Animals

by Jonn Skipp; Craig Spector

  And it was all he could do to restrain himself.

  Because as he looked in those eyes, all he could think was this man is a joke. He didn't deserve the power he had over other people's lives. He didn't deserve to live at all. In a sane universe, miserable creatures like him would be lucky to make it through the day without being dragged down, torn apart, and eaten alive. They would live in holes and count their blessings, afraid to go out by day or night.

  It would be—by any standard—a substantially better world.

  Part of him felt obliged to act on that understanding. Or maybe he was overexplaining it to himself. Maybe it was more a matter of imagining how enjoyable it would be to watch Bobo's throat peel open, the esophagus bared, then enjoy the whistling windpipe spritz as his trachea shredded.

  Either way, suddenly Bobo's face didn't radiate quite the same level of self-righteous psychopathology. The eyes were still bulging, but their motivation had changed. Fear had replaced the bullying bluster.

  There was a noise, very faint, off to his right. Syd turned. Cecil had closed the magazine. It lay very flat and still in his hands. It was clear that he was following all the changes in the room as well. At the next whiff of escalation, Cecil would stand. And then there would be violence. It was as simple as that.

  Syd could feel his hackles rise. Cecil was easily six-four, two hundred and twenty pounds. His approach was purely business. He was rumored to have killed. Syd looked at him now, knew it to be true. But he also knew something else.

  You're scared. It was a gut knowledge, an animal certainty. He stared calmly into Cecil's eyes, waited for the information to impact. It only took a second. They widened, then narrowed to slits. It was fear, alright, but mixed with an underlying thread of confusion. Like he didn't quite know why. Syd shifted his weight forward, ever so slightly. Cecil shifted back in his chair, maintaining the distance between them.

  In that moment, all four of them were stripped to their primal essence: four mammals in a box too small, poised on the brink of primacy war. Even Beany had tuned in to the bestial frequency. It was a moment of astounding clarity. Syd savored it—-the power and strangeness—holding his gaze hard on Cecil's for one more second.

  And then, all at once, he let it drop.

  And it was like throttling down on an industrial turbine, pulling back the reins on a runaway horse: not so much a loss of power as a conscious suspension of its exercise. It would be back, anytime he wanted. It would be there forever.

  Syd looked back at Beau Harrell, who evidently was seeing him now in a whole new light: not so much with respect as with dread. It was, to Syd's mind, a substantial improvement. He smiled.

  "I just came in to say I quit," he said at last, surprising everyone, himself included. "And I'd like my paycheck.

  "Now."

  His tone was perfectly level, menacingly matter-of-fact. It was not phrased as a request, nor was it received as one. Bobo looked like someone had just dropped an anvil on his head.

  "Payday's not until Friday," he said. "You know that."

  "I know," Syd said pleasantly. "Make an exception."

  Bobo's glance flickered from Syd to Cecil to Beany and back. Syd's eyes remained on Bobo. Bobo looked like he was going to blow a hose. "Ch-checks aren't cut yet," he stammered.

  "I know," Syd said. "Write one."

  Syd leaned forward. Bobo's head retracted into his shoulders, like a turtle flinching into its shell. There was a tense pause, punctuated only by the sound of sweat popping on Bobo's pate. Then Bobo leaned over, mumbled something, and pulled his ledger out of the desk. Beany and Cecil exchanged nervous, furtive glances, as if witnessing a miracle. Syd smiled as Bobo pulled out a pen, began to write. He waited patiently. Doing nothing. Ready for anything.

  "Huh-here," he mumbled. "Duh-don't come back."

  "Don't worry," Syd said. "I won't."

  Bobo finished scribbling, tore the check free, and held it out. Syd plucked it from his grasp and Bobo flinched again, as if he feared Syd might take his hand with it, as a souvenir.

  "Thanks," Syd said, smiling pleasantly. He glanced at Bobo's henchmen. 'Take care, fellas. It's been a slice."

  He turned, the trio of eyes following his every move. As he did he made a special point of acknowledging Cecil, whose hands still clutched the magazine. "Y'all take good care of those massive fannies now, y'hear?"

