The Empty

by Thom Reese

  “This one’s pretty far gone.”

  The doc looked as though he might lunge at Shane. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because I was sitting in the driver’s seat watching him bash my windshield with his fist. Tell me that’s rational behavior.”

  The doc stared blankly at Shane, his eyes screaming some mute and suppressed emotion. “Of course he was irrational. But, why? What brought him to that condition? Infusions from a genetically unbalanced donor, genetic material from too diverse a pool, infusions from multiple non-human species? There are numerous possibilities, but based on what we’ve witnessed, these three seem the most logical. He infuses from random humans with no clear selection process. But, is there more? His behavior seems animalistic, beastly. Thus, the question, is he a molt, Mr. Daws? It’s important that I know.”

  Shane nodded. Was there anything, anything at all that he could pull from his memory? The teeth, though broken, seemed entirely human. The ears were not elongated or malformed. The nose was flat, oddly shaped, with large flaring nostrils, but again, human in appearance. The rogue had run upright, with no slouch or unease. He had no fur. His hands had been balled into fists most of the time, but even so, they hadn’t seemed claw-like or peculiar.

  Shane blinked, squinted, uttering one simple word. “Cell.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Taz had her cell phone. It has a video feature. She recorded some of the encounter.”

  He rushed into the adjoining area to where Taz still lay sprawled on the couch—cold, silent, dead, her black hair spilling off of the cushion, her eyes still wide and sightless, dried bile caked to her lips and chin. This did not have to be. If Shane had only thought things through…

  Blinking back tears, he knelt, gazed at her face. Taz had never been gorgeous, cute in her own way, yes, but not classically pretty. Now, she seemed the very face of death, as if the grim reaper had not even allowed her the dignity of burial before sucking the form from her face. She was left hollow and dry, as if he’d already sent his legions of maggots to gnaw away her musculature, to rob her of even the final dignity.

  “Oh, Taz, I am so sorry.” She had not been Shane’s lover. They’d never had an actual date. Though Shane had been blind to it, there’d been a connection between the two. Taz had realized it. Only now, in its absence, did Shane realize what they might have had, what he’d truly lost.

  “Mr. Daws. The phone.”

  It was the doc, calling from the kitchenette.

  “Coming.”

  Shane closed his eyes, drew a long breath. “I’m sorry, Taz. I’ve got to do this thing for the doc.”

  He felt like a ghoul, as if he was defiling her as he reached into her front blue jean pocket. The pocket was tight, and the phone crammed deep within. It took some wriggling, but Shane was able to pull it free. He’d have to come to terms with his emotions later. Right now he had to deal with the immediacy of the doc’s pressing questions. “Here you go, Doc,” he said as he marched back into the kitchenette and held the phone before them. “That’s what we’re dealing with.”

  They watched the tiny screen in silence as the rogue pounced onto the car hood. The corrupted face stared down again, only inches away. Shane felt his stomach tighten at the memory. He heard Taz’s voice, tiny from the small condenser microphone.

  “Awesome,” she’d said in a hushed whisper. Shane felt a tightness in his throat, moisture at the corners of his eyes. This was wrong. This was so wrong.

  “Whiskers,” said the doc.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Whiskers, Mr. Daws. The rogue has three long feline-like whiskers protruding from either side of the mouth.”

  After several moments, the doc shifted his gaze toward the bathroom door where Julia showered. “Two things,” he said. “Dr. Chambers is in need of reassurance. She knows much and has seen more. We cannot allow her to report what she knows. I fear I may have misjudged her acceptance when I revealed to her the truth of the reyaqc.”

  Shane worked his chewing gum. “What was the other thing? You said there were two things.”

  The doc nodded, his expression remaining solid, mask-like. “Yes. I require that you dispose of the body.”

  * * * *

  “Hey, uh, Doc Chambers.”

  Julia looked up. She’d been dialing her cell phone. “Yes. Shane, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, Shane.”

  “Julia.”

  “Cool. Okay, Jules, you got a sec?”

