Now it was Isaiahʹs turn to fall back. The agent seemed changed. A different person had stepped into his skin, and now he was in charge.
ʺIʹll make sure she dies in agony. What happened to the Ferrell bitch will be nothing, you hear me? NOTHING!ʺ He laughed, a horrible laugh that made Isaiah feel like vomiting. ʺSheʹll be one of my special girls,ʺ whispered the man. ʺSo cold, so compliant.ʺ
Isaiah didnʹt know what that meant. He didnʹt want to. He had seen so much evil in his life. His father, the gangs. The people who had confessed to him, the others he had brought out of their torment. The ones to whom he had brought justice.
And, of course, his own evil.
(One eye clear, the other eye clouded.)
But now, staring at this man, he realized that what he had seen was only the surface film on a deep lake whose corruption ran to profundities he would never understand.
There was evil, and there was Evil.
He was seeing the latter.
The agent smiled at Isaiah. ʺCall me Melville,ʺ he said.
Isaiah was confused. ʺWhy should I–?ʺ
Melville giggled. Less horrible than the laugh a moment ago, but the madness in the sound still made Isaiah feel like his blood was trying to escape through his throat. ʺBecause weʹll be working together, Mr. Sillypants.ʺ
Isaiah shook his head. ʺI work alone.ʺ
ʺI know, I know. But Mr. Dominic thought you could use some backup.ʺ He waved a hand in front of him. ʺI wonʹt get in the way, I promise. You could say Iʹm here in a strictly advisory capacity. A consultant, you know? So you get all the benefits of my expertise and you donʹt even have to spring for insurance benefits.ʺ He clapped Isaiah on the shoulder. Isaiah felt like taking a shower. He doubted it would help the deeply unclean feeling the touch gave him. ʺBest of all possible worlds, right, friend?ʺ
Melville grinned, and the teeth he showed off were slightly stained, slightly crooked. He moved to the passenger side.
ʺCome on,ʺ he said. He got in.
Isaiah got in as well. What else could he do?
ʺWhere are we going?ʺ
ʺThatʹs an excellent question,ʺ said Melville. ʺWe donʹt know exactly–not yet. But theyʹre going to head east.ʺ
ʺHow do you know?ʺ
Melville shrugged. ʺMr. Dominic told me so.ʺ
ʺAnd heʹs always right?ʺ
Melville smiled that stained smile. ʺYou can take it to the bank. And bet your life on it.ʺ The smile disappeared. ʺNow drive, asshole. Timeʹs a-wastinʹ.ʺ
interlude:
SAVAGED
EARS UNHEARING
From: POTUS
To: Karen Valdez
Sent: Friday, May 31 7:02 AM
Subject: Itinerary
Karen, dammit, you tell my wife to get her ass up here and/or start answering my calls or I WILL HOLD YOU PERSONALLY RESPONSIBLE. I donʹt care that youʹre ʺherʺ assistant, if you think you can keep yourself from reprisals from a guy who sits in my chair, you are sadly mistaken.
Please, please, PLEASE. I just need her to listen to me for five minutes. I know sheʹs still pissed at me over the last incident, but this is important. Tell her she never has to listen to me again, but she HAS TO LISTEN TO ME ON THIS.
***
Sometimes life gives you lemons. And contrary to popular opinion and motivational posters all over the world, the proper response is not to make lemonade. All that did was fill your hands so you couldnʹt fight back when the inevitable sucker punch came, and only five-year-olds made any money selling the stuff. No percentage, a marked decrease in your ability to defend and attack. No, lemonade was a total gyp and in Rena Thomsenʹs experience when life gave you lemons the only reasonable course was the following:
1. Kick Life in the nutsack. If necessary, follow up with an eye-gouge.
2. While Life is down, rifle through its pockets.
3. Take anything in said pockets.
4. Regardless of what is in said pockets, take the lemons that started the whole kerfuffle and shove them up Lifeʹs ass.
She was involved in something like this last when it all came apart.