  Then he was out the door and gone, laughing to himself from the moment it shut. A wave of giddy exhilaration rolled over him. Damn, but that was fun! Damn, but those guys were stupid! If he'd known that quitting could be this much of a rush, he'd have done it a long time ago.

  The forty-degree morning was warm on his skin. It made him feel comfortable, confident and strong. He felt like he could handle anything.

  He felt like he could take on the world.

  23

  THE MOON WAS innocent tonight. For this cycle at least, its power had peaked, was already on the wane. It could no longer be held responsible for anything that happened, not even in theory.

  Nora watched it through the windshield, and wondered just who she was supposed to blame.

  Because Syd was in the driver's seat, blissfully oblivious, blasting them down the winding road to the bar where they'd first met. It's the only other thing I have to do, he'd told her. But it's very important to me, okay?

  Of course, it was not okay; and she tried to tell him so. But her best arguments were utterly in vain. He just needed to say good-bye to Jules and a couple of the others, needed to say his good-byes to the place. Chameleon's was the only thing left in this town that meant a thing to him.

  This had put Nora in a position both awkward and extremely delicate. From a relationship standpoint, it was really not a good night to push too hard. The rest of the day had been absolutely revelatory; they'd been drinking and celebrating since roughly noon, when Syd had returned home early from work. He was full of himself, full of his power as he relayed the story of Bobo and his sudden "change of heart." He told her they could leave as early as tomorrow. He was even selling his precious stereo to some guy at work for five hundred bucks, which she had to admit would keep the wheels greased until he was up and running.

  So what was not to like? All in all, Syd was in too fine a mood, playing too smoothly into her hands. So when he suggested they go out, it was hard to say no. But there was no getting around the very real dangers implicit in the move. She had lost a couple days of lead time, after all; it was entirely possible that Vic could just show up at any moment.

  Nora quashed the thought and the shudder it rode in on, took a deep swig off the Southern Comfort bottle, then turned to take a long hard look at the man beside her. His profile glowed in the dashboard light. She couldn't get over how fired up he was. It was a mixed blessing in the purest sense, both wonderful and terrifying; she didn't know whether to be more thrilled by his ardor or frightened by his newfound assertion of will.

  Because Syd had eaten of the flesh, and now he was feeling it: revealing aspects of himself that had never before seen the light of day. Nora could never predict what would come roaring out; what secret scar tissue and raw potential; what deeply repressed desires and rages. And though Vaughn was a weasel, his lifeforce was strong, his predatory instincts unquestionable; even regurgitated, it was enough to propel Syd to the next level.

  The question was, what next?

  So far—with her, at least—Syd was remaining a slightly feistier version of his own sweet self. But she would be watching closely to see where and how his newfound fire expressed itself.

  And on whom it would be unleashed . . .

  Syd grinned as he negotiated a winding turn, then punched the Mustang up to eighty-five. Right now, from the looks of it, rage was the furthest thing from his mind.

  He flicked his smoke out the open window, grabbed the bottle of Bud from between his knees, took a healthy swig, and grinned some more. His driving hand drummed on the steering wheel, in time with the raucous tunes. He loo
ked like he was maybe sixteen years old.

  And again she felt the pang. The one she'd been feeling, more and more, ever since the little speech he'd made over this morning's breakfast of Vaughn and eggs. It wasn't just love that she was feeling now. It was the first stirrings of trust: an altogether rarer and more dangerous commodity.

  Because she could picture the home Syd would build her, the promise he held. The images were like snapshots in a scrapbook, keepsakes of an impossible future. They were there, oh yes indeed, as inevitable a projection as the baby faces she imagined when she cross-referenced her looks with her chosen man's and did the genetic math.

  And that was at the heart of it, wasn't it? She was certain she was pregnant; she could feel it. Her breasts were tender to the touch; her belly felt full and sensitive. As they drove Nora found herself touching her abdomen, surreptitiously probing for life. She was already doing her DNA homework: grafting Syd's chin onto her cheekbones, divining the compromise position between his eyes and hers.

