: “Nothing happened,” she would say, adding that she “was fine” or that she was “just tir
ed.”

  Clarissa theorized her dependency played a role. Was she crashing? Had she somehow sneaked a dose when no one was looking? With her, it was anyone's guess.

  “Nah, I'm just kidding,” Evan said with a grin. “My dad's gay, so I'm kind of used to this stuff.”

  Jon rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Ev.”

  “Oh, I'm not gay,” Kaplinsky said. “Far from it. I love women. So much so that I love their clothes. Have you ever suffered through wearing a suit before?”

  Evan shrugged. “Only for a wedding or two.”

  “So you know then. How those shirts bunch at your armpits or how those tight jackets strangle movement or those godawful strips of fabric you're forced to choke around your neck like a noose?” Kaplinsky feigned a shudder. “It's enough to make you want to go around naked. Women's clothing on the other hand—from skirts to dresses to their wonderfully loose, flowing tops—everything. They're all so comfortable and freeing. Folks of a lesser mind tend to have a problem with men who appreciate that.”

  “Well, I for one think your dress is beautiful,” Elenora said. “It looks like something I might've owned in my younger years.”

  Kaplinsky turned to her and curtsied. “Thank you, m'lady. It must be true that great minds think alike.”

  Andrew stood up from leaning against the wall. “Is that why you quit working for Rosenstein?”

  Kaplinsky looked at him sharply, as if the question shifted too much from the lighthearted moment.

  “That's part of the reason. Lifestyle choices should never be a factor in the workplace as long as a person does his or her job. But unfortunately, they often are.”

  “What was the other part of the reason you quit?” Jon asked.

  Kaplinsky glanced at Jon then passed his eyes from person to person. Everyone looked back at him with polite impatience. No one was in the mood for pleasantries. They just wanted to get down to the nuts and bolts of what he knew. Sensing their restrained eagerness, Kaplinsky moved to a section of the room in full view of everyone. He lowered himself and sat cross-legged on the floor then looked up at Jon reservedly.