by Marc Laidlaw
“This room is suffocatin’,” Craig said. “Let’s get out of here.”
He slid open the sliding glass door and stepped outside. Everyone tumbled after him, though Edgar hung behind a moment and Mike watched him take a small glass vial from his pocket. He uncapped it, touched it to his fingertips, then dabbed himself behind the ears. Mike smelled the strong odor he’d caught from Edgar all day—the hippie, Alt-School smell.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Patchouli oil. You want some?”
Mike wrinkled his nose, shook his head.
“It’s for protection, attracting money . . . and sex.”
“Sex?”
“Yeah. Drives girls crazy.”
Mike put out a finger. “Maybe a little.”
It didn’t smell that bad.
6
It was good to get outside again, into the air, especially since he regretted the patchouli oil immediately. It made his eyes water and his nose begin to itch and run. He didn’t feel much like an adventure now, not with these guys. It was becoming pretty obvious that no girls were going to turn up. They wouldn’t be acting like this if there were. Going to bother queers wasn’t going to get him any closer to his first lay—not the kind he was hoping for, anyway.
He was half tempted to walk away from them, go back to the new house and stare at the moon on his wall. He thought Scott would probably come along, but then he saw Scott arguing with Edgar over what they should do and say when they got where they were going. He was laughing, having a great time. Mike kicked himself mentally. How much excitement did they have in their lives anyway? He spent most of his time wishing for something to happen; and now here it was, happening, and he was already trying to get out of it.
Screw it. Screw fear.
Besides, it was dark. It wasn’t like Sal would see his face—or even his ass—in this light. Nobody was going to catch them. He’d been doing this sort of thing all his life. When it came to pranks, he was practically a pro.
Dried grass hissed in a warm wind along the embankment. All the houses were on one side of the street, facing undeveloped land on the other. Barbed wire marked the boundary. Most of the homes were dark, but he could hear the steady thud, thud, thud of disco up ahead; the only sign of life in the development. As they got closer to the sound, he saw Sal’s black van sitting in a driveway.
The seven boys stopped in the middle of the street.
“Somebody go ring the bell,” Craig said.
For a paralyzing moment, Mike was certain they would choose him.
“Mad-Dog,” said Kurtis.
“Yeah-yeah-yeah!” Mad-Dog agreed with a sniggering laugh.
Mike relaxed. Apparently he wasn’t cool enough to be considered even for the dirty work.
“The rest of you get ready,” Craig said. “About fuckin’ face!” They turned their backs to the house, strung across the street in a straggling line like a half-hearted human roadblock. Mad-Dog, meanwhile, scampered past the black van, up to the door. Looking over his shoulder, Mike saw Mad-Dog capering under the porch light, then he touched the doorbell and came tearing back to the line-up.
The muffled music died.
“Hey, queer!” Howard called.
“We know you’re in there, you faggot!” Kurtis joined in. Thumbs hooked in the waist of his trousers, still twisted around, Mike saw the door open. A man appeared in silhouette, leaning against the doorframe looking out.
“Pervert!”
“Fucking homo!”
“Queer!”
“Cocksucker!”
“Buttfucker!”
“Goddamn faggot!”
“Queer!”
“Suck my dick, you quasar!”
“Kiss my ass!”
Sal—if Sal it was—stayed perfectly still.
Craig said, “Now!”
The sound of zippers and snaps broke out along the row, as the boys yanked down their pants. Mike felt the breeze on his cheeks, and craned around to look at the luminous doorway. The man had gone back inside. The door hung open like a mouth about to speak. Mike sent his own voice hooting out with the others, barking like a fool, his blood foaming with an adrenaline rush.
Giddy, feeling wilder than any of them now, he clutched at the pocket of his jacket and felt the bulbous avocado inside, where he had stuffed it when they were running from the grove. He dug into the pocket without another thought, screaming and yipping and laughing—yes! He was a wild man! Part of the pack—invincible!
