Every Dark Little Thing

by T. S. Ward

  “Why the fuck is she staring me down so hard?”

  I look away, turn to face Vanessa, and start picking at the stuff on the plate. The carrots are honey roasted. The carrots are good.

  “No clue. What’s got you smiling?” She frowns when I point the fork at the plate. “That good?”

  I shake my head. “No. I mean, yeah, it is, just uh… My friend would have… He’s a big fan of honey, is all.”

  She nods. She’s watching Jenny over my shoulder with a frown, and I’m watching in the reflection of the window while she talks. “I can’t say for sure, but I think it might have something to do with your jacket. Her old man’s got a similar one.”

  “And she thinks I killed her dad and took it off his dead body?”

  “Oh, no, no, I don’t mean her dad. Everyone seems to think she’s got something going on with Macon’s best friend, except he’s older than her and it’s kind of weird.” She makes a face. “But, yeah, she still might think that because he and his brother didn’t show up with Macon and he doesn’t know where they are. Or so the whispers say.”

  My first thought is Lou and Eli.

  One of my best memories of Dad is sewing this shit onto our jackets, in a moment of lucidity during his bad days, just before Sadie was sent to Adam. I was surprised he even knew how to do it. It didn’t really seem like a him thing to know.

  I think it could be them, for a second, and then I remember that Eli said he killed him. I remember that if I see Eli again, I might kill him and prove myself a regular Ezra to Macon.

  “What are their n—”

  “Hold up,” Vanessa murmurs. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Jenny appears beside us. She holds a hand out to me and I just look at it, pretend like I don’t know what the fuck she’s trying to do, and it takes an awkward few seconds before she understands and folds her hands together.

  She starts talking with this sweet-pea kind of voice I don’t believe for a second. “I’m Jenny. Thought I’d introduce myself and welcome you to Lakeside.”

  “I’ve been here for a week, Shortcake,” I say. “You’ve had a whole, entire week to introduce yourself and welcome me to Lakeside, so—”

  “You requested no visitors except for Macon.”

  I hold up a finger and see Fox and Viking start to stand up out of the corner of my eye, Vanessa shaking her head, and Macon and his people watching warily.

  I ignore them all. “You interrupt me as much as you look at me, I’m going to bust your kneecaps. Understood? Now what is it, really, that’s got you eyeing me up like I’m the hottest piece of ass you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

  She looks startled, blushing bright red as she stammers. “I’m not—I don’t… That’s not why…”

  “Gonna give you three seconds before I get up and walk away,” I tell her. “One, two, three—”

  “It’s just, it’s your jacket,” she says quickly.

  “Oh, of course. That’s what Macon said, too.”

  She nods, trying to lean around me a little, trying to look at it. “I was just wondering where you got it, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t get it anywhere,” I say, suddenly wary. Suddenly wondering if her friend stole it off my dad’s dead body. The idea has me handing Vanessa my plate, standing up, balling my hands into fists. “And where’d your friend get his? I’d like a word with him about that, actually, ‘cause if it looks like mine, it was stolen, and I’ll need it back. Out of respect for the dead and all. Where’s he at?”

  She’s taller than me, but I’m feeling enough anger roiling around my stomach that I’ll snap her in two if I don’t leave soon. She doesn’t seem to see that.

  “He’s always had it.”

  “I think you’re missing the point. If it looks like mine, it doesn’t belong to him. If I see him, I will be prying it off his dead body. Now get out of my face and make sure you tell him that.” I talk slow and carefully, stepping toward her as she moves back.

  She looks past me to Vanessa, but Vanessa just shrugs.

  “I’d believe her if I were you.”

  The girl doesn’t say anything else, just steps to the side and looks over to her friends as I walk past her. Macon watches me intently as I make my way down the center aisle.

  Viking stands and grabs my arm when I get to them. “You don’t have to act tough, Ghostie. These people mean no harm. They’re just wary.”

  “I’m wary, and I’m leaving before I punch someone,” I tell him. “That alright with you?”

  He nods and lets me go, and I keep walking toward the doors.

