The Empty

by Thom Reese

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tracy Taylor was twenty-one and she was hitting the Vegas strip. A college junior from Nebraska, her friends Sasha and Mindy—both a year older and likely four years more experienced—had swept her away, nearly bullying her into the trip. Not that she minded, of course. She was a grown woman now, and it was time for her to experience…things. But Las Vegas scared her. Oh, she would never admit this to her friends. They already thought her too conservative and uptight for her own good. But this was “Sin City.” Certain things would be expected here. Not that these expectations didn’t occur on campus. But this was different. At school, she was there for the purpose of education, and as for relationships, they were more of the long-standing type. Here, well, here she could expect a different brand of education.

  It was sometime after eleven p.m. The girls were on the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and Tropicana Avenue, standing amidst a sea of people, and bathed in the emerald glow of the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. They’d just left Studio 54, the nightclub in the MGM, and had decided to hit the strip in search of “action.” Tracy had been glad to leave the club. It was much smaller than she’d anticipated, very crowded, dark, and loud. The constant thump thump thumping of club music had given her a headache worthy of a three-day hangover. On top of that, one of the guys she’d danced with, Dan, she thought his name was, had his hands all over her, constantly trying to coax her up to his hotel room. Eventually, Mindy had lured Dan away and the two spent the next half hour making out in a darkened corner.

  Tracy wasn’t so sure that any of this was for her, but was determined to loosen up and have a good time. She was only young once, after all, she should enjoy it. Still, the idea of floating from club to club, making it with some random guy—or guys—she wasn’t sure that was for her. Was that so wrong? Sasha and Mindy seemed to think so. And they were happy, carefree, enjoying the Vegas experience far more than she. Still…

  Just because she was in a different setting didn’t mean she had to be a different person.

  Tracy glanced across the street to the New York New York, with its faux Statue of Liberty and artificial skyline. The trio had already hit the Coyote Ugly bar in there before crossing the pedestrian bridge to the connecting MGM. Tracy had felt the good-spirited atmosphere at Coyote Ugly was a bit more to her taste than the outright club scene, but Sasha and Mindy were constantly on the prowl, in search of bigger and better. They only had three days and wanted to squeeze every last ounce of excitement out of the city. The three debated crossing kitty-corner to the cartoonish Excalibur, a mock castle with brightly illuminated red and blue spires, and then on to the neighboring pyramid-shaped Luxor. They’d heard there was a hot club there. But instead, they moved north on the strip with the vague notion that they’d make their way to Caesar’s Palace—it was, after all, the most famous place on the strip, it had to be hopping.

  There was a sudden stir in the crowd—shouting, whooping. Tracy turned to see a long white limo inching past on the bumper-to-bumper boulevard. Two girls of about Tracy’s age were standing in the sunroof. One of the girls had removed her top to the raucous approval of the crowd. Mindy whooped in Tracy’s ear, lifting her drink in a toast to the floozy. Sasha did her one better and lifted her top, exposing her own breasts to more cheers and roars.

  “Great,” muttered Tracy. “Now every creep on the strip will be hitting on us.”

  “Wooo!” whooped Mindy.

  “Wooo wooo!” agreed Sasha.

  Tracy figured she either needed another strong drink or an invisibility cloak—if only there was such a thing.

  The girls continued northbound on the strip. There was plenty of jostling as revelers moved about, squeezing between clusters of tourists and hawkers. But the general atmosphere seemed relatively calm. It was just people having a good time. Nothing too drastic. Nothing too daunting. For the time being, everyone was fully clothed, though Tracy suspected that could change at any moment.

  She was amazed at how bright it was even in the middle of the night. It seemed every building let off a glow of one kind or another. The Monte Carlo stood austere and majestic to the left, its architecture classic and refined, a subtle contrast to the more brazen feel of Planet Hollywood a bit further on the right, with its bright neon red “P.H.” sign illuminating the way. Rows of Hispanics, both men and women, lined the crowded sidewalk and slapped glossy pictures of naked women into the hands of passersby.

  Sasha accepted one and read the script aloud, “Hot babes to your room in fifteen minutes.”

  Tracy wasn’t in the market for a “hot babe.”

  Another ten minutes and they came across a showgirl in a glittery pink and white costume with tufts of feathers on both head and rump. She was offering a free pull on a giant slot machine. Giggling at the ludicrous size of the flashing, flickering contraption, Tracy stepped forward and took a pull. She didn’t win anything—nor did Sasha or Mindy, but the two girls, “Wooo-ed” anyway.

  A block later and Sasha was feeling sick to her stomach. She’d been partying hard since eight p.m. and her system had finally decided to revolt. The three girls seated themselves on the edge of a large concrete planter containing a squat, pineapple-shaped palm tree, two beer bottles, and several of the “Hot Babes” cards. Tracy and Mindy encouraged Sasha to breathe deeply and slowly. She’d be fine; she just shouldn’t overdo it.

  There was another commotion in the crowd. Tracy looked up expecting to find another half-naked woman flaunting her stuff, but this was nothing of the kind. The disturbance seemed to be on the sidewalk up ahead. Standing, Tracy saw the crowd parting. There were screams now. Not shouts of raucous frivolity, but real screams. Panic. Fright. Suddenly a figure burst through the throng—a man, naked, and swerving this way and that. At first Tracy giggled, embarrassed, but then she saw the figure more clearly. His face was wrong. The teeth were too long, too sharp, the nose too dark. One ear seemed slightly elongated and more triangular than the other. There was a thin matt of fur on his left thigh, and… Did he have one female-like breast?

  And blood.

  There appeared to be dried blood on his face and arms. The man seemed disoriented. His blank eyes darted to one side and then another as he twitched involuntarily, his limbs giving an occasional flip and shudder. He was vocalizing, but it seemed gibberish.

  “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” said Tracy with some urgency. She wasn’t quite sure what she was seeing, but knew it had undesirable potential.

  It was then that Sasha chose to empty her stomach into the large concrete planter. Tracy tried to move her along, but the girl was oblivious to all but her own personal agony.

  “Come on, Sash. There’s some kind of lunatic over there.”

  Sasha replied with another horrific retch that caused both Tracy and Mindy to avert their eyes.

  Shouts.

  Screams.

  General chaos.

  Tracy turned. The naked freak had bitten a middle-aged woman just below her left elbow. The woman’s companion, a short overweight man of about fifty, attempted to pull the lunatic off her, but the freak’s jaws held firm. A font of blood sprayed upward. Apparently the guy had bitten through an artery. Another man joined the brawl, then another. Finally, the naked man was pulled free of the now-severely wounded woman. He hissed and spat and jabbered unintelligible syllables in a guttural animal-like voice.

  One of the good Samaritans was thrown to the ground, striking his head sharply on the concrete. The naked man held another of his attackers by the back of the neck. The man’s face seemed to go blank—his body shuddered. There were shouts of protests, screams of terror. Panicked tourists ran in every direction. The fifty-year-old man knelt on the ground, attempting to stop the woman’s bleeding. No one came forward to help the other, now-captive, man who seemed close to losing consciousness.

  Mindy tugged at Sasha’s arm, attempting to get her up and moving. A frantic woman carrying a young boy of perhaps six years old, plowed into T
racy, nearly knocking her off of her feet. Tracy staggered but maintained her footing. What was a child doing out on the Las Vegas strip at nearly midnight?

  Sasha retched again.

  People ran this way and that, knocking into one another, shouting, cursing. Others stood, slack-jawed, hypnotized by the spectacle. Still others snapped photographs with cameras and cell phones.

  No one helped the man held by the freak.

  Tracy had a fingernail file. It was in her purse. She fished through the contents of her bag. Where was that thing? There. No. That wasn’t it. What about… No. In frustration, Tracy inverted her purse, dumping the contents onto the sidewalk. There was the file, beside her lipstick. She snatched the thing from the ground, clutching it like Norman Bates would his prized butcher knife.

  “Tracy, No!” screeched Mindy, who was finally pulling Sasha off the planter and in the direction of safety.

  There was no time to respond. Tracy didn’t know what the lunatic was doing to that man, but by the looks of it he might be killing him. Maybe he’d stabbed him in the back of the neck with an unseen weapon. Maybe he was strangling him. In any event, Tracy couldn’t just stand by and watch a murder. She was probably crazy for attempting this, but so be it.

  “My wife!” screamed the man tending to the fallen woman; his hands and sleeves were now covered in her blood. “My wife! Someone call an ambulance!”

  Tracy moved to her left. She heard Mindy’s hollered protests, but the voice was already distant. Circling to behind the naked lunatic, Tracy lifted the fingernail file high and drove it down into the man’s neck, just to the edge of his right shoulder. The file bent and broke. The first inch or so of it remaining embedded in the man’s flesh.

  The lunatic whirled around, slamming into Tracy with his right fist and forearm. She was struck across the face, the force of the blow causing her to topple onto the sidewalk scraping her elbows and jarring her back.

  Her attack, however feeble, had the desired effect. The freak was distracted, the victim free. He stumbled three or four steps forward, turned slightly to his left, as if to look back over his shoulder, and then dropped to all fours as he gasped and gagged, a yellow custard-like matter dribbling from his lips.

  It seemed Tracy was now the target, as the lunatic moved toward her with small quivering steps. Blinking continually, he appeared disoriented, possibly having difficulty focusing. His arms flopped about, his legs jerked and kicked. Her heart pounded at a painful rate. Tracy scooted backward on the concrete, whimpering for the strange man to stay away from her. Wasn’t anyone going to help her? Would all of these people just watch her die? Somehow it didn’t occur to her to stand up and take flight.

  With sudden coordination and speed, the naked freak bent, grabbed Tracy by the back of the neck, and pulled her toward him. Her face was crushed against the man’s chest. She could hear the thumping of his racing heart, smell an odd, almost onion-like perspiration, feel the thick rubbery texture of his skin. She squirmed and screeched, but his grip was as iron. Then there was penetration. At the back of her neck, something had pierced into her very spine. An electric chill raced through her form. She felt herself shudder, but had no control over her limbs. She was going to die, right here, right now, on the Vegas strip. This was it. The end.

  Something dark and brown flew through the air. It smashed against the back of the freak’s head in a crash of amber and suds. Tracy felt the spray of beer on her face as the lunatic released her, rising to his feet with a wavering howl.

  Tracy heard a familiar, “Wooo!” as another bottle found its mark.

  Then there was another bottle, and another.

  Still on her knees, Tracy glanced beyond the now-besieged freak. Mindy and Sasha—the latter appearing more pale than a bleached sheet—were grabbing impromptu missiles of all shapes and sizes—shoes, purses, beer bottles, cameras—and hurling them at the naked man. The rest of the crowd caught on and joined in.

  With an inhuman roar, the lunatic bolted into the crowded street, sideswiped a car, but continued to move.

  There was a shrill whistle. A bicycle cop racing toward the man. Wearing a bright yellow shirt and black shorts, he looked like a giant bumblebee as he weaved through the halting and honking traffic.

  Instead of fleeing, the freak charged the cop, knocking him from his bike and onto the hood of a cab. The cop fumbled for something—his gun, a taser? Whatever it was, the officer never had a chance to utilize it, for the lunatic smacked him hard across the face, and then lifted him over his head. It wasn’t like some super baddie in a comic book movie. The crazy didn’t lift him in one easy sweep. Tracy saw the man strain, saw the muscles tense beneath the too-pale skin, saw the clench of the lunatic’s jaw and the perspiration on his brow. More than once he nearly dropped the dazed and incoherent cop. But somehow, with tremendous effort, he managed to lift the officer over his head and hurl him into the next lane where he struck the side of a metallic blue corvette. The sports car swerved, hit an adjacent cab, and stopped. The cop was now somewhere on the pavement between vehicles, and out of sight.