He lobbed the green fruit as hard as he could, and watched in amazement as it sailed—as if expertly tossed—straight through the open doorway and exploded on the wall within. Guacamole splattered; chunks of green pulp gleamed on the white plaster. . . .
“Holy shit!” Edgar said. “Run!”
The command was unnecessary. None of them would have stood still another instant. And they had good reason to run.
Shrieks poured from the open door. Mike saw a blur of silhouettes merging with darkness. His own scream came involuntarily. He yanked up his jeans, trying to run without tripping. For a minute he thought he heard Mad-Dog’s laughter echoing down the empty street, but Mad-Dog’s mouth was clamped shut. The seven fled in silence. The sound he heard was Sal’s gang, howling hungrily for their blood.
Mike could hardly see where he was going, even though his eyes were used to the dark. Edgar hissed and pointed them down a hill street; halfway down the block, they dodged into a walkway between two houses. Mike felt like a frightened rabbit running for a hole. The cries of their pursuers faded in another direction. They bounded into the clear, coming out in a vacant lot. Mike stumbled and fell into deep dead grass. Sticker-balls from burr-clover buried tiny snags in his palms; sticky foxtails pierced his clothes, making ripping sounds as he tried to rise.
“Down!” Edgar whispered from somewhere nearby, unseen. Someone giggled breathlessly. They were all in the weeds, huddled down.
Craig: “Where’d they go?”
“Whyn’t you go look?”
“Fuck you, Tyre. Edgar, how do we get to your house from here?”
“They know where I live, man. They’re probably over there right now.”
Mike raised his eyes—no more than that—above the grass. Just down the street, less than half a block away, a black Cadillac gleamed in a carport. He stifled a laugh. The other guys were about to enter into his debt.
“Hey, my house is right there,” he said.
“No shit?” said Craig. “Is anybody home?”
“We haven’t even moved in yet.”
“Whoa, that’s right!” said Edgar. “We got a key!”
“Let’s do it,” Craig said. “Follow the twerp.”
Mike crept to the edge of the vacant lot; dry grass rustled behind him, the only sign that he was being followed. He looked up and down the street, saw nothing but darkness. As soon as he stepped onto asphalt, he heard a shout. Gray shapes swarmed under a streetlight up the hill. They had seen him.
A dozen or so long, leaping strides brought him to the porch. The other boys plowed into him, grabbing at the doorknob. “Hurry, man!” He dug into his pocket for the key.
“What the fuck’s wrong?”
“Let us in!”
“Come on, Mike!”
“Get it open, dipshit!”
“I’m trying, I’m—”
“They’re coming!”
The key twisted in the lock. The street echoed with bloodthirsty cries. The door flew open from the pressure of seven straining bodies.
Suddenly the carport shook with new arrivals.
Mike nearly stumbled down the stairwell in the dark; he caught the rail and tried to grab the door, but it had already banged shut. He twisted the knob to make sure it was locked. The other six clustered around him, waiting, some pressing hard on the door as if they didn’t trust the lock.
Just then, someone started pounding on the wood. It sounded as if they were using mallets. Mike could feel the jarring in hi
s feet.
“Gonna kill you!” whispered a deep voice.
“Shit,” Kurtis whispered, “did you see? Those guys had nunchuks.”
“You’re dead in there,” said another voice.
“Dead!” promised another.
“Must be like twenty of ’em,” Howard whispered. “Oh, we picked a good night to hassle Sal. A real good night.”
“They probably have swords, too,” Kurtis said. “Like, those big Bruce Lee machetes?”
After a minute, Sal’s gang left off pounding. The whispers of the seven fugitives sounded loud in the empty house. Mike went halfway down the stairs, listening to a thudding too far away to be his heart. He felt fairly sure that someone was running down the stairs between the houses.
“They’re surrounding us,” he announced.
“What are you talking about?”
Before he could explain, they heard hammering and pounding in the depths of the house. It sounded like the Diaz gang was about to shatter the sliding glass doors on the ground floor.
“Where’s the light?” Howard asked.