She was supposed to meet up with Chance. That wasnʹt his name, but she didnʹt care. All she cared about was the fact that he sold dope–a wide variety of the stuff, from ‘shrooms to E to weed, even the more serious junk like crack and heroin–and the more important fact that she had finally figured out his deposit schedule.
Sheʹd been buying from him for almost a month. Small amounts of ecstasy mostly, which was totally believable when you looked at her. Spiky hair that had been dyed in alternating strips of fire-engine red and sapphire blue, a dozen earrings on each side, a nose ring, fashionably ripped clothes. She practically screamed ʺscrew me senseless at a rave.ʺ
She had no intention of either going to a rave or of having sex in the near future. She hated raves, and sex wasnʹt something sheʹd ever enjoyed.
But she did like money. And since she didnʹt like working, she preferred to steal it wherever possible.
Chance was Oriental–Chinese or Jap or some kinda gook, they all looked the same to her. Hunky in a Bruce Lee way if you were into that. She knew that today heʹd be loaded with cash from his rounds, and this would likely be his last stop before he dropped off a percentage to the local gangs that let him operate in this neighborhood, then off to do whatever he did with the rest of it. Probably sound investments in low-risk bonds and a 401(k).
Right.
She looked around. She always met Chance in an alley just off a fairly busy street, which was another reason he wouldnʹt be expecting her to jack his bankroll. Too much possibility of someone coming by.
But the thing was that Rena had a gun, and she didnʹt mind wasting someone if it meant a payday. So sheʹd ask nicely and if Chance didnʹt answer right the first time, blammo. If someone else happened by, itʹd just be a twofer.
All good. Just one more kick to the balls of Life.
Besides, she didnʹt think there was much chance of anyone spotting her. The streets were coated with a thick early morning fog, and that seemed to have encouraged even the crazy people who liked to jog before work to stay indoors. The street outside the alley was utterly deserted.
It was almost creepy, in fact. Rena didnʹt like to read, but she was all about a good movie. Scary ones were her favorites. Not ghost movies–those were too slow and they didnʹt usually have blood or anything–but she liked the ones with dudes who rammed pitchforks through people or other dudes who used weed whackers to whack fornicating teens to pieces. Lotsa guts.
But those crazy killers…they always came out of mist like this. A storm, a blizzard, the fog. The truly deranged seemed to favor crappy weather.
The lights in the alley–a few low-wattage bulbs that barely managed to illuminate the space in the night–flickered and went dark. They must be on timers, keyed to turn off in the morning.
Only it wasnʹt morning. Not really. The fog was too thick. Not morning, or twilight, or day or night or anything else. It was just…gray. Like the world had turned into a nothing, was disintegrating, and the first things to fall apart were sun and moon and the sky itself.
Rena suddenly felt like she was all alone. Not in the alley, but in the universe.
How did you kick Life in the balls if Life had ceased to be?
ʺWhatʹs up, beautiful?ʺ
Rena nearly jumped out of her earrings. She had been facing into the fog, half expecting something to lurch out of her like one of those zombies that chewed your face off and then had sex with your eyeball holes, and Chance had come up behind her.
He was already reaching into a pocket of the huge black coat he always wore.
Rena reached into her pocket as well. Not to get the fifty bucks she usually paid him, but to grab her gun. She pulled it out and didnʹt bother asking Chance for his cash. She just pulled the trigger and then pulled it again.
Dude h
ad it coming. Heʹd scared her.
Rena went through Chanceʹs pockets efficiently. Sheʹd done this before, both on bodies horizontal and those still upright. She was an old hand.
She found his bankroll quickly. Pocketed it. Counting would come later.
She went for the drugs next. She wasnʹt a dealer, but there was always someone willing to buy in bulk for a discount. A fast buck could always be made.
She smiled and felt her confidence returning. Once again, foot had found groin. Lemons were going up Lifeʹs butt. All was well with the world.
A sound stopped her.
