Voice

by Joseph Garraty

“Oh, is that it?” Alan asked. “I didn’t like your favorite band, so now you think you’re gonna fuck me up? Give me a break.” They were nuts if they thought that would fly. He was off the main strip, sure, but lights blazed and people shouted only a block or so away. Even if they got a few lucky shots in, somebody would call the cops or something.

  And, really, Alan was bigger than any two of them put together. Who were they kidding?

  Unless one of them has a knife or something, he thought uneasily. If they did, though, they weren’t going for it. Both of ’em had their hands in full view down at their sides, gangling around. They stumbled, too—probably drunk.

  The kid on his left moved into the light, and Alan took an involuntary step away from him. The kid’s cheeks twitched, and his eyes blinked in a strange, erratic pattern.

  Is he fucked up on something? Alan didn’t care anymore—it was time to go. He turned to run and stumbled himself, and before he could take one more step, they were on him. One grabbed his belt and hauled on it, dragging Alan to the side, and another lunged for his T-shirt, fingers catching the neck and tearing it open.

  Alan reeled, then shoved the kid pulling on his shirt. The kid staggered back, stepped off the curb, and fell flat on his back. Alan thought he heard something crack, but he didn’t have time to think about it. A third guy jumped on him. Alan pushed the guy away, but he sprang back like some kind of hyperactive monkey, small but determined. Alan pulled back his fist—and, goddammit! The kid who’d been hanging on his belt let go and grabbed Alan’s arm with both hands. He wasn’t strong, but he was heavy enough, and Alan’s blow never came.

  “What the—”

  The girl lunged at him then. He tried to swat her away, but suddenly that other fucker was there, and Alan’s left arm was all tangled up, too.

  “I’m hungry,” the girl said, and the words had barely registered in Alan’s brain when he felt a searing pain in his right biceps.

  She was biting him, and not a little. Her mouth was open wide, teeth buried deep in his flesh, and she was still pushing, still biting.

  WHAT THE FUCK??

  Now she was burrowing, digging and tearing, and finally, Alan had the presence of mind to scream.

  “Help! Help!” He pushed and screamed and flailed around with his left arm, pulling it loose from the psycho cannibal maniac who’d been clinging to it at last, and using it to smash a fist into the other psycho cannibal maniac who was eating his goddamn arm. He hit her in the head, and she pulled away, taking a huge chunk of Alan’s flesh with her.

  Blood poured down Alan’s arm, down his side, soaking the remains of his shirt, and he lurched, just trying to get somewhere, anywhere away.

  “HELP!” he yelled.

  ***

  Case stepped out of the bar with Brad close behind, and the sound of screams coming from down the block hit her like a slap. A jolt of adrenaline hit her bloodstream.

  “Call the cops,” she said, and she started running without waiting for Brad’s reply.

  A crowd was already drifting in the direction of the screams, but not in any particular hurry—more like a clot of idle rubberneckers approaching a car accident. Case pushed through, shoving and shouting, and that seemed to galvanize a few of them into motion.

  She slowed down as she reached the end of the block. There was nobody in the street ahead of her, though the last building cast a long, black shadow. Anything could have hidden in there.

  Half a dozen of the braver souls from the crowd trailed her. “Anybody hear shots?” she asked. “Anything?”

  She got a chorus of muttered “no”s in response, which at least lowered the chance that she was about to walk around the corner and get her head blown off. It was reassuring to have a handful of people with her. The only time she’d ever heard screams like that had been when somebody got knifed in a bar she shouldn’t have been in, and this had all the hallmarks of the same kind of bad scene.

  A strange snuffling, shuffling sound from the darkness ahead reached her ears, and she slowed. “Hello?” she said. “Anybody there?” No answer, but the sound got louder as she approached. She checked to her right and left and saw fear on the faces there—but nobody was backing away. Counting herself, there were eight people, which seemed like good odds.

  “Do you need help?” she asked, and she turned the corner.

  It took precious seconds for her eyes to adjust, but she got a sense of bodies, three or four, huddled and squirming on the ground around a limp mass.

