Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

  “You're such a dick,” Lou muttered beneath his breath.

  Max's jaw dropped in surprise. Then he grinned. “I heard that, you fuck-puppet.”

  “Butt Pirate.”

  “Anal Avenger.”

  “Pickle Puffer.”

  “Cut the shit,” Mike said quietly, looking from one boy to the other.

  Max and Lou exchanged a silent glance.

  “Jeesh,” Max said, “I was just havin' a little fun with the kid.”

  “Cut the shit,” Mike repeated. “I mean it.”

  “Okay, okay.” Max began toward the house, and the others followed.

  “So,” Rick said, “what's the deal with this place?”

  “Me and Kevin used to come here a lot,” Max told them. “You know, to smoke weed and shit. Especially when my dickhead dad was on my case. We cleaned it up some, but that was, like, five years ago.”

  Max was leading the way into a giant moonshadow, and the others were stumbling through the thorny underbrush, trying to keep up with him. One by one, they arrived at the rear of the house. The back door consisted of a solid, windowless rectangle with rusted hinges, and a circular hole where the knob used to be. Max stuck his fingers in the doorknob hole, and the hinges cried in pain—an ungodly screeching sound, not unlike fingernails on a chalkboard—as the heavy door came open. Once inside, they continued through what appeared to be a large foyer, which then funneled into a narrow, pitch-black corridor.

  “Where the hell are you taking us?” Lou demanded, clutching the heavy 12-pack against his chest. “Is this place even safe? Are there rats? I think I hear rats.”

  “Wait here,” Max told them. The others stopped and watched him dematerialize in the perpetual darkness ahead of them, his footsteps echoing into oblivion.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Rick asked.

  “Rick?” Lou asked. He squinted his eyes, trying to discern human shapes in the room where he was standing. But the darkness was a shapeless, shifting thing.

  “I'm right here,” replied Rick. “Hey, Mike, where are you?”

  “I'm over here,” Mike answered, unable to conceal his displeasure. The air sizzled as something sticky touched his face. “I think I just swallowed a goddamn spiderweb.”

  As he said this, a speck of light appeared at the opposite end of the corridor. A few seconds later, as the light grew brighter and brighter, Max reappeared holding a thick red candle, whose small flame sent the shadows running.

  “C'mon,” Max said, grinning like a death's head. “Let's go upstairs. His last word echoed: “stairs...stairs...stairs.”

  “Alright,” Mike sighed, almost reluctantly. “After you.”

  Max led them to a staircase on the far side of the house, and the others followed the bobbing candle flame as he began his slow ascent.

  “This place smells,” Lou announced in a disgusted whisper.

  Only silence agreed.

  When they finally reached the second floor Max continued forward down another corridor, pausing occasionally to let the others catch up with him. Even with the candlelight, it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of them. After passing eight or so doorways (Mike counted eight, but he was sure he had missed some), Max eventually stopped at the open doorway of a small square room.

  “This is it,” he said, when his friends had all caught up with him. He turned and shuffled into the room, where he placed the candle in an empty Campbell's Soup can he found lying on the floor. As his friends gathered around him the room settled into the eerie yellow glow, revealing the contents of its interior.

  Broken bottles, faded beer cans, and an assortment of cigarette butts littered the floor, along with a moldy stack of Playboy magazines, and what appeared to be wrappers from a McDonald's Happy Meal. There was a water-stained poster of a red Porsche tacked to one wall, and beside it someone had written the words PUSSY PATROL in black spray paint. On the opposite wall, in that same drippy writing, were the cryptic words NIGHTMARES FOREVER.

  Lou set the 12-pack down on the floor, and Max tore into it like a wild dog. Popping the tab, he held his beer can up in the air and frowned. “What're ya waitin' for?” he asked the others. “Let's get cocked!”

  Mike grinned. More than likely, it was the closest Max would ever come to raising a toast. “I'll drink to that.”

  Max was already guzzling his beer, the foam running down his chin and neck. When he was finished he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. Then his crushed, empty can clinked to the floor. “Hey, does anyone got a smoke?”