Her hand was still in Chanceʹs jacket. She had his sweaty wad of money in her pocket. Worst of all, the gun that had wasted him was on her person. If it was the cops there was no way she could talk her way out of it.
But that wasnʹt what made her freeze. The sound wasnʹt footsteps coming closer or even other people trying to steal her hard-earned take.
The noise was low and bubbling. It rolled through the alley. It sounded a bit like the chainsaws that featured in so many of Renaʹs favorite movies, but wetter and quieter. As though the machine had already bitten through a hundred bodies and now was idling, saturated with blood and gristle and waiting to slash through its next unlucky victim.
It was coming from the mouth of the alley.
Rena looked toward the street. The fog swirled, turning around and into itself like a thousand tiny tornados had taken up residence just outside the alley. It was dark out there. Darker than it should have been, even in a fog as thick as this. There should have been some light. Some nimbus projected by the sun above.
The growling, grumbling sound continued. It got louder, and it sounded more and more like a machine designed to rend and destroy flesh. And more than that, it sounded like it could tear apart a soul, like it could pull sanity itself to pieces.
She backed away. Toward the other end of the alley. She realized she had pulled out her gun again.
Step after step. Never taking her eyes off the side of the alley the sound was coming from.
The fog started to drift into the alley. It curled in like a living thing, reaching wraith-fingers toward her, fog tentacles that grasped and grappled for her ankles and legs.
She moved faster. The sound grew louder.
It was coming from behind her as well.
She spun.
The sound wasnʹt the only thing that had encircled her: the fog had come into the alley behind her as well. She was trapped between two collapsing walls of disintegration. Two lines of nothing that held only….
What?
ʺWhoʹs there?ʺ she shouted. She was happy that there was no quaver in her voice. She was a tough bitch. People who kicked Life in the balls were always tough bitches. ʺI will shoot your ass.ʺ
She cocked the gun so whoever–
(whatever)
–it was would know she meant business.
The growling just got louder. Coming from in front of her. Now behind. She realized it wasn‘t two distinct sounds, but only one, moving in a circle. Only it moved faster than was possible. No way it could get behind her, in front of her, behind her. Not that fast. Nothing moved that fast.
Rena tried to follow the sound; spun until she was dizzy. And the dizziness was not caused merely by her turning but also by the sense that Life was, at last, about to kick back. That she had never really gotten the best of it, but that it had simply been waiting for this moment.
Something came from the fog.
Rena expected a man. A giant, perhaps, maybe wearing some sort of sports paraphernalia, certainly holding a grim and terrible weapon capable of the most intimate mayhem.
A man did emerge. Neither huge nor outfitted with the latest Sports Authority accoutrements. He held no weapon. Only a chain.
The chain led to a collar.
The collar was around the neck of a thing that Rena had never seen. But it was somehow familiar. She had never looked upon something like it before, but in that moment she knew it. Then her mind ran to madness like a child to its mother.
She fired her gun, pulled the trigger over and over and over until it was empty.
The thing at the end of the chain grunted as the bullets hit it. It did not fall. Its eyes narrowed in a strangely human expression. Rage.
The man who held the chain looked at Rena sadly.
He let the chain play out. Slacken.
The thing crouched.
Leaped.
Rena screamed.
She kept screaming for a long time.
***
Jackʹs name wasnʹt really Jack, it was Jim. But as his last name was Jones, and ʺJim Jonesʺ was a name with some of the worst possible connotations, he had started going by Jack over thirty years ago. He also avoided Kool-Aid, though that was because he was diabetic and he could never be sure if he was getting the artificially sweetened stuff or the original kind that would send him into insulin shock faster than a hummingbirdʹs heartbeat.
Jack Jonesʹ character was as far from that of his more infamous namesake as could be. He was quiet, not particularly charismatic. He never got religion, especially not the kind that called people to unthinking acts of devotion, and, except for the two times he went to bury his children in other states, he had never left the city in which he was born.