  I’m almost there, between the last two tables, when those doors open, and I stop dead in my tracks. He stops dead in his. It’s that bald held, those piercing little eyes, that missing toothed smile. Even if he looks more rugged than before, even if he’s even skinnier and wirier than before and there’s a thick scar deforming his jaw.

  “Now what the hell are you doing lettin’ a rat like this into our midst, Micky?” He calls across the cafeteria to Macon, and then there’s dead silence.

  And just as quickly, the silence is broken.

  Someone shouts something, someone screams, and someone else belts a war cry. A small mass collides with my back as silverware and plates scatter onto the floor. A sharp object pierces my jacket and scrapes against my shoulder blade.

  I stumble, a searing pain cutting through my back. Another war cry sounds behind me, and I side step and turn just in time.

  A small child with a fucking knife flies past me and a man tackles her to the ground, wrestling the knife from her.

  I stand there, completely confused and sure that Eli’s put them up to this for a good few seconds, and then I recognize them. From Factory. They’re from Factory. I killed that girl’s sister, that man’s daughter, and I feel sick. Feel warmth flooding from the cut.

  I can’t breathe, looking at them, so I just start walking forward again. No reaction. No response.

  “Where is he?” I say quiet and low when I get to Eli.

  He looks down at me with a snarl on his mouth. There’s a bruise forming around his eye, a small cut on his cheekbone. He grunts and nods over his shoulder. “Waiting for you at your hole.”

  “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”

  “Reckon a few of these fuckers think the same of you.”

  The cafeteria is silent, and I can hear footsteps on the tile from either side of the room. Fox and Viking. Macon, probably. But I don’t wait for them to catch up to me, to fuss over this damn stab wound I’ve got now.

  I walk past Eli, and as I do, he slaps a hand against my shoulder. Against the goddamn cut. As if he’s the kind of uncle to do that kind of shit—just putting on a show for these people he’s leeching off of.

  I fight the urge to turn around and deck him. The only reason I don’t is because it’d be a left hook rather than a right, with this brand-new pain spreading out down my arm. So, I keep walking out those doors, out of this place, and I don’t stop for anyone shouting at me to.

  I don’t stop, because this is already too much. Dealing with people, dealing with Eli, dealing with the fact that my dad isn’t fucking dead—it’s too much. It’s too much mess, too much noise, and I’m half on the verge of just packing my shit and leaving, searching for Soldier on my own, trying to find him and if not, at least some solitude.

  Before, I couldn’t stand being alone. Now, it’s just what I am. It’s just how it always was and always will be and always should be. It’s safe, that way. I think I’m more damage than anything.

  Halfway down the street, I see him. Sitting on the porch in the dark, in the cold, and even though my heart’s hammering away and I want to run to him, I can’t. I can’t handle this. I can’t deal with this. I don’t want the conversation or the inevitable argument and I don’t want to explain in an attempt to undo whatever Eli’s made him believe.

  I keep my head down, march right past him, and open the door.

  “Keely?�
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  I peer at him sideways, all sorts of things rising up in me but I clamp my mouth shut. I hover in the door as I stare at him, just to make sure it’s really him.

  His hair is longer than mine. He’s got a beard and a mustache going, scraggly as they are. He was always thin and small to begin with, but now, I’m sure I could pick him up and toss him off this porch just as easily as the wind could.

  I don’t know what to do, just then. I don’t know what to do, so I step inside, slam the door shut, and go straight for the basement.

  This isn’t a drink-wine-and-feel-warm-and-happy kind of thing. This is a whiskey-straight-from-the-bottle-until-I-pass-out kind of thing.

  I peel my jacket off, cursing the pain that seizes up my back and shoulder and makes this arm goddamn useless, and drop it to the floor. There isn’t much left of this bar, but I grab a bottle anyway and slide down the wall.

  What I want to do is put a fist through a wall, or smash something, or curl into a sobbing ball of whatever-the-fuck. I want to scream my voice out.

  Instead, I chug some whiskey and let the burn push some of that away for a while, and then I reach a hand around my back and feel the wound seeping blood.