  “What happened to yours?” Rick asked, mildly annoyed.

  “I'm runnin' low. 'Sides, I forgot 'em in the car.”

  “How convenient,” Rick said, tossing him a cigarette. “I suppose you need a light?”

  “Nope, got my own,” Max muttered, using the candle to light his cigarette, cocking his head to one side so as not to burn his long, dangling hair.

  “Anyone else want one?” Rick asked, holding up his pack of cigarettes.

  “Me,” Lou said, raising his hand as an automatic response, and Rick handed him one. Lou put the cigarette between his lips. “Can I borrow your lighter?”

  “I'll have one, too,” Mike said, and they all looked at him questioningly.

  “What?” Mike snapped.

  “Tsk-tsk,” Max teased. “Now what would Karen say?”

  “She won't say anything, dickhead,” Mike warned. “Because no one's gonna tell her. Got it?”

  “Alright, alright,” Max said, raising his hands in submission. “I was only kidding, man. What the fuck? Chill the fuck out.”

  Side by side they eased their bottoms onto the dusty floor, sitting with their backs against the wall, each drinking and smoking in silence, each searching for some meaningless bit of dialogue. Their run-in with the police was behind them now, though still fresh on their minds. But they were safe for the time being.

  Although the night hadn't started off the way he had hoped, Rick was beginning to feel somewhat relaxed. Whether it was the alcohol or a natural feeling, he could not tell, nor did he care. Either way, they were together again (except for Kevin, Lori, and Karen of course) and that's what mattered most to him. He hadn't realized just how much he had missed being with his friends until tonight. And, last but certainly not least, there were still plenty of beers left. In the aftermath of his earlier thoughts, it seemed as though it would be a decent night, after all. Perhaps even a good night. Not that he'd forgotten about Lori, or Kevin, but this was something to take his mind off those things.

  “So, where is Karen tonight?” Rick found himself asking.

  “Home,” Mike answered. “I might swing by and get her later.”

  “You should bring her to the party tomorrow night,” Rick said. He sipped his beer. “Feels like I haven't seen her in a million years.”

  “Maybe I will,” Mike said, nodding in agreement. “I know she'd love to see ya.”

  “Whose party is it?” Lou asked.

  “Amanda Johnson,” Max said. He grinned mischievously in the flickering light.

  “You gotta be shittin' me!” Lou said. “How come nobody told me about it?” He hadn't spoken much since they'd left the shack; he had been too busy wondering why Rick, whom he had always thought of as a second brother, had tried to take his own life. Now that thought was temporarily swept aside and replaced by an image in his mind: Amanda Johnson! She was sweet, petite, and dirty blonde, with an ass that made his mouth water. And those breasts! So large, so firm, so perfectly perky! There wasn't another girl in Hevven High whose body could compete with Amanda Johnson's. And tomorrow night, he (Lou Swart, freshman virgin) would be at her house, at her party. And what a party it was going to be!

  “What, do you honestly think she'd go for a scrawny little fuck-puppet like you?” Max sneered. “Hey, Mike, you remember the last party she had? That dress she was wearing? Man, would I like to sink my teeth into that…”

  “Yeah,” Mike chuckled in m
id-sip, cutting him off. He pointed an accusing finger at Max. “I also remember you making out with that fat chick from Futawam. Don't try to deny it. I saw you grabbin' those mud flaps. What was her name, anyway?”

  “Bertha Plimpton,” Rick chimed in.

  “Bertha-fuckin'-Plimpton!” Mike doubled over with laughter. “With a name like that, she was destined to be a porker.”

  “C'mon, don't even bring that shit up,” Max pleaded above the laughter, unable to conceal his Cheshire Cat grin. “Besides, she wasn't that fat...was she?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Mike chuckled. “You're just lucky we dragged your skinny ass out of there before she used you for a dildo.”

  They all burst out laughing, including Lou, who hadn't even been there at the time, and didn't have the slightest idea what his friends were talking about. Max buried his face in his hands in a pantomime of shame.

  Unfortunately, the moment was short-lived.