The greatest distinction between Jack and Jim, however, was easy and simple: Jack Jones was a kind man. He had no need to control others. He was happy enough to exist in the background, just doing his job–whatever it was–and seeing that those around him were as happy and comfortable as life allowed.
He was alone. That was another difference. Heʹd never been surrounded by thousands or hundreds or even dozens of adherents. But heʹd had a family. Two kids–a boy and a girl–and a wife who clearly didnʹt understand how far out of his league she really was when she said yes and then stayed married to him until colon cancer stole her away from him thirty-two years later.
The kids died right after, which made some sense: Jack wanted to follow Evie as well, and given the chance he would have. But he didnʹt believe in suicide, and no one was so kind as to provide him a pathway to amble after his sweetheart. Only the kids got to go, courtesy of a pair of burglars who busted into Jackʹs house while they were over checking on him.
Ironic that he was on his way over to their houses. Didnʹt find out what happened until he came back, grinning like an idiot because heʹd found out from his kidsʹ respective roommates that both had decided to surprise him.
And they were gone. Son shot in the head, daughter beaten to death with a trophy Jack got for not missing a day of work in three straight years.
He kept on. He still didnʹt believe in suicide, though he certainly thought about it more. But Evie would not have approved.
Jack survived, and did his best to live. Two different things, and sometimes the gap between them seemed as deep and wide as the one between Heaven and Hell.
He was active with his local Shriners group. He played bingo twice a month at the local community center. There was a group of cute kids that lived across the street from him and he took them all to the dollar theater whenever there was an animated movie playing.
He survived. He lived. He waited to die. It was all okay with him.
Most mornings Jack was up well before dawn. He still had the same bed frame he had brought Evie into on their wedding night, and still slept on the same side of the bed. But even half of a half-empty bed seemed too big. It felt like it wanted to swallow him sometimes. And though he wanted to see Evie, Jack did not want to be eaten by furniture. That would make for an embarrassing obituary.
So he rolled out of bed on many mornings and walked the neighborhood. He always took a trash bag so he could gather up stray bits of litter in the area. There was lots of trash, and more every day. People didnʹt care much for keeping the world clean.
Maybe they just didnʹt care about anything. That worried him.
It was foggy today, and quiet. That was all
right, though. Jack liked quiet. Quiet brought the sounds of the dead. Not ghosts, but memories. The cries of new babies, the whispers of love-making. Long-gone, but always present in an old man who counted the days until he would be old no more, and would find out if there was something beyond or if he had hoped for reunions in vain.
He heard the sounds of hospital equipment sometimes. The drip-drip of fluids, the weak rasps of his wife as she took her last breaths. And those were all right, too. He held her hand when she went, and though she was too weak to hold his hand back he knew she felt him there and knew that mattered. Not many people managed to be in love like he had. Falling in love: easy. Making love last was…not a job, no, never that. But a calling. And he felt he had fulfilled it.
Another sound suddenly intruded. Not as pleasant as the gurgles of swaddled infants or the sighs of a passionate wife. It was deep, resonant. It made Jack feel sick. He didnʹt know what it was, but knew instinctively that it belonged to something that you did not mess with.
He turned to go back. Even in the darkness cast by the fog, he knew he could find his way home.
The scream stopped him.
A womanʹs scream.
He turned around again, a jerky Hokey-Pokey that would have made Evie laugh if she had seen it.
Help me out here, Evie.
He knew heʹd need whatever help he could get. Didnʹt know how, but knew it just the same.
He ran toward the scream.
The sidewalk slapped beneath his orthopedic shoes, the breath slammed in and out of lungs far too old to do this kind of thing. But he didnʹt turn back. A woman was screaming. He wondered if this was the sound his daughter had made, and wondered if she would be alive if someone had run to her.
He rounded a corner. Into an alley.
A woman was there. The fog didnʹt allow Jack to see much, but he could see a huddled form. Streaks of red and blue hair, a dark outfit with rips all over it. Probably fashionable, though to him it looked like she was going for some ʺstreet-walker-who-barely-made-it-out-of-a-scissors-factoryʺ look.
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