  “Can it wait? I’m calling 911.”

  “Yeah, give me just a minute first, okay?”

  Julia hesitated, and then lowered her phone. “A minute. No more. I’ve already waited longer than I should. This is all so bizarre.”

  “It is,” agreed Shane as he slid a stick of gum between his teeth. “Hey, uh, sorry you had to be here for that. You did everything you could.”

  Julia blinked and wiped her face with a damp cloth. She now wore one of the doc’s white business shirts instead of her own vomit-stained blouse. “I’m so sorry. Were you and the girl a couple?”

  Shane thought about this night, of the attack, and of Taz, cradled in his arms. She’d been barely conscious; her last coherent action had been to pull his face to hers, to kiss him gently, meaningfully on the lips, to whisper, “We could have been great together.”

  “Um, no,” stammered Shane. “We were…I’m not really sure. She was— There was something about her, you know?”

  Julia nodded. “Is this real, Shane? Are there really creatures running around sucking DNA right out of people? This girl, Taz…”

  “Terry was her name.”

  “Okay, Terry, it was as if her entire form just collapsed in upon itself.”

  This was true. Since death, her skin had tightened like shrink-wrap around the skeleton and musculature causing an almost mummified appearance in a corpse not yet an hour old. It was not a pleasant sight. Still, despite his swirling emotions, Shane had been given an assignment—he needed to make Julia understand that this was not the norm, that most reyaqc were not monsters—not entirely at least. He thought of the doc, his even, composed demeanor, and then the change he’d seen in the kitchen just minutes before. Was he really as civilized as he purported to be? Or had Shane misjudged him—misjudged the entire reyaqc species? No. He believed. He had to believe. He’d poured too much of his life—too much of his soul—into the reyaqc to change course now.

  Shane met Julia’s eyes. All he wanted to do was to crawl off into a corner and cry. But the doc had dumped this in his lap, and now it was up to Shane to minimize the fallout. “The reyaqc that killed Terry is a rogue. You’ve got to understand, most reyaqc are very careful not to damage their donors. A lot even have willing contributors. They call them givers. And they’re dearly cherished among the reyaqc.”

  Yeah, and some kill wonderful, innocent young girls who want nothing more than to learn more about the species!

  “Willing donors? Suicidal cult freaks, maybe.”

  “Nah. The givers understand that the reyaqc aren’t evil by nature. The infusions are a matter of survival.”

  And some kill just to kill. Some go mad and ravage the most pure, the most childlike among us.

  Julia threw the rag to the floor. “That girl was not willing. Those dead men were not willing.”

  Of course they weren’t. Who would be?

  “No, she was not willing.” It was the doc this time, approaching from behind. He’d now changed from the bathrobe and pajamas into his tweed and bowtie college professor look. “These attacks are barbaric and must be stopped.” He stepped to Shane’s right. “I only wish I’d had the opportunity to confront this reyaqc before any of this happened. Perhaps I could have reached him somehow, appealed to his intellect.”

  Shane shook his head. The doc had not seen the rogue, hadn’t witnessed the sheer lack of intellectual capacity. “This reyaqc’s a bad apple, Jules. Most of them aren’t like this. Some live in reyaqc communities away
from human civilization, but a lot live right here with us. Most people don’t even know it.”

  Julia narrowed her eyes, cocked her head just slightly to the left. “If they appear so human, how can you identify someone as a reyaqc?”

  Shane glanced at the doc who nodded his approval. “Okay,” began Shane, uneasy about revealing so much to this woman. “They don’t all appear human. Not even close. But for the ones that do, the eyes give it away.”

  “The eyes?”

  “Yes, the eyes are pallid, colorless, only a small pupil surrounded by a creamy white.” Donald’s voice was warm, soothing, yet purposeful. “Those who have embraced civilization often wear colored contact lenses in order to obscure their true nature.”

  Shane watched as Julia narrowed her gaze, stepping closer to Donald, gazing directly into his eyes. He liked her style. “Donald, it looks to me like you wear colored contacts.”