  “What the hell is going on here?” she asked.

  Two of them turned. She saw eyes, and mouths ringed with a dark substance, and just as she began to understand that it was blood, blood smeared over their faces and dripping off their chins, one of them—a young woman, Case thought—bolted.

  Case didn’t think—she took off after the woman. The race wasn’t even close. The woman tripped over her own feet and fell, and Case caught up a second later as she tried to get to her feet.

  Case wasn’t taking any chances. She hauled off and kicked the woman in the gut before she could stand. There was a grunt and a wheeze, and the woman fell gasping back to the pavement.

  Behind her, the crowd she’d brought over had subdued another three blood-streaked crazies. She was just about to congratulate herself when the cops rolled up, illuminating the back side of the building with a spotlight.

  The bloody mess of flesh lying in the corner was barely recognizable as a human being, but Case saw a pair of jeans, dark with wetness, and the sole of a black boot sticking out of the gore.

  She looked away. Nearby, a couple of people fainted.

  ***

  “Are you all right?” Danny asked. It was maybe the fortieth time somebody had asked her that in the last couple of hours, and maybe the tenth time Danny himself had done so.

  “Yeah,” Case said, pushing her coffee away. The six of them—Brad, Erin, and the four members of Ragman—sat crowded around a small table at an all-night diner. The coffee was terrible and Case felt like she might never be hungry again, but the glare of cheap fluorescent lightbulbs had never seemed so inviting, and she was in no hurry to leave.

  “I’m not,” Brad said, raising his hand. That got a few weak smiles. The police had quickly cordoned off the area and tried to disperse the crowd, but Brad had gotten there in time to see the human wreckage in the corner, and Case didn’t figure he’d forget that any time soon. She knew she wouldn’t.

  She’d never been so glad to see cops. They’d taken the woman she’d been standing on from her, which would have been plenty to earn each of them a gold star right there. The woman freaked Case right out, twitching and babbling, the blood around her mouth a bright red smear in the spotlight, and Case was only too glad to get away from her.

  After that, there was a short round of questioning, and Case had been relieved to find she was under no suspicion whatsoever. There had been plenty of witnesses to her actions, the cop said, and he only wanted to know what she’d seen.

  “What was wrong with those people?” Case had asked him. “Were they on something?”

  The cop tapped his pen against his notebook. “Yeah, probably. We’re having blood and urine tests done, but I’ve never seen anybody act anything like that unless they were flying high on something.”

  “Like what? What could make a person do that?”

  “PCP, maybe, or a bad trip on some kind of hallucinogen. Any number of things.” He didn’t sound very convincing, though, and he looked down at his notebook while he said it.

  The others had undergone only cursory questioning, since most of them weren’t there when Case found the body. Afterward, nobody had wanted to go home yet, and they’d found their way here.

  “It’s that fucking guy,” Quentin said, interrupting Case’s thoughts. “Johnny’s friend, the old dude.”

  “He’s not my friend,” Johnny said. “But I don’t think he had anything to do with that shit.”

  “I saw him talking to those k
ids during the show,” Quentin said. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “So? Fuck, I think I talked to them before we started playing. Does that mean I had something to do with it, too?”

  “I think you might have gotten really lucky tonight, Johnny,” Case said.

  Johnny looked at her, eyes even wider than normal. “What do you mean?”

  “I saw those kids, too—right up front. One of them was trying to touch you during the set. It’s a good thing they didn’t come after you.”

  Brad cut in before Johnny could reply. “I don’t think they would have,” he said softly.

  “Why not?” Case asked. “They were crazy—there’s no telling what they would do.”

  Brad put his elbows on the table and leaned in toward her. He looked from Johnny to Case and back. “I heard some of the guys in the club talking. The guy who got killed—he was the one who threw the bottle.”

  “So you’re saying what?” Johnny asked, his voice rising in pitch. “Those four psychos did this on my account? This is somehow my fault?”

  “What? Jesus, no. I was just saying you probably weren’t in any danger.”

