Interitum

by M. K. Matsuda

  “Let’s put the bastard down,” Bastian concludes with a fist on the table.

  “How do we find him?” Mathias asks.

  “We’ll need more fighters,” Ruusa says.

  “My people want to fight,” Ophelia declares.

  “No untrained civilians, only those with combat experience,” Bastian says.

  “What do we do about weapons?” Aditi asks.

  Everyone looks to Sloane, silenced by the hitch in the plan. “We’re going to figure it out,” she says. “We should be safe until tomorrow at least, while Esht recovers. We’ll reconvene then with a tally of how many volunteers we have.”

  The convocation files out, most still grumbling debates. Sloane collapses into her chair, exhaling heavily. Somboon pats her shoulder on his way to the door. “What lies behind you and what lies before you are tiny matters compared to what lies within you.”

  “Hey, Somboon,” Sloane says, catching him just before he leaves, “thanks for keeping my secret.”

  “What secret?” He smiles and departs.

  VIGINTI NOVEM

  It’s moments like these that make Ben miss heroin. Really, she misses it all the time. The itch of discomfort, the yearning, is so constant she doesn’t notice it much anymore. But it’s different whenever… he’s involved. She’s trained herself for years to cast any thoughts, memories of him, into the deepest chasm of her mind before they can enter her consciousness. But Erim’s just resurfaced him, growing the heroin itch to a deep gnawing in her stomach, her head, everywhere.

  Her hand absentmindedly climbs to the middle of her right arm. She catches the skin between her fingers and squeezes, just enough for the twinge of pain that mimics the sacred needle prick. The next part is harder, imagining the blinding rush of warmth and looseness that never comes. She grits her teeth in concentration. It’s an infuriating tease but soothing to a point.

  “Ben?” Erim asks again, his voice echoing like he’s far away. She opens her eyes to focus on him. He’s watching her nails dig into the soft hollow of her elbow. He’s seen it before, but she doesn’t like an audience, not even him. It’s an intimate thing between her and the fix. She drops her hands, and his gaze falls. “What do you think?” he murmurs.

  She brings her thoughts back to his request. “The Artillery’s got the weapons we need,” she says.

  “Most Earthly weapons are mechanical these days. They’ll be useless here.” He holds out one of her cigarettes in a transparent attempt to get her to leave her arm alone. “The Artillery is the only place I can think of to get the kind of weapons we need.” Ben puts the cigarette between her lips, grating her teeth against the chalky end.

  The storefront materializes in her mind. She’s imagined that place even less than she has him, so the image is a little hazy from time. The store sits on a street of uneven cobblestones, with its windows full of dusty weaponry and the out-of-place neon OPEN sign.

  “I just need to see where it is, then I can guide Sloane,” Erim says. “You don’t have to do anything beyond that. She and I can handle everything.”

  “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having her all to yourself.”

  Erim snorts. He knows the difference between genuine anger and her usual bitter quips. “We can clear the place out. Anything we can’t take, we’ll break,” he says vehemently. Ben’s foot taps the ground. His promise of delinquency makes her smile. She’s always been proud of how she can tempt Erim’s deviant side. She hasn’t seen it as much as she wants; he keeps it well buttoned up most of the time. But it’s out in full now, for her, and she can’t help but revel in it a little. Erim shifts closer to her. “Say no, and we won’t do it,” he insists, lowering his head, coaxing her to look him in the eye, see that he’s serious

  “If only that was Mac’s philosophy.” Ben lets out a laugh, which is cut short when his face suddenly appears in her head. She fights not to flinch. She hadn’t meant to use his name, it just slipped out, but it tasted vile in her mouth. Erim’s good at not reacting to her spiteful comments; he knows they’re not really for him.

  His eyes tighten like shining black beads. “If there was another way, I would do it, Ben. You know I would. I hate asking you this.”

  She knows.

  Ben’s not sure how long she rocks back and forth, contemplating. Erim sinks back into the couch patiently as if she has all the time in the world to decide. He would probably sit with her silently as Esht tore The Midst to pieces before he rushed her on this. But she knows she doesn’t have time to be stupid when they need the weapons so badly. There’s really only one answer she can give him. “When we’re finished, I’m going to burn it down.”

