Blackout

by Rob Thurman

  I tilted my head down and read my T-shirt slogan again. It was likely I dished out more emotional trauma than I took in. As a matter of fact … I took off the shirt, turned it inside out, and put it back on. If I had to mingle with the locals—and I didn’t see much way around it, since someone had to know me or have seen me come into town—then I’d better be on my best behavior. Which meant instead of carrying arms, I’d have to make do with charm. Places this small had little law enforcement, but what they did have tended to be bored law enforcement. I didn’t need a retired city cop working as sheriff in his spare time taking one look at me and knowing I was carrying just by the way my jacket fit.

  That meant I ended up hiding all the weapons under the mattress. The day this roach motel flipped those suckers, I wouldn’t have to worry about being found out. I’d be eating snow cones in Hell with Satan. It made sense. It also made sense if I could handle what I had on the beach last night, I could deal with any normