by Kenny Soward
Where was the extravagance? Where was the nice bed and expensive furniture? Where were the crazy paintings only a person who crept around an apartment in a T-shirt and socks could understand? Where was something to tag Selix as differing vastly from the rest of them? He expected a table with decanters of red wine or whiskey. Some play at opulence. After all, Selix managed their wealth.
The window lay open to the fall weather. On the near side of the room rested a cheap, plain desk—a child’s desk, made of press board and bowing in the middle. A stack of credit cards, clipped bills, and lock boxes covered the top. Next to that, another table bore the weight of backpacks and packages wrapped in duct tape and stacked in neat rows.
The corner of one package hung open, revealing a lump of black tar.
The heroin itch swelled up and threatened to propel his feet in that direction. Threatened to turn him into something less than human just long enough to get him into trouble. For once he welcomed the oppressive black ice dimming those urges.
With a tremendous effort Lonnie dragged his eyes away from the recently used pile of smack. He was vaguely aware of the price of disobedience. The price was a trip to Elsa’s playroom in the basement where she punished the Eighth Street Gang’s enemies. Where she did unspeakable things, crazy things.
But that’s why Selix liked Elsa. Having a raving lunatic as your guard dog had its advantages.
“Hey, Lonnie.” Selix sat on the end of the mattress with her knees tucked up to her chest, blond mohawk limp, the shock of red in front falling over her cheek. She appeared tired but none the worse for wear. The heroin had aged her. Lines around her eyes. A sore here and there. No laugh lines. No, not a single one.
“The princess arrives.” Elsa stood there with her hands on her hips, long legs and swishing skirts, glaring at Lonnie with a good helping of disdain. “You know, Lons, I find it amazing we keep you around given your lack of enthusiasm for what we do here.”
“I do my part.”
“What? Watching stupid shows and lazing on the couch? You have to prove your worth, Lons.”
“I was at the same fight as you today.”
“Oh please, Lons.”
A flash of heat through the ice, and Lonnie clenched his fist. “Stop calling me that. I fucking hate that name. Especially coming from you.” His voice rose above a growl, eyes flashing between Selix and Elsa.
“What name? Lons?”
“Yeah, Lons. My name is Lonnie.”
Elsa’s grin widened. “Lons Lons. Lons Lons. Lons.”
“Stop it,” he said. The black ice shifted as he punched at it. Another crack formed.
“Lons Lons Lons, Lons Lons Lons. Lons,” Elsa said, primly. She stepped to the side, turning back to converse with herself. “Lons! Lons Lons Lons. Oh, Lons!” At which point she broke into cackling, spine-grinding laughter, slapping at her leg in mock hilarity.
A sheen of sweat slicked Lonnie’s brow. “She’s just pissed I rejected her offer for a blow job.”
Elsa clammed up, strode over to him, her face stopping inches from his. She reeked of blood and gun smoke from the fight. She made a kissy face at him. “Make me stop, then. Oh, how I would love you to try. You want to hit me, yes?”
“Yeah, I want to smash your face in.”
“Then do it. Do it, Lons.”
A spark of energy flared inside him, bouncing around pinball fast through his brain and body. In a blink, Lonnie stepped back, drew his weapon, and pointed the barrel at Elsa’s head even as she fumbled to draw her own gun from its shoulder holster.
What was that blinding speed, that hot instinct? Here, and in the ally when he’d thrown the knife at the sleether. Jesus Christ.
“Too fucking slow,” he said, smirking.
Elsa grinned and raised her Glock. “Yours isn’t loaded, Lons.”
Oh yeah. The memory of the fight was slippery. Had he reloaded? Probably not.
“Shit.”
Elsa cackled. “Maybe I shoot you now, Lons. I won’t kill you right away if I put the bullet in your shoulder.” The Glock’s barrel rose and shifted a hair left.
“Stop,” Selix said.
“Or someplace else?” The barrel dropped until it pointed at Lonnie’s crotch. The tip of Elsa’s tongue flicked out to touch the top of her lip as her grin expanded several degrees beyond mad.
Lonnie, still pointing his XDS at Elsa’s head, figured he had little to lose. She'd shoot his balls off if he didn’t get her first. Lonnie squinted and pulled the trigger. Click.
“Shit.”
Lonnie lowered his useless weapon.
“Oh ho!” Elsa beamed at his mounting trouble. “I told you, Lons. Now it’s my turn.”
“I said stop. And put your guns away. Please.”
Neither of them did.
Selix rose from the mattress. Stepped between the two. A pleasant odor followed her. Cinnamon or spice, she smelled good. Not like he did. Not like cigarettes and sweat. “You’re troubled,” she said, reaching for his arm.
Lonnie jerked away and put his back to the wall. He didn’t want her touching him, icing him, again.
“What have you people done? Is this a cult? You brainwashing me or something?”
Elsa’s laugh ripped through the room, a room grown hotter by several degrees. The goth’s Glock dove in over Selix’s shoulder, steel pressed against Lonnie’s forehead. At the other end was Elsa’s strange, sharp underteeth. The whites of her eyes cracked with rivulets of black.
Cracks in the ice.
“I don’t even need this little toy,” Elsa said, removing the gun from his face and holstering it. “I just enjoy waving it around like in the movies.” And then those razor claws were at his throat, cutting into his flesh.
“You’re frightened.” Selix nudged Elsa’s hand away, her scent enveloping his senses. She gripped his forearm before he could recoil. Her touch sent a shudder through him, a low tremor, a gentle jolt through his shoulders. Any warmth he’d gained the past few hours fled him, and the black ice hardened once more. “I totally understand. I’d be afraid too. I have been afraid.”
“Afraid?” Lonnie swallowed dry. Wished he had a cigarette.
“Yeah, afraid. It’s a heavy feeling, I know. Let me cut out the pain. I can do it with a touch.”
His fears were slipping away, but he clung to them now. They were a part of him. Lonnie met Selix with mild defiance, still punching at the cold. “I’m not afraid of you people. Whatever you are. I’m not afraid.”
Selix held his eyes with hers, her smile gentle despite the sores. “Of course you’re not afraid. I get it.”
Lonnie shook his head slow and careful, thoughts cold-dim. “I wanted to say something, but I can’t remember...”
A daze took hold, and Elsa and Selix talked. Words he forgot as soon as they entered his brain. Selix gripped his arm tighter and Lonnie felt the ice harden even more.
Yet…
A hot gust touched his face, rustling his hair.
Together, he and the dragon rode the wind.
Together, they were power. The strength of claw and fire.
They spiraled downward toward the crashed escape pod. It lay cracked open near a circular edifice with a base thirty yards across and fifteen yards deep. An altar upon which rested an oblong gateway twice the height of a man and ten feet across.
Two figures struggled up a dune driven by wind against the altar’s side, trying to reach the safety of the gate. The were helpless against the harsh environment. Two soft-skins baking beneath Hell’s suns, defenseless against the predators lurking just beneath the sands. He must reach them. Must speak with them. Were they who he thought they were?
His attention wandered south where a ripple marked the desert floor. Something swimming through the sands toward the the struggling pair. Monstrous, half as long as his dragon, its spiny ridge cutting the surface.
Lonnie edged forward in his saddle. “Due south. Do you see it? It’s a…” He trailed off, trying to reme
mber. “It’s a demon polliwog. Bottom feeding scum.”
The dragon grunted that it had seen the creature but made no alteration of course.
“Move to intercept. Do it.”
With a gusty sigh that would have lifted a compact car, the dragon banked toward the encroaching beast.
In lieu of being iced again, Lonnie welcomed the terrifying heights, the dizzying speed with which they descended. Welcomed the fire-lit sky and noxious clouds. The heat of it burned into his head, burned into the black ice that kept him from remembering the truth. These visions, these dreams, were his way out. His freedom. And if he could just keep the two pups down there alive, he might learn more.
The dragon’s wings tucked. They dove on the polliwog.
The beast rolled in the sand, the wink of a black eye from the dessert floor before a belly full of waving tentacles with wicked hooks opened to them. Lonnie grimaced as they hit, the impact jarring him from toe to teeth. The tentacles whipped around the dragon in a vicious embrace, hooks finding purchase between the thick scales. The dragon roared and bit, claws finding their own traction in the tough demon hide.
They beasts bucked and swung and Lonnie fought to hang on. They became tangled, locked in a stalemate, and Lonnie almost wished he hadn’t ordered the dragon to attack. It was a stupid idea, and they’d be killed. Desperate to do something, Lonnie drew a thrumming weapon from a holster at his side. It was a gun, but like nothing he remembered. An over-sized revolver with dials and switches, the big cylinder filled with oblong silver casings. Vials of some sort.
A weird gun, yet a gun. Lonnie tested the weight, grinned, and looked for an opening.
Lonnie shook his head. Blinked. Selix’s room came swimming back, its dirtiness small compared to the vast dessert landscape he’d just visited and the battle with the demon polliwog. He’d even carried over the mad grin.
Selix looked concerned. “Are you okay, Lonnie?”
He ran his hand over his face, wiping his expression clear. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. Long fucking day.”
"Sorry to keep you iced.” She glanced at Elsa. “But I guess there’s no denying it now. You can’t warm up or they’ll scry you. We need you to keep playing dead."
Yes, but his head blazed, alive. And Selix’s magic or hypnosis or whatever was behind it, wasn’t working like it should. Maybe he was becoming immune to it. He could ride it out. Chip away.
Let her think whatever she wanted.
Lonnie nodded. Pushed his hand through his hair. Gave her a weak smile. “Sure, Selix. I can play dead. That’s what I do.”
Her eyes picked at him a moment more until she was satisfied. She released him, reaching into her jeans pocket. “Awesome, kid. Can you do something for me?”
“Anything you need.”
“Good.” She handed him a folded piece of paper. “I need you to go to the hardware store. Whatever is close. Get these things for me.”
Lonnie stuck the paper in his pocket without a glance. “Right now?”
“No, Lons,” Elsa sneered. “Next Saturday, if you can clear your schedule. You’re so busy all the time.”
“Ignore her, okay? Just get the parts and put them together? Can you do that?”
“Yeah.” Lonnie stared at Elsa for another moment before letting his eyes slide away. He didn’t want to give the goth any more excuses to put holes in him. He’d stood up for himself well enough today. Didn’t need to push it. He patted his pocket and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll get it. I’ll build it.” He smiled, nodded, and started for the door, nerves still frayed from fighting. From trying to hide that he was fighting.
“Oh, and Lonnie?”
“Yeah?”
“Use the sewers.”
“Right, the sewers. No problem.”
“If the sludge fits…” Elsa snickered.
“Please. Be careful.”
“I will. I promise.”
It was a promise Lonnie was sure to break.
Chapter 8
Lonnie tripped into the hall, wanting to retch after the exchange. Took him several moments to steady himself, to get his feet solidly beneath him, before he had the strength to walk without looking drunk. He was proud of himself, bolstered by his resistance to Selix’s powers. How long had he been coming out of this stupor? Weeks? Months?
Whatever the case, Lonnie welcomed his strengthening lucidity.
In the parlor, Ingrid still perched in her chair, staring at the TV with rapt attention, picking at the tips of her boots with her painted nails. With both the Brit and Crash off doing other things, she’d found something more amenable than Stunt Dummies to entertain her. Her pale face swung in Lonnie’s direction, eyes searching him for any change, perhaps curious to see if Elsa had removed his fingers or toes.
“Where are you going?”
“To the store.”
“Through the sewers?”
“Yes.”
“Ugh. So stinky.” She wrinkled her nose. Amazing how closely she resembled her sister, yet the two couldn’t be more different.
“Well, there’s shit in the sewers, you know? So, it’s going to smell like shit.”
“Yes, Lons. But will you be okay down there?”
Lonnie shrugged. “More or less.”
Ingrid produced a bright smile, the expression looking slightly morbid on her face. ”Good. It’s good to have you back.”
“Good to be back,” he said, unsure why it felt right to say it.
Lonnie took the stairs to the second floor to a storage room where they kept weapons and ammo. Punched the key code on the alarm. He wasn’t surprised to find the Brit inventorying items on one of the two metal shelves in the cramped space, re-arranging boxes of bullets to make room for more.