  Johnny sat back in his chair. “Oh,” he said, mollified, but his glance darted around the table, and he didn’t look at Brad. “Well, they got the killers in custody now. We won’t have to worry about that shit anymore.”

  “Unless it is the old guy,” Quentin said.

  Johnny fixed a cold glare on him. “Quentin. Shut the fuck up.”

  Chapter 17

  Johnny woke the next morning sweaty and shaking. It was bad dreams nonstop lately, and last night’s insanity hadn’t helped that any. He wondered if he’d ever get a good night’s sleep again after that.

  There was a noise from the other side of the room, and Johnny started as his guests sat up. Another show, another unwelcome visitor afterward—and this time there had been two of them waiting by his front door when he got home.

  “Where the hell am I?” the woman asked. She looked around the room, taking in with mounting disgust the stained carpet and the plant tendrils forcing their way in around the air conditioner.

  “Johnny’s place,” the man said. “Johnny, Johnny, Big Johnny T. Everything’s gonna be fine, sweetheart.”

  Johnny looked at the guy with genuine alarm. The tone in the man’s voice was unmistakable—that strange dark excitement that seemed to inhabit all the creeps who followed him home, who had been taken in by . . .

  By the spell. Or whatever.

  The voice in his head made a kind of snorting sound. He ignored it.

  The last couple of times, the spell (for lack of a better word) had broken after only a few minutes. This time, when his two visitors had shown up, it had been decidedly different. They had babbled, as always—cryptic, unsettling statements about being lost in the darkness punctuated with promises of undying loyalty and gratitude—but it had been a lot more controlled than before, the crazy contortions damped to moderate tics. They could have passed for normal, if they’d have just shut the fuck up.

  What had worried him last night was that the spell didn’t pass. They’d eventually curled up on his floor and gone to sleep—and this morning, the man didn’t seem to be better yet.

  “Are you okay, man?” Johnny asked.

  The guy cocked his head and grinned. “Right as rain, darlin’, but hungry, so hungry, we’ll have to eat soon, oh yes!”

  “Randy, what the hell is wrong with you?” The woman slapped his shoulder.

  These people need to get out of my house.

  These are your friends. Let ’em stay. What will it hurt?

  Are you fucking kidding me? You’re out of your mind. He stifled a laugh. Out of someone’s mind, anyway. And when, exactly, had he started talking to “Johnny” without actually talking? He had the feeling it had been going on for a few days now, but how had he missed it?

  Regardless, this was nuts. He had weirdos following him around constantly, and if he needed an object lesson in the dangers of that, he only had to think back to last night. He hadn’t seen the body, but the descriptions had been plenty colorful.

  “Look, you people need to get out of my house.”

  The man rolled his eyes and leered. “No way. We’re with you, Big Johnny.”

  “Like hell we are,” the woman protested. She stood, steadying herself with one hand on the air conditioner. “You can stay here as long as you want, but I’m gone.” She pulled her hand off the window unit. A film of oily dust was streaked across her palm. She made a face, then wiped her hand on the wall.

  “God, this place stinks,” she said.

  Johnny watched as she walked to the hall. She hesitated, looking back expectantly at Randy, but he only bobbed his head from side to side. She shuddered, folded her bare arms, and left. Johnny heard the front door open and close.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” Johnny asked.

  Be nice, John. This is one of your adoring fans.

  Randy giggled.

  This was not going to work. Bad enough this creepy bastard had shown up here at all, but the thought of him hanging out here all day was wholly unacceptable.

  Douglas, Johnny thought. He’ll know what to do.

  Johnny stood. He was still dressed in last night’s clothes, and the smell was pretty ripe, but just then he didn’t give a fuck. He slipped on his shoes.

  “Come on, Randy. I’m leaving, and you can’t stay here by yourself.”

  Randy got awkwardly to his feet and lurched after Johnny. His gait smoothed out somewhat after a few steps, but he still walked like he wasn’t familiar with the equipment.

  Oh, good. Night of the Living Dead following me around all day. Fucking fabulous.