“No, keep it off,” said Scott. “They can’t be sure we’re in here. Maybe they’ll try another house and get somebody really pissed off.”
“Oh, fuck,” Howard was saying. “We’re going to die, man, we’re really going to die!”
Craig: “Everybody! Just shut the fuck up! Especially you, Howard.”
It was worse in silence, because they could clearly hear whispering outside, all around them, along with the sound of feet scurrying up and down the stairs and hillside. There were no more noisy threats, only the quiet persistence of determined assassins.
“Whose idea was this anyway?” Kurtis said.
“Yours,” said Mad-Dog.
“But who the fuck threw that avocado?”
Mike swallowed apprehensively. He couldn’t believe Kurtis was trying to blame this on him. He’d only been joining in the spirit of things . . . hadn’t he?
“Forget it,” Edgar said. “Let’s check the balcony.”
Edgar, Scott and Mike crossed the living room, opened the sliding glass door, and went out on the deck. The only illumination came from streetlights along Shoreview Road, far away at the edge of the canyon. Mike leaned over the railing and saw shadows moving around the base of the house. Big shadows. It took him a moment to realize that they were cast by the eucalyptus tree. He tried to look between the houses, but it was pitch black in there. He was sure he heard whispering and bootsteps crunching in earth. Suddenly three shapes rushed out from under the house, where they’d been busy in the little fern grotto. Mike jerked back abruptly.
“I can’t see anything,” Scott said, from the other side of the balcony, “but I can hear them.”
“They’re definitely down there,” Edgar agreed.
As they went back in, rocks and gravel began to pelt the sides of the house, rattling on the windows and sliding glass doors. Mike prayed they wouldn’t throw anything too big, but that prayer only opened the gates to deeper levels of hopelessness. He never should have fled to the house. He’d be better off out in the street, free to move without putting his house at risk. What if they busted windows? What if they spray-painted the walls? What if they broke down the door and massacred everyone? He had promised his mother he wouldn’t go in after dark, and instead he had attracted the wrath of a gang of marauders.
“What do we do now?” Howard said.
“Gimme a minute to think,” said Craig.
“I wish Hawk was here.”
“He’s not, so forget about it.”
“Call him, Edgar,” Kurtis said.
“There’s no phone,” Mike said. “I’m not even supposed to be here.”
They ignored that.
“We gotta get Hawk, that’s all there is to it,” said Kurtis.
“Oh, and how the fuck do you plan to do that?”
“Somebody has to go get him, that’s all.”
Suddenly the pounding started up again at the front door. They all jumped. Mike stared at the door, expecting it to come flying open, torn from its hinges. He was waiting for the real destruction to begin. The guys outside weren’t yelling anymore, but he could hear them whispering their threats, and that was even worse. Death, mutilation, torture—all this and more was in store for them. Jack and his mom would find the walls freshly painted in the morning—painted with his blood.
And you asked for it, Mike told himself. You had to invite everybody in.
If they’d caught him outside, it would have been quicker. At least the house would have been untouched. He’d have received a proper burial then, and the pity of his family.
As it is, he thought, if they leave any part of me alive, Mom’ll finish the job they start.
He put his back to the door, as if he could hold it shut alone if they decided to batter it down. “Shit,” he said finally.
“You can’t think that way,” Edgar said firmly. “We all have to start focusing on some positive images.”
“Oh, get off that bullshit,” Kurtis said.
“I’m serious. We can do it. Seven minds, working together. We have so much untapped power. All we have to do is concentrate.”
“You’re worse than Hawk, man. At least the Bible really exists.”
“The rest of you, then,” Edgar said. “If we all focus on one thought, visualize the thing we want, it’ll work. We can influence them, I swear to God. You just have to hold a clear picture of what you want, and that creates the space it needs to happen.”
“What do you mean?” Mike asked. “Like, ESP?”
“It’s mind power, brain power.”
“But it only works if you have shit for brains, like Edgar.”