Lonnie shuffled past him with a grunt, hunting for the shelf with the .45 caliber ACP rounds for his XDS.
“Hey, man,” the Brit said. “I’m putting away the ammo we picked up the other day. Been sitting on the floor this whole time.”
“I’m sure the ammo doesn’t care where it sits.”
“No, it doesn’t, smart ass. But we have to keep this shit in order. Remember Trolley?”
Lonnie made a sarcastic noise. “Yeah, I remember Trolley. Fucker got what he deserved.”
“Right. Don’t need assholes digging into our stash.”
Lonnie wanted to say who wasn’t an asshole these days, but refrained. He spotted the rounds he needed, shoved back in a corner where the Brit was working. “Hey, man. Could you hand me a box of those?”
“Sure, mate. Sorry.” The Brit bent and reached for the box, slid it to the edge of the shelf, and went back to his task.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Lonnie moved the rounds to another shelf where he had more room to work. He opened the box, ejected his empty magazine, and reloaded it.
He noticed the Brit’s furtive glances.
“What? You think I’m going to steal some extra rounds or something? Think I’m shoving a grenade in my pants?”
The Brit laughed. “Not at all. Was just thinking how good you did out there in the ally. I’m serious. You took out a couple of the baddies. Even scored on the—”
“Sleether.”
“Yeah, that thing.”
Lonnie popped the full magazine into the gun and racked a round. Wedged the weapon into the holster on his back right hip. He grabbed a couple more XDS magazines and put them in his pockets, just in case. “Just doing my part, man.” He started to squeeze past the Brit and exit the room, but the Brit turned into Lonnie’s path, giving him a quick embrace and clap on the back.
Lonnie stiffened but returned the gesture.
Then the Brit stood back with his hands on his hips, appraising Lonnie. “Seriously. You’ve been spot on since you joined. Probably a damn good fellow before getting caught up with us, huh?”
“I wasn’t always an asshole, if that’s what you mean,” Lonnie said, thinking the room was getting stuffy and weird.
>
“That’s what I mean. No, I’m sure of it. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got good dude written all over you.”
“You didn’t know me before. Still don’t now.”
The Brit nodded, eyes amused but hiding something troubled. “Right, I didn’t. But if I had, I bet we would have gotten on great.”
Lonnie shrugged. “Fuck if I know, man. Is this a test or something? Selix wants me to get some shit for her.”
“No. Not a test. Go on.”
Lonnie gave the Brit a nod and shuffled past.
All tucked in, secure, and loaded, Lonnie took the stairs to the first floor and opened the door to the basement stairwell. He tromped down the squeaky steps, kicking up dust, happy to be free to move around without the gang watching. The cellar was a labyrinth of brick-and-mortar passageways dismantled and rebuilt over a couple hundred years. Full of stacked crates and boxes, tables covered with old things and some new ones: Lonnie’s tools, scraps of wood he carved on when bored, and other odds and ends.
Made sense Selix wanted him to build something. He’d worked as a mechanic before this and remained the resident repair man in the apartment. He had good hands. Could fix anything.
Aside from his little work space, Elsa’s play room skulked in a bloody aura near the stairs, pining for victims, its door splashed with the symbol of the Eighth Street Gang in red paint; a spoked circle skewered by a spear through its center. The symbol meant something important or they wouldn’t have it tattooed on their upper right arms. Lonnie tried to ignore the room mostly, but today it shook loose an ugly memory brought on by the Brit’s reminder.
Yeah, Trolley.
Not only had the guy tried to steal ammo, but he once jacked one of the Eighth Street Gang’s runners off his bike in Midtown. The runner was one of Elsa’s favorites. One she often brought into the apartment to sate her dark perversions, of which she had an unlimited supply.
Filled with rage at her boy’s death, she went after Trolley herself. Lonnie remembered her packing her weapons despite the Brit’s misgivings. A Glock in each shoulder holster, a small .318 strapped to her thigh, and various knives shoved into whatever other places she could find. Armed thus, Elsa disappeared into the night only to return hours later dragging poor Trolley by his hair.