  Johnny went outside, and Randy followed. Johnny squinted at the bright sunlight. Randy’s face contorted into an exaggerated expression of shock and disgust, his tongue extended and his eyes almost closed. “Augh,” he said. He held both hands up to shelter his eyes. “Bright. Bright.”

  “Hangovers are a bitch,” Johnny said. Sure. He’s just hungover. Right. “I’ll get you a hat.” He went back in and returned with a Rangers cap and a pair of sunglasses. He had to help Randy a bit with the hat—it was too small for him, and he hadn’t got the hang of the adjustment in back—but after that, Randy seemed much happier.

  There was no car parked out front; in fact, Johnny’s nighttime visitors never drove. Johnny’s house wasn’t that far from downtown, and given the odd coordination problems his visitors had, Johnny suspected that driving would be a disaster for them.

  “Looks like we’re walking,” he said. Randy nodded eagerly.

  Johnny walked quickly through the neighborhood. Most of the neighbors were probably at church, but it would be awkward if he ran into any of them. He didn’t know them well, and Randy didn’t seem like a great conversationalist. Plus—dammit!—Randy insisted on walking behind him. Johnny slowed down a couple of times and even tried to guide Randy into step next to him, but Randy wasn’t having any of it. No, he had to walk two paces behind Johnny, close enough that Johnny could hear his joyous, insane mutterings, close enough that when Johnny slowed, Randy ran into him.

  What is wrong with this guy? he asked “Johnny.”

  He seems fine to me. Perfectly happy, in fact.

  Bullshit.

  Laughter. Ah. Well, since you’re so smart on it, maybe you can figure it out and explain it all to me.

  No help there. “Johnny” was a complete pain in the ass when he wanted to be.

  They walked down Fitzhugh and onto Columbia, past the convenience stores and pawnshops squatting behind their iron bars. Only a few people were on the streets at this time on a Sunday, and the few he saw walked with their heads down, so preoccupied with their own thoughts that they paid no heed to Johnny and the shuffling weirdo behind him.

  Johnny was coated in sticky sweat by the time they reached Main Street. The tattoo parlors and junk shops were closed and locked, the glare off the em
pty street a bland white like fossilized bone. If Johnny thought it was desolate down here on a Monday night, it was infinitely worse in the daylight, a marauded skeleton, picked clean and left as a warning.

  Douglas wouldn’t be here, Johnny was suddenly sure. The kind of business Douglas did wasn’t daylight business.

  Stupid. What the hell am I doing here?

  For once, “Johnny” had no comment, or at least chose to make none.

  “I’m gonna get some water,” he said. “You want some?”

  Randy made no answer.

  Irritated, Johnny turned. Douglas was there, staring at Randy, who was looking back with great interest. In the sunlight, Douglas looked even older than usual, pale skin folded into deep creases around his eyes, his hair more grey than black. He looked familiar somehow, too, though Johnny didn’t know from where.

  Douglas broke off his staring match with Randy. “What do you need, Johnny?” he asked. His whisper barely carried to Johnny’s ears.

  Johnny rubbed the back of his neck. “I, ah—look, I don’t know what to do with this guy.” He pointed at Randy. “I don’t know where the hell he came from, and I don’t want him around.”

  “All right. That it?”

  “Now that you mention it, no.” Johnny took a breath, then plunged ahead, avoiding the black holes of Douglas’s eyes. “These crazy fuckers that keep following me around—what is the deal with them? Are you—you’re not, I mean . . .” He looked away, across the street, to where a woman in a black tank top unlocked the door to one of the shops. “Are they, uh, dangerous?”

  “Depends,” Douglas said. Across the street, the woman went inside. To Johnny, it looked like she locked the door behind her.

  When it became obvious that Douglas wasn’t going to say more, Johnny pressed on. “Depends on what?”

  “On what you mean by dangerous. They’re not gonna hurt you, Johnny. You already know that.”

  With an effort of will, Johnny forced himself to meet Douglas’s gaze. The older man’s eyes watered from the glare, but he didn’t blink. “They killed somebody last night, man. Motherfuckers tried to eat him right on Commerce Street.”