  “I got accepted to UMASS,” Mike interrupted, quickly following his announcement with a swig of beer. Just like that, their laughter evaporated.

  They looked at him, speechless.

  Mike had expected this reaction. “I'll be leaving in September. My parents are gonna pay for an apartment, until I can find a job or somethin'. There's a chance I'll even get a football scholarship. Just thought you guys should be the first to know.”

  “Congratulations, man,” Rick said in a somber voice, wishing that Mike hadn't brought up THE FUTURE. If anything, he'd rather talk about Amanda Johnson, or even Bertha Plimpton. Anything but college. He couldn't bear the thought of them losing one another. THE FUTURE—one lousy fucking joke that he wanted no part of, because he didn't get the punchline, and he doubted very much that there was one, and because sometimes he felt like he was the only one not laughing.

  Rick had received letters from two local colleges—Bridgewater and Stonehill—and had promptly transferred each of the two unopened envelopes from his mailbox to the trash. After losing Lori, higher education was the last thing on his mind.

  “Yeah,” Max muttered, shaking Mike's hand. “Congrats, dude.”

  For the next few minutes they drank their beers in silence.

  “Are we gonna jet soon?” Lou asked finally. He didn't care for the company of the old house. Not one bit. It felt unnatural. The feeling he had, trespassing here, brought his mind to a horrible place. The sounds of the creatures outside (which he didn't think anyone but himself had noticed) were growing louder by the second, causing the fine hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. His young mind was conjuring thoughts of slimy, bloodsucking swamp creatures; creatures that would take a great deal of pleasure in devouring a handful of human boys. Never in a million years would he talk of such things (his friends would surely make fun of him if he did), but his imagination escaped him nonetheless.

  “In a couple of minutes,” Mike said. “After I finish the rest of this beer. What's your hurry, anyway?”

  “I thought we were gonna smoke,” Max whined. “I wanna get roasted-toasted.”

  In Max vernacular, roasted meant getting high. Roasted-toasted, on the other hand, meant getting stoned beyond belief. Max usually opted for the latter.

  “We are smoking,” Lou stated in a puzzled voice. He raised his cigarette and considered it in the candlelight.

  “Der, ya little retard. I'm talkin' about a joint, shithead.”

  “Oh.” Lou lowered his cigarette, took two short drags, and deposited the butt into an empty beer can.

  “Don't worry, we'll spark,” Mike said. “But not right now. Later, when we know that cop ain't out there waitin' for us. The last thing I need is to get busted for possession and lose my friggin' license.”

  Lou got up and began to pace the room. “Hey, guys, I gotta take a wizz. Where's the bathroom in this place?”

  “There's a room at the end of the hall,” Max said, thumbing the direction.

  Lou nodded and started for the door.

  As an afterthought, Max sang after him, “WATCH OUT FOR THAT LITTLE DINKY OF YOURS! THE ROACHES MIGHT WANT A SNACK!”

  Lou shook his head, grinning in spite of himself, as Max's laughter reverberated throughout the dry skeleton of the abandoned house. Lou turned left outside the room, running his hands along the damp walls in search of a door, slowly moving toward the black void where the corridor seemed to disappear. After a few agonizing seconds, his head finally succeeded where his hands had failed.

  “Arrghh! What the...” Lou grunted as he collided with the heavy door. Instinctively he began to rub his forehead, but he was more agitated than injured. He gave the door an angry shove and it swung inward with a reluctant moan.

  Undoing his jeans, he stepped into the room. While Lou relieved himself, listening to the sound of his urine splashing onto the bare wooden floor, his eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness.

  At the opposite side of the room, highlighted by shafts of moonlight that flowed between the cracks of the boarded windows, was something that resembled a person sleeping. Lou finished pissing with a contented sigh and, zipping up his pants, started across the room to investigate the object.

  Something was definitely there—but what? Most likely an animal. A big one. A dead one. Hopefully a dead one. What if it's not? What if it's rabid?

  Lou Swart was about to find out.

  Mike tossed his empty beer can on the floor, a sign that he was ready to go. His friends rose with him, eager to return to the car, where the rest of Mike's Godsmack CD was begging to be heard. Max picked up the candle, and the room shifted sideways in the nervous light.