  “That I do, Julia.”

  “Your pupils are almost nonexistent.”

  The doc remained silent and expressionless.

  Julia threw her arms up in frustration. “This is insane.”

  Shane moved closer to Julia, hoping to offer some sense of comfort. “Hey, this is difficult. I get that, but—”

  “Difficult. There’s a dead woman on the couch. Don’t you think difficult might be an understatement?”

  Shane caught a glimpse of the doc. He was maneuvering slightly to his right, closer to Julia, but slightly askew to her center so she wouldn’t see his right hand. “Obviously something must be done,” he said as his hand slipped into and then out of his jacket pocket. “Quite honestly, there’s a bit of a quandary. You see, knowing what you’ve seen and learned, I’m not comfortable leaving you unattended.”

  The move was quick. A hypodermic needle to the lower neck. Shane barely had time to catch Julia’s limp form before she hit the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tresset Bremu sat at his old wooden desk. The finish had worn thin years ago, and there were subtle grooves on the center right where most of the writing was performed. He was not writing now, but reading a dog-eared biography of Alexander the Great. The office looked as worn and battered as the desk. Originally, the space belonged to the foreman of the defunct silver mine, which Tresset’s pack now occupied. The room was forever dusty, an unavoidable condition as gaps in the walls and windows allowed sand and dust to whistle through the grooves, coating the unfinished wooden floor and peppering the sparse furnishings. Tresset dusted his paintings constantly, each of which hung on the uneven pressboard walls upon completion. Most depicted a reyaqc society as he envisioned it—strong, dominant, sophisticated. One day this art would be proven the work of a visionary. Today it was merely a hopeful fiction.

  It was just past dawn. Already the temperature had climbed into the upper nineties. In many ways Tresset resented the desert with its harsh dry winds and spiraling sand devils, with its snakes and scorpions, and dried up riverbeds. Though lush in places, he’d hated his native Siberia nearly as much. The bitter cold could be just as vengeful as the searing heat.

  Both locales were refuges, places for the reyaqc to hide from the eyes of man. But the reyaqc were a strong species, truly superior to the humans, infinitely adaptable, intelligent, capable. The fact that they’d been forced to spend century upon century in hiding, blending into the background, masquerading as humans, or hiding off in barren wastelands, was anathema to Tresset. One day soon the reyaqc would unite. When they did, they would claim their proper place at the helm of the world.

  Tresset wiped the dust from his hands with an antibacterial cloth, and then sniffed the hot dry air. Someone was approaching. Ordool, by the smell of it, a molt who had selected the western yellow bat as his sustaining species. A curious choice, thought Tresset, who drew his animal essence from the fierce and formidable mountain lion. But the selection had some small contributions. Though neither Ordool nor any other reyaqc had ever attained flight by infusing from a species capable of such, Ordool had acquired the bat’s acute hearing and sonar-like abilities, thus making him an accomplished spy and hunter. Though, another species of bat might have been a better choice, as the yellow fur was nearly canary-like in its brilliance.

  There was another’s scent as well. Ordool was not alone. Tresset did not recognize the other, and so rose from his seat. “Ordool, you may enter,” he said as the footsteps drew near. There were three sets, not two. Interesting. The yellow bat’s companions must each be of comparable essence to smell so similar.

  The ill-fitted wooden door opened a moment later, and Ordool entered followed by two young molts, each with thick, powerful legs and tiny noses that twitched continuously. “Spies,” said Ordool with no preamble.

  “Messengers!” blurted one of the jackrabbit molts. “Messengers, not spies.” The noses twitched, and each shuffled nervously in his place.

  “Where were they?” Tresset moved to inspect the intruders. He could smell their fear, sense their muscles tightening in preparation for flight. What cowards.

  “They were over the eastern ridge. Just beyond the abandoned mines,” said Ordool. “I monitored their movement for several minutes before sending Rethis and Frym to retrieve them. They were not coming forward as messengers might, but were stationary, simply gazing down upon our compound.”