  Standing at Sloane’s door, Ben flips her fringed black hood over her head, tucking her hair back into its depths. Sloane doesn’t answer until Ben knocks the third time, clearly torn from a deep sleep. She’s just recovering from a yawn as she swings the door open, glaring at Ben through squinted eyes. Ben looks her up and down in her loose Guns-N-Roses t-shirt and gray sweatpants.

  “Damn.” Ben sighs, shaking her head. “I imagined that you sleep in fewer clothes.”

  “Well, don’t.” Sloane crosses her arms.

  “Real classy,” Erim whispers to Ben.

  “Careful.” She points a black-painted fingernail up at him. “You have to be nice to me, both of you. I have what you need.” She grins at them, her tone taunting. Erim stretches his face into an over-exaggerated smile. “Good boy.” She pats him on the cheek roughly.

  “You know where to get weapons?” Sloane asks more alert now.

  “That’s right, Sugar Plum.” Ben bops her on the nose and shoulders past into the room.

  When Erim glances at Sloane, his face drops. “What is it?”

  Sloane frowns. “Sofia told me Esht paid her a little visit.”

  “What?” Erim steps forward. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s somehow fine.” Sloane nods. “He didn’t hurt her. He just… wanted to talk.” Sloane’s eyes dart to Ben. “I don’t think the weapons can kill him.” There’s a pause as Erim thinks it through. If there’s one thing Ben respects about Esht, it’s his unpredictability. She loves a good mystery.

  “Well, maybe they won’t kill him, but they’ll slow him down,” Erim says.

  Ben lets their dull conversation flow in one ear and out the other as she inspects Sloane’s quarters. They’re nicer than Erim’s, with a second floor and even a little library cove. She knows how much work Erim put into it, but he never let her see. Ben drops herself onto the nearest couch, swinging her legs up onto the coffee table loudly. “He spent days working on this for you, did you know?” she asks, well aware that Sloane didn’t.

  Sloane blinks faster during uncomfortable situations, Ben’s noticed. That’s her tell. Erim’s is less easy to spot; Ben wasn’t sure he had one for a long time. It’s the tightness in his jaw, flexing slightly under the skin just below his ear, whenever he’s trying to conceal his true thoughts or hold his tongue. It’s never directed at Ben; he doesn’t hold much back from her. Not even the pointed daggers he’s staring at her right now.

  She chuckles, and Erim clears his throat. “We’re ready to do this when you are, Ben.” Sloane morphs into awake clothes and nods affirmatively.

  Ben hops up and swipes Sloane’s hand, forcing fingers between hers, lacing them intimately. Sloane lets out a heavy breath of restraint, keeping her eyes forward, refusing to engage. Ben can’t allow that. “You smell good,” she whispers. “What is that, jasmine?”

  Sloane offers Erim her hand. “If she keeps going on like this, you’re going to have to build a whole afterlife HR just to handle her sexual harassment lawsuits.”

  “Don’t be an airhead,” Ben sneers. “Those never stick.”

  “Steering wheel’s yours,” Sloane says.

  Ben wishes they were somewhere louder. Then she wouldn’t be able to think. But she won’t give herself the chance to chicken out. She brings the grainy image of the shop b
ack into her brain, pulling the trigger.

  Ben pops an eye open, and suddenly the image isn’t hazy anymore. It’s stark and crystal clear. The building is smaller and more decrepit than she remembers. The street is quiet and dewy in the chilly morning. Well, Ben assumes it’s cold; she can’t feel it. But she remembers liking the freezing rain and sunless weeks as a little girl. She always thought it was made that way just for her to match how she felt inside. The OPEN sign is off, and the rusted grate is pulled over the door.

  “Our weapons are in… a panini restaurant?” Sloane turns back to Ben.

  The big red plastic sign above the window reads “Mr. Panini’s.” Cracks fissure through the letters, and they’re grayer than they used to be, fading into the gloomy sky beyond. He bought the building that way and never cared enough to change the sign.