  First time I leave this goddamn house, and look what the fuck happens. A child tries to revenge kill me. My dead dad isn’t dead. Eli is here. And then the thought occurs to me that Shortcake, who cannot be any older than me and is probably younger to be honest, is screwing around with my fucking father—I nearly gag out loud.

  And now there’s another scar coming on, where I can’t stitch it myself.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I drink some more. Let it burn at my throat, let it make me numb.

  “Keely?”

  The basement door opens, and the stairs creak under the weight of boots.

  “Hey, come on, kid. I don’t even get an oh my god, you’re alive? That stings.”

  I take another drink. Don’t say anything.

  “Hey,” he says, stepping around the bar. He sits down next to me and pulls the whiskey from my hand, drinks some, and hands it back. “I was sure I’d never see you again, after you left, and all this started.”

  “Left?” A laugh erupts from my chest. “Glad you cared.”

  “What was I supposed to do, go running after you? You didn’t answer your phone, Keely, you didn’t leave any clues. Eli said he saw you leaving with a bag.” He looks at my jacket on the floor and leans forward to touch a finger to the tear, frowning at the blood. “I thought you were headed to Adam’s. We went there, by the way, looking for you. He didn’t know shit.”

  I stare into the bottle and mumble, “I didn’t leave.”

  He makes me lean forward so he can inspect the stab wound, hissing. “You didn’t leave, so what happened? Enlighten me.”

  “Ask your brother.” I flinch away from him when he grabs the whiskey from me and goes to pour it on my back. “Don’t you dare. This ain’t a movie.”

  He shrugs and drinks some instead. “Wouldn’t want to waste it, anyway. What happened here, then?”

  “Ask the kid who did it.”

  “Keely—”

  “My name is Ghost,” I snap, “Don’t call me that.”

  The bottle clinks loud as he sets it down on the floor, a hand scratching his head. “Fucking hell, kid, what’s the problem? World’s fucking ended and we’re still going to do this? I don’t know what’s gone on with you and you don’t know what’s gone on with me, so how’s about we start there? You’re here. I’m here. What’s there to lose in trying?”

  He wraps his elbows around his knees, hooks his fingers together, and tilts his head. He squints as he looks at me.

  “Promise you, I’m better than I was. I’ll be better.”

  That makes me think of Adam and Soldier, all the shit that was said between them.

  “Lot of people making a lot of promises,” I mutter, “And only one keeping them. I’m not up for being disappointed.”

  He frowns. “And who’s that?”

  The basement door opens again, only it’s Fox calling down for me this time, and Viking echoing him. Ghost? Ghostie? I sigh, give in, and crawl onto my feet again.

  “Just let me live, Fox, I swear to god!” I shout back at them.

  Dad gives me a look, eyebrow raised, and I just shake my head and groan as I go to the stairs.

  They’re waiting in the living room with Charlotte. Fox is pacing back and forth, hands on his hips. Viking is sitting on one end of the couch. Charlotte is on the other end, a med kit set up on the coffee table. They all seem surprised to see Lou hovering over my shoulder.

  “Honestly, I’m fine,” I tell them, grinning at the look I get from Charlotte. “Really, didn’t hit anything important. Felt it scrape against the bone.”

  “Lift your arm above your head,” she says, tight lipped.

  I already know I can’t. “Nah, I’m tired. Don’t feel like it.”

  “Right. Sit down and let me help you,” she orders, pointing to the couch between her and Viking. I follow her commands. “I’ve had patients who have been stabbed and acted like nothing was wrong before. Can I pull your shirt up?”

  “Go ahead,” I say, and then try to finish her sentiment. “Were they all psycho?”

  “They all bled out.”

  “Oh, shit, you’re one of them angels of death, huh?” I snort a laugh as she pulls the shirt over my head, feeling the whiskey a little more now.

  Lou leans against the entryway across from Fox, shaking his head at my bullshit, but listening. Which is something, I think, because I’m blabbering away now to distract myself from the feeling of the chemical burn cleaning out the cut and the needle stitching me back together.

  “You remind me of a nurse I had during my million-dollar vacation,” I tell Charlotte.

  “Million-dollar vacation?” She hums. “That have something to do with this surgical scar you’ve got here?”