  Tresset nodded and moved to just before the two. Both molts were several inches taller than Tresset, but this was not unusual. Most everyone was taller than he. But stature was not what made Tresset imposing. It was the very force of his will, of his intellect, of his potential savagery that gained him respect. “Is this true? Were you spying on my compound?” He kept his tone even, controlled, soothing even. These molts had inherited the rabbit’s natural fear, and would need to be comforted in order to be of use.

  “No,” said the one on the right.

  “Not exactly,” said the other.

  “Explain ‘not exactly,’” coaxed Tresset.

  “We are messengers,” said one.

  “But, we were frightened,” added the other.

  “We wanted to wait for an appropriate time.”

  “We were afraid of disturbing you.”

  “So, we waited.”

  “And watched.”

  “But, we’re not spies.”

  “Just messengers.”

  Tresset held up his hand. “Stop. Please. You make my head spin.” He turned his attention to the molt to his right. “You are from Bytneht Noavor’s pack.”

  “Yes, that would be right.”

  “Bytneht sent us,” agreed the other.

  “Did he receive the supplies we provided?”

  The two looked at each other. Tresset smelled the dread rising between them and feared they might foul his office. “Do not fear me. Simply answer the question.”

  “The supplies were received,” said one.

  “They arrived.”

  Tresset nodded. “Very good. And you claim to be messengers, so I assume Noavor has a response.”

  Their noses twitched; their thick powerful legs became jumpy. They were about to flee. A quick glance to Ordool and the yellow bat shifted to his left, blocking the doorway. He was not particularly strong, but the bat essence had given him a peculiar appearance that many found off-putting. His nose was small and black, his face and body spattered with bright yellow fur. His eyes were wide and round, far from blind as many falsely believed of bats. His arms, though human-like, bore leathery drapes that may one day resemble bat wings, but now only added to Ordool’s macabre appearance. His fingers were long narrow claws capable of opening an animal’s throat with one vicious swipe. Surely, these two would find him fearsome and remain in place.

  “Noavor’s response, messengers. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Y-y-yes, we are messengers,” said one.

  “We bring a message,” added the other.

  “From Bytneht Noavor.”

  “It has to do with the supplies.”


  “And with your offer.”

  “Yes,” said Tresset, his voice becoming tight as his patience for the two cowards drew thin.

  “He thanks you for the supplies,” said the first jackrabbit.

  “But…he declines your offer of an alliance,” sputtered the second.

  “He says… He says he has no desire to be directed by you.”

  “But he means no disrespect.”

  “No disrespect at all.”

  Tresset nodded. “In that case, I have a reply for Noavor.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes?”

  The two nearly stumbled over each other’s word.

  “Tell Noavor that I am disappointed that he continues in his small-minded ways. Tell him the only hope of reyaqc survival is to pursue legitimacy, to secure a territory, establish our own nation. And that legitimacy can only be achieved by banding together, by creating a sizable force. Tell him that perhaps soon, his pack will need to find a new leader because his days are few.” Tresset paused, smiled. “Did you get that?”

  “Yes, yes,” nodded the molt on the right.

  “I fear the message may not be well received,” added the one to the left.

  “Of course it won’t be well received,” agreed Tresset. “But thank you for showing at least the small courage it took to stammer that flimsy protest.” Tresset returned his gaze to the other molt. “As for you, you are useless.”

  Having the essence of the mountain lion, Tresset had retractable claws that emerged from just above his fingernails. As well, his teeth were long and sharp. His attack on the jackrabbit molt was swift, bloody, and immediately fatal. “Go,” he said to the remaining messenger as he dropped the dead molt to the blood-spattered floor. “Deliver my reply. Now!”

  Ordool stepped away from the doorway, and the frightened molt nearly leaped through the opening and was gone before Tresset could breathe another breath. Spitting a piece of flesh from his mouth he said, “Bring me some antiseptic. And then clean up this mess.”