  Sloane walks up to the window, peering through the grimy glass. Ben forces her legs to advance, each step harder than the last as the building gets larger. The window is cluttered, a few shelves block the view of the inside. A couple swords and a crossbow are tossed carelessly on the shelves, along with smaller items like brass knuckles and bullet belts.

  Ben reaches out and taps the glass with her finger, feeling the resistance of solidity. “Cool, huh?” Erim says, kicking the lower paneling of the storefront. “It’s been a while since you’ve felt Earth.” That’s true, but Ben’s glad to have a layer between her and this place. The window feels like it’s coated with invisible spider webs.

  Ben senses Sloane studying her. It’s the same caution Ben sees in Erim when he’s not sure if she’s really okay. It stirs a violent twinge in her gut, and she frowns and steps back. “Sloane, I know it’s hard for you to tear your eyes off me but try to control yourself.” She pulls back a fist, aiming for the center of the window.

  Sloane grabs her hand. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Let me go.” Ben growls.

  Sloane releases Ben’s wrist and swipes her own hand through the glass. “See? We can drift right through. Walls don’t restrict us. I’ve learned that it’s a matter of will.”

  “Well, this is mine.” Ben lifts her leg and thrusts her heel into the window. The panel shatters as sparkling shards tumble down around her.

  Ben steps into the store and immediately wishes she hadn’t. The familiarity and disgust tear her in two in an instant. Her thoughts flutter to the floor in pieces, scrambled. Can she smell the mildew in the walls, or is that just a memory? The wooden countertop under the register gave her a splinter once… he kissed it better. The bile rises in her throat. She can feel the blackness leeching out of the room like pus from a sore.

  Ben throws an arm at the walls. “All the medieval paraphernalia a serial killer or movie nerd could ever want.” She can hear the bitter zest in her own voice, but she’s not sure they will. Maybe her voice always sounds like that to them. Sloane’s mouth curves into a faint grin.

  “What are you smiling about?” Ben snaps.

  Sloane straightens her face and shrugs. “My best friend’s one of those nerds.”

  “That’s not my fault.” Ben can feel Erim’s eyes on her all the time, watching her like a ticking bomb. She turns back, treading further into the shop.

  “Let’s start with everything in the front, and then we’ll move to the back,” Erim tells Sloane.

  “What about the owner?” She sounds hesitant.

  “He’ll get what he deserves.” Erim’s voice is low, trying to keep it from Ben’s ears. She can’t see Sloane’s reaction, but Erim’s reassurance seems to be enough to move things forward.

  “I’ll put everything in the convocation room,” Sloane says. A slight clinking of metal echoes through the shop as she starts to collect weapons and take trips back to The Midst.

  Ben feels Erim behind her. “You don’t have to be here,” he says.

  “Did you tell her?” Ben asks through gritted teeth.

  There’s a pause before Erim answers. “Of course not,” he fails at masking the offense in his voice. He rests a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you leave this to us? You’ve done enough.”

  “Not until it’s all gone.” Ben hisses. “I want everything in here ours or burned, I don’t care which.” She glowers at Erim so he won’t insist again. He nods.

  As Sloane works, Erim returns to The Midst to organize the weapons as they’re delivered. Ben watches Sloane collect items off the wall, trying to calculate the value of everything. She hopes that it’s all very costly and irreplaceable. Ideally, he would be unable to recoup his losses and fall into debt, end up miserable and homeless. Ben doesn’t want him to turn to drugs though, the sensual delicacies of heroin seem too good for him.

  She didn’t think she’d want to go into the back, but she’s drawn to it. Destruction has always had a way of enticing her. She had so many opportunities for it when she was alive, whether it was the quick swipe of a razor blade or a hit from a shady dealer. She has none of that in The Midst; this is the next best pain.

  The office is in the back, looking almost exactly the way Ben saw it last. Though, there’s a new desk chair. The old one probably broke under his weight. But the desk is the same, as are the two rusting file cabinets and the maroon corduroy couch.

  The sofa is the most familiar, the object most often in her nightmares. It looks like he’s been living here. There’s a hot plate on the desk, next to a few abandoned cans filled with bugs instead of beans. He’s been sleeping on the couch; his body has carved out a fat indent. This morning he’s probably blacked out on the floor of a bar.