  If it was a boy, would he be slender and wiry like her, concealing his strength behind a streamlined, deceptive grace? And if it was a girl, would she inherit his dark eyes and stocky peasant build, translate it into the kind of pale and black-haired zaftig abundance that Nora found attractive in women?

  Would the child be beautiful? There was no doubt in her mind. She had already fallen in love with the planes and angles of Syd's face. He had beautiful, arresting eyes. And very good teeth.

  Plus he's strong. She smiled, just thinking about it. Getting stronger by the second. There was little question in her mind that he could deliver on his promise, given the proper circumstances and a little bit of luck . . .

  . . . and no Vic waiting in the parking lot, with fangs bared and murder in his eyes . . .

  . . . and that was when the second set of pictures emerged, and they were not pretty at all. In her mind's eye, she watched Syd's profile peel off in a clean red sweep. She had seen Vic kill enough times to know what it would be like. It had never been enough for Vic to simply kill, that sick motherfucker; he needed trophies to cart around, like merit badges of courage, for bravery under fire.

  Once upon a time—way back, before the deterioration, before Texas and the point of no return—she had conjured baby faces with Vic, as well; and yes, of course, they were beautiful, too. She had carried those pictures around with her for years and years, before she finally realized that they would never come to pass.

  And it was only once she had given up—torn Vic utterly out of her heart—that she had become his lifelong, tireless obsession. That was when the tattoos began to appear, like hashmarks denoting time served. As if he could hold on to her somehow by capturing her likeness in his flesh. That was when the chase began, in earnest.

  And that was the most infuriating, horrifying part: it wasn't until he understood that he really, truly could not have her that he seriously began to want her. And in so doing, to seriously make her life a living hell.

  Now he wouldn't rest until she was back in his clutches again. Or dead. Maybe both.

  Her dread increased in intensity, the closer to Chameleon's they drew. At the same time, there were a few mental bones she could throw herself. Better to get this over with. It would get them out of town that much sooner, and anything that accelerated the process of putting this place far behind them was fine with her.

  They rounded the last bend, came into the homestretch. She saw the little red and yellow lights. There really was no choice but to try and enjoy herself, hope for the best. Hoping against hope.

  Nora swigged hard off the bottle of Comfort. And abandoned herself to her fate.

  SYD'S GOOD MOOD was already beginning to sour, practically from the second they rolled onto the lot. In reality, it was just a series of diddly little nonevents; but taken together, they spelled erosion, and the beginnings of a night steering steeply toward the downhill side.

  It started when Syd went to park the car, only to be reminded that Nora insisted upon being dropped by the door. Not a big deal, right? But it reminded him unpleasantly of the other night. He had managed to keep Nora's crazy ex-boyfriend out of his thoughts—she didn't talk about her past, and he'd pretty much left it alone—but there was something about being made to feel paranoid on your own stomping grounds that made Syd's blood boil. So that was enough to start it.

  He'd dropped her at the door, then gone back to his favorite spot and parked. Getting out of the car, he found himself acutely aware of his surroundings. He looked around, searching the shadows as he sniffed the woods for danger. There was nothing out there, as best as he could tell. He realized, for the first time in ages, how much he responded to the smell of the woods at night, and paused to savor the crisp autumn scents: pine, rot, animal spoor, the actual smell of the cold itself.

  His spirits had dropped a little more as he walked back across the lot. It was the same weird nostalgia he'd experienced this morning at the plant, only magnified to the fiftieth power: this was a place he actually loved, not a place he'd simply endured. This was gonna hurt, he realized. This would not be an easy good-bye.

  At that moment, Syd had felt a strange sense of closure: the end of an era upon him. He wasn't sure if it was just saying good-bye to Jules, ushering in the post-Karen epoch, or if it was the entire first half of his life wrapping up. In the final analysis, it hardly mattered. It is what it is, he told himself.

  And right now, it is time to move on.