  I nod. “Yeah. She really figured me out, you know? Pushed all my damn buttons. I don’t think she was supposed to talk to me the way she did, bad bedside manner or whatever, but it worked. Got me going again.”

  Charlotte laughs, working carefully and steadily. “Hopefully we find her, then. Before you get another knife in you.”

  “Or baseball bats,” I muse.

  “Is that how this happened?” She touches a finger to the scar.

  I nod slowly, staring off into the distance.

  I can smell that damn alley. The dumpster. The wet garbage and soggy cardboard. It’s the smell I imagine when I think of my uncle, when I remember being curled on the ground trying not to lose my teeth. The boots slamming into me, and Eli appearing with an aluminum bat. The crunch of my spine with every hit, and the bliss of not being able to feel anything after a while.

  I thought I was dying. I thought I was dead. I was almost disappointed when I woke up in the hospital.

  “You alright, Ghostie?” Viking asks quietly. He wipes a tear off my cheek and squeezes my hand. “You’re never quiet for this long.”

  I nod. “Just remembering the time I died for a bit.”

  “I’m not familiar with that one,” he says.

  “There are two people who know about that. One of them is the one who took me home after. The other is the one who did it. Guess which one’s in this camp?”

  Fox looks grim. “Eli? Please, don’t add anyone else to your vengeance hit list right now.”

  I blink. “No, that’s… that’s Soldier’s list.”

  Lou is staring at me. He’s lost colour in his face. He slides down the wall to the floor, head in his hands, and he doesn’t say anything. He sits there, listening to Fox and Viking ask the questions he should be asking, listening to me answering.

  “Eli tried to kill you? Is that what that was about back there?” Viking rests an elbow on the back of the couch and breathes out through clenched teeth when I nod. “Back when we had hospitals. And Soldier has strong feelings about that?”

&
nbsp; “Yeah. Tried twice, actually, but Soldier shot him. Told him to aim for the head next time.”

  Fox looks down at Lou, and then back to me, jerking his chin toward him. “How do you know each other?”

  “Oh, is that not obvious?” I snort. “Lou’s my dad.”

  He nods slowly, and then he gets this pitying look on his face. “Does he know? Why you showed up here?”

  I shake my head.

  Viking clears his throat. “So, you think Eli will try to kill you again?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Wait, wait. You’re trying to find Soldier so that Ezra doesn’t kill him, but you’re trying to kill Ezra, and Soldier might kill Eli if we find him, and Eli might kill you.” Fox counts each one off on his fingers as he talks, sighing when I nod my head along the whole time. “This is too much killing. You can’t. Ghost, this is… this is ridiculous.”

  I shrug. “Ezra deserves it.”

  “Why are you trying to kill Ezra?” Lou asks, standing up.

  He walks over as Charlotte is finishing with the bandage on my shoulder, peering at this scar on my spine. He swears when he sees it.

  Charlotte helps me pull my shirt back down.

  “That’s a conversation for when everyone else leaves,” I say.

  Fox clears his throat. “We’re on it. Macon was about to come here himself. What do you want us to tell him?”

  “Tell him to fuck off,” Lou says.

  The other three leave, and then it’s just us in the silence of a dark room. It’s me and Dad sitting together, all awkward and tense, not looking at each other.

  After a while, he pushes over some shit on the coffee table and sits down on it, in front of me.

  “You know, kid, I am happy to see you, yeah?” He rests his elbows on his knees. “I uh… I ran into Macon when we got back in. He mentioned some kid with some kind of contraption set up. You know those things you make? I sat here, got into a scrap with Eli over it, just to wait and see if it was you. I’m glad it’s you.”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” I grumble.

  “It ain’t bullshit. Look. I know it wasn’t easy, being my kid. I know none of it was easy. I’m sorry. I am. I’m sorry for all of it, Keels.” He drops his head into his hands, breathes out, and then sucks in a sharp breath. When he looks back at me, his eyes are shining. “This whole time I’ve been watching Macon be a dad to his kids. I’ve watched these people all be there for their kids. I’ve watched people lose their kids, too. And I can see all the places I fucked it up.”