  Traffic stopped. Cars honked. As Tracy eased herself back into a standing position, she saw the freak weaving between cars, scrambling over some of them, colliding with others. A double-decker bus came to rest in front of her, and by the time she’d moved around to get a better view, the freak was gone. After a moment of near-vertigo, she glanced back onto the sidewalk. Two men and a woman were now attending the bleeding woman. It seemed they might have applied a makeshift tourniquet. Two more men knelt beside the male victim, who was still on all fours, and trembling as if in the first stages of seizure. To her left, Mindy and Sasha were approaching, Mindy pumping her fist in the air. “Vegas, baby! Woooo!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Julia’s head throbbed, her mouth was dry, her vision blurry. She moved to sit up, but a wave of vertigo swept over her, nearly causing her to vomit. Laying her head back into the velvety pillow, she blinked. The room was unfamiliar. Very classy with its light golden wallpaper, fine art prints, and sleek silk sheets; but despite all these, it held the smell and feel of a hotel room. Where was she? Her thoughts, her memories were so fragmentary, so fleeting. It was as if she could almost grasp one and then it would turn to vapor, flitting away on some gentle mind breeze. Why was she here—wherever here was? Why was she so groggy? Why was it so difficult to form even the simplest of thoughts?

  She lolled her head to the right. Red luminescent numerals read one o’clock. It was light outside. She could see that even through the drawn curtains. One in the afternoon, but of what day? Why couldn’t she think? Her eyes fluttered. She was sleepy still. Maybe she should just sleep it off. Maybe she’d be more coherent in another couple of hours. But, sleep what off? She wasn’t a heavy drinker, she didn’t do drugs. She certainly wasn’t the type to get blitzed and land in some strange guy’s hotel room. Where was she then, and why?

  But, sleep. Sleep called to her. It would be so wonderful to sleep. This could all wait till later. Something floating on the fringes of her mind told her that just this scenario had already occurred several times. How often had she wakened disoriented and groggy and then fallen back into whatever haze she was experiencing?

  No.

  She was awake. She might be fuzzy around the edges; she might feel like emptying her stomach into the nearest toilet, but she was conscious now, and that meant she needed to act. She needed to find out where she was and why.

  It was there, just at the corner of her muddled brain, she could sense it.

  She blinked.

  Had she just seen movement?

  She blinked again, wishing she could focus. Her vision was just fuzz and shadows, nothing concrete.

  Blink, blink.

  Yes, there was a form, probably male, standing at the foot of her bed, just staring at her. How long had he been here? Who was he? Had she been drugged? Had she been raped? Julia’s heart raced. She tried to lift herself into a sitting position, but
nearly lost the contents of her stomach for the effort. “Wh-who are you?” she stammered as her head flopped back onto the pillow.

  The shadow stepped to her left, moving around the bed and closer to her face. “My name is Ric. We haven’t met yet—at least not while you’ve been conscious.”

  Julia squinted. The image cleared some, but there was still enough blur to make the young man appear as fuzzy as a newly-hatched chick. “Ric? Who’s Ric?”

  “I’m one of Dr. Baker’s students.”

  Dr. Baker? Dr. Donald Baker. The name came clear as one she’d recently known, but there was no context. She couldn’t recall who the doctor was. “I don’t remember,” she said. “Why am I here?” She was very weak, and the effort to speak created new waves of vertigo. Still, she fought to keep her stomach under control. It wouldn’t help her situation to vomit on the young man’s shoes.

  Ric stepped closer. “You’ll remember everything soon enough. Dr. Baker said you need to be brought around. I’ve set a pitcher of water and a glass on the nightstand. You’ll want to drink as much as you’re able, flush your system of the drug.”

  “What drug?”

  “Dr. Baker will explain everything once your mind has cleared.” With that he turned, strolled across the lush carpet, and let himself out. Julia heard the click of a lock turning after he’d closed the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Charles Chambers placed the phone in its cradle and then turned to the case file spread across his desk. It was tax litigation—his specialty—but it meant nothing to him at this moment. He’d file another brief, petition the IRS, agree to concessions. He knew the drill. The Feds knew the drill, except in the rare instance of some monumental fraud, both sides knew where the other would likely land before the first conversation occurred. In many ways the job of a tax attorney was robotic, just keep the system moving and rake in the money. It wasn’t that Charles disliked his profession, even in its monotony; it was just that he had other things on his mind.