  The feelings didn't diminish as he walked in the door. The achingly familiar smells: wood, smoke and beer, the fragrant perfume and funky sweat moved him to his core. Someone had slapped "The Alabama Song" on the jukebox; somehow Jim Morrison singing about finding the next whiskey bar made the moment perversely complete.

  Chameleon's on a Monday night wasn't nearly as packed as the weekend shows—there was no band and no cover charge, no Red standing watch at the door, no Jane on hand with a smile or a sly observation to share—but they still had a sizable crowd. Very few people he knew, but that was okay, too. Fewer speeches to make.

  Jules was already motioning him forward with a wiggle of one finger. Nora was sitting near him at the bar; she turned at Syd's approach. He sensed a weird competition between them, as he ambled up.

  The long-necked Rolling Rock appeared in Syd's hand before he even took his seat. "Happy birthday, man," Jules said. He raised his iced tea in toast. Syd said thanks and clinked his bottle with Jules's glass, then turned to Nora. She had two double shots set up. When she slid one over to him, he toasted with her as well, then engaged her in a quick sloppy soul-kiss that tasted of caramel and bourbon.

  Then she asked him if he was going to tell Jules. Of course, Jules said, "Tell me what?" Which put Syd in the awkward position of having to leap right into his explanation, without any setup or anything. Which kind of pissed him off.

  It didn't help that Jules wasn't exactly supportive, either. It was like trying to tell Tommy and Budd about the wolf, only a hundred times worse; like showing someone the most beautiful work of art you could possibly create, only to have him ask you if you'd ever really considered that career in locksmithing.

  Jules had a million irritating questions: irritating mostly because Syd didn't have any solid answers. Do you know where you're going? No. Do you know what you're going to do with your shit? No. Do you have any money saved up? No. Do you have any idea how you're going to survive on the road? Well, no. Did you already quit your job? Well, yes! And, hey, so long as you're at it, why not just ask if I still remember the difference between my ass, my elbow, and a hole in the ground?

  Nora interrupted to order another round. There were a couple of other customers queuing up for the firewater of their choice. Jules excused himself for a minute, leaving Syd's little outburst to dangle in midair.

  "This is what you can expect," Nora said under her breath, "from people who just don't fucking get it." And Syd, pissed as he was, was inclined to agree.

  So by the time Jules g
ot back with their drinks, Syd had built up a considerable head of steam. He didn't even wait for the next interrogatory round; he just launched into a little preemptive strike of his own. He had some questions he wanted to ask, if Jules didn't mind horribly.

  Like, for example, hadn't Jules done the very same thing at one point in his life? Yes, sort of. And didn't he now spend many a night waxing nostalgic about those very same bygone days? Yes, but. . . Syd interrupted then, asked so exactly what in hell did Jules have against people taking a little calculated risk with their lives. Not a thing, Jules said, as long as it looks like they know what they're doing. Syd's anger spiked and redlined. Was he implying that Syd didn't know what he was doing?

  I don't know, said Jules. Do you think you know what you're doing?

  And that was when Syd lost it.

  "You know what I think?" he spat, sneering, "I think you're jealous!" The anger was as irrational as it was all-encompassing: a lifetime of frustration, lubed by alcohol, unstoppable in its fury. "I think you went out and tried to stake your claim in the world, and it just chewed you up and spat you back. I think you shot your wad, and now you don't want anyone else to even get a chance.

  "I think," he hissed, "that if anything this intense ever happened in the whole of your measly, pathetic life, you'd know what the fuck you were talking about.

  "But it hasn't, and you don't, and that's about all there is to it."

  The space around them went dead silent, save for the white-noise wash of dead air. Syd's anger retracted as quickly as it had come on, leaving him embarrassed and weirdly defiant in its wake. His brain went condo to accommodate the multiple voices in his skull, slamming up against the wall of attitude he'd just thrown up: screaming are you out of your fucking MIND?; mumbling I can't believe I just said that; peripherally aware that others had begun to stare or back away, catching the emotional gist, if not the actual riff he'd just unleashed. He felt a dozen pairs of prying eyes upon him, heard a dozen whispers slither like snakes down his spine. Nora, too, was watching him: her gaze alert, alarmed.