  “Where's that brother of yours?” Max asked impatiently. “Prob'ly jerkin' off somewhere.”

  “Come on,” Mike said. “The two of you are driving me up the friggin wall. This is supposed to be a fun night out. Can't you just call a truce?”

  “I'm only jokin'. Hey, where you goin'?”

  Mike didn't answer him. He stepped into the dark hallway. Rick went next, and Max followed him with the candle.

  From somewhere far away, they heard a strangled gagging sound.

  Rick stepped up behind Mike. “Sounds like your little brutha's puking.”

  Mike took a deep breath and sighed through his nostrils.

  Rick's observation was met with little concern, and even less surprise. Lucien “Lou” Swart was only fourteen, and they had all had their share of hangovers at that age. They knew the routine. Get him cleaned up, take him to Donut Hevven for a coffee and some greasy food, and he'd be as good as new in no time. Ready to start drinking again within an hour. At the worst he'd wind up crashing in Mike's backseat for the rest of the night, which would probably be the better for him anyway. It wouldn't be the first time, either.

  “Good! More beer for us!” Max chuckled.

  “Hey, Lou, are you alright down there?” Mike called into the long, dark hallway.

  No answer.

  Mike released another loud, disgruntled sigh. “Let's go find him.”

  Max Kendall's chuckles echoed eerily throughout the blackened hallway as they followed the sound of heavy vomiting to the far room. “Whoa, do you smell that?” he asked, pinching his nose between two fingers. “Awwr, who farted?”

  “Smells like roadkill,” Rick said, and tried to breathe easy. His eyes began to sting. The smell was that strong.

  They found Lou standing with his back to them, panting like a dog, balancing himself against a doorjamb with one trembling arm. He was still adding to the large puddle of vomit that littered the floor around him, and it was already beginning to fill the upstairs of the house with a strong, acidic stench.

  “One too many, huh?” Max cackled, slapping him on the back. “Yeee-uck! What the fuck did you eat? Looks like dogfood.”

  Lou closed his wide, glossy eyes and spat onto the floor. He shook his head, tried to speak, could not make a sound.

  “Knock it off,” Mike said, shoving Max aside.

  “Alright, alright,” Max muttere
d. “Let's just get the fuck outta here, okay?”

  “Are you alright?” Mike asked his brother.

  Lou shook his head, doubling over in agony.

  Mike ignored Max's plea. He brushed past Lou, who remained just inside the doorway, trembling like a frightened puppy, and began to move toward the center of the room. He was looking for something. Mike didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew that whatever it was, it had scared the hell out of Lou. He also knew that it was in this room. In the dark.

  On the floor beneath a crudely boarded window, where the moonlight trickled and gathered like puddles of Elmer's Glue, lay a large, motionless...thing. Yeah, a thing. In the shadows. He could almost see it clearly now. Mike knew it would only take a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but in the dark it felt like longer.

  He took a few steps closer to the thing, dimly aware that one of the others had followed him. Outside, a cloud passed before the moon. Shadows chased moonbeams across the floor, dancing over the object that now lay directly in front of him, and the moonbeams fled through the window cracks.

  God, the darkness.

  Mike stopped, then shuffled forward, slowly, blindly, trying to feel his way through the void.

  A few seconds later, the moonlight returned, squeezing through the cracks of the boarded window, and reached out across the floor, as if meaning to touch the thing at Mike's feet, the thing he had almost stepped on in the darkness, caressing it with long, ghostly fingers.

  It was then that Mike saw it, though he could hardly believe it...at his feet, he had almost stumbled over it...a young girl lying naked on her back, not moving, not breathing, eyes wide open, pleading...flies buzzing on and around her. And dear God that smell!

  Death.

  She hadn't died pretty. Her face was a cruel caricature of her suffering: bruised cheeks, swollen lips, and broken teeth, her mouth open, forever frozen in a final, silent scream. Reflecting moonlight, her eyes, wide and unblinking, stared up at the ceiling. Stared at a world she could no longer see. Stared at nothing.