  Ben stands before the couch for a long time. Memories bubble to the surface, but she feels oddly numb to them like they didn’t happen to her—or even if they did, it was too long ago to matter.

  Things like crumbs, hair, and batteries get trapped in normal couches. But there are darker things trapped in this one. It’s just as scarred as she is.

  There’s another haunted object here. Ben can feel it tugging at her from the desk. That’s where he kept the black glass eye he always pointed at her so he could relive it all again later. She gnaws on the edge of her thumb.

  Back in the front, Ben finds Sloane pulling the cash out of the register, counting under her breath. “What are you doing?” Ben asks, startling Sloane out of her tally.

  Sloane lowers her hands. “Old metal registers like this are sturdy as a safe.” She raps on it with her first. “Money would probably be protected from fire in there.” Ben stares at her blankly, momentarily distracted from tearing her fingernail off. “He’d be able to get it back,” Sloane elaborates from behind shrouded, set eyes. She must’ve heard Ben’s arson plans and drawn her own conclusions about the man they’re stealing from. She’s never looked so sexy.

  “Haven’t decided if I’m burning it down yet.” Ben tries to look indifferent.

  Sloane glances at the shattered window. “Yes, you have.”

  Ben feels a rumble in her throat. Not enough for a laugh, just an amused sigh. It’s the only sound of mirth these walls have ever heard from her. “Marry me?” she asks, dropping her eyes in mock pleading. Sloane rolls her eyes and goes back to counting the money.

  Ben is sure that her reactions have been more transparent than she wants. But she’s still impressed that Sloane figured it out. Maybe she isn’t as empty-headed as Ben thought. “Help me out back here?” Ben gestures towards the back.

  Sloane follows her to the office. “Left side, bottom drawer.” Ben nods at the desk, crossing her arms. She would do it herself, but she doesn’t want to touch anything here. Sloane follows the directions, looking up at Ben uncertainly before pulling out the contents. She places the blocky camcorder on the desk. “Tapes?” Ben asks, chewing again on the corner of her thumb. Sloane piles them up next to the recorder.

  Ben feels a grin inch across her face, sparked by the sinister craving for destruction—not hers this time, but his. It’s the closest thing to joy that she can feel in this place. The last item from the
drawer makes Ben’s breath stop. All feeling drains; she’s an icy shell in an instant.

  The picture is old, weathered, of a little girl with eyes like blueberries peeking under sharp blonde bangs. There’s a brown fence and the edge of a swing set in the background. She’s crouched in a sandbox, wearing a bright pink bathing suit with ruffles. She holds a red plastic shovel triumphantly in the air, looking at the camera with a dopey, toothy smile.

  She just wanted to go to the beach. She’d seen such a pretty advertisement in a magazine, with clear blue waves and children with ice cream and mothers in fancy sunglasses. She wanted to go so badly. And then, he surprised her with the sandbox; told her it was like their own private beach. She was so thrilled to build sandcastles and lay in the sun. She didn’t know it was really a present for him, an excuse for the bathing suit. She didn’t know there was a price attached to the sandbox, either. One he would collect from her over and over for years.

  A scream erupts, bringing the drab office scenery back, slamming into her. Her body rejects it violently. The disgust of the couch and camcorder is enough to peel the skin off her bones. The screaming is louder, agonizing, and desperate like someone’s being burned alive. The neon pink of the bathing suit flashes in front of her with such speed she hopes it will give her a stroke.

  The rush of liquid carelessness boiled on a spoon would fix it. But there’s no needle for her, which twists her guts so severely she might vomit. Ben clamps her hands over her ears as if that will keep the ice picks of sound from piercing her ears. She wants to curse at whoever it is until they stop, but her mouth is already open. The howl of anguish resonates through her throat but feels like it’s exploding from every pore. If the air didn’t run out, she’s not sure what would’ve pulled her out of it. But eventually, there is no breath left, and her neck relaxes. Her head swims pleasantly from the deprivation, and she wishes it was more potent.

  The scream still reverberates in her ears after it’s gone. She closes her eyes to focus, surprised to find that her mind has already cleansed itself. There’s a balance suddenly. Her breath is even, not jagged. The ringing fades.