“I’m just ignoring you, Kurtis. I’m seeing your negativity locked up inside a safe where it can’t hurt us. The rest of you, close your eyes and try. See them going away, leaving us alone.”
“When I close my eyes I see myself getting killed,” said Howard.
“Come on, concentrate. Visualize them going away, leaving the house, going back to Sal’s.”
Edgar’s voice was deep and slow, but could not quite manage to be hypnotic.
“Going away . . . going away . . . leaving us alone, like . . . leaving us alone . . . can you see it?”
Mike didn’t need to close his eyes. Desperation made it easy to picture their pursuers slipping away like shadows under a strong light. It was his most fervent desire at the moment. “Going away . . . going away . . .”
“Are you doing it, Scott?” Mike asked.
“Worth a try,” Scott said.
“Imbecile,” said Kurtis, but no one else was arguing. They seemed to be following Edgar’s instructions.
After a few minutes, Mike didn’t hear any more whispering or scraping around the house. The rocks had stopped clattering on the windows; no more threats crept in under the door. “See?” Edgar said. “It’s working.”
As soon as he spoke, a scream erupted less than a foot from Mike’s head. They began hammering the door under his back. He flung himself away.
“That’s it, Edgar,” Kurtis said. “You’re elected. Go get Hawk. Fucking call him by ESP if you don’t want to run for a phone.”
Edgar stared at Kurtis, his eyes gleaming in the dark as if he were crying. “All right,” he said after a minute, defeat in his voice. “I’ll go.”
Mike felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to argue with Kurtis. Whoever Hawk was, Mike would be glad for any help they could get.
“You can go out the bottom door,” he suggested. “Someone should watch from up here on the balcony, to make sure the coast is clear.”
Craig Frost said, “Me and Howard’ll watch.”
So Edgar, Scott and Mike groped their way to the dark spiral stairs. They discovered, upon entering the lowest room, that they were clearly visible to anyone outside, thanks to the streetlights glaring in through the sliding glass doors. There were no curtains or blinds on the doors. Fortu
nately, there didn’t seem to be anyone around. But Mike half expected savage faces to appear at the glass at any moment, and then there would be no hiding.
“I thought for a minute there that it was working,” Mike said as Edgar peered through the glass. “Your visualization thing, I mean.”
“It would have, but Kurtis is way too negative,” Edgar said. “I’ve been trying to get the whole gang to use it, so we can work in total silence.”
“Edgar . . . ” Scott said reproachfully.
“Yeah, so anyway, I’m going to stick to the underbrush as long as I can, but I’ve got to cross the street eventually. I hope they’re not over there. When I come back, I’ll have Hawk with me. Then we’ll really take care of Sal.”
“I just want to get out of here,” Mike confessed.
“Well, that too.”
Scott called up the spiral stairway, “All clear?”
They heard Howard relaying Craig’s message: “Go!”
Mike flipped the latch and slid the door open. Edgar slipped out. He hauled the glass shut as fast as he could and snapped the latch back down. Edgar was already invisible, lost in the bushes. Mike felt vulnerable in the lowest room. He signaled to Scott that they should go back up to the room above. There they sat on a white linoleum floor, walls bright and shining. The mirrors gleamed even in the dark.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Mike said. “How’d you meet these guys anyway?”
Scott shrugged. He seemed calm, even comfortable, in the midst of the madness.
“Edgar took me out to Hawk’s trailer. You know, it’s that place in the canyon, made up like a church, quotes from Revelations written all over the side.”
“With the crosses in the yard? Jeez, that’s Hawk? The guy who’s supposed to save us?”
“He’s like an ex-con, ex-biker, ex-everything. Edgar says he’s rehabilitated, but I don’t know. The people he hangs out with seem pretty wild. There’s one guy, Stoner? Looks like a big blond caveman. I saw five guys ganging up on him, trying to drag him to the ground, but they couldn’t do it till Hawk jumped in.”
“And you really want to join this club?”
Scott chuckled. “To me, they make an interesting study in anthropology. The hierarchical structure, the messianic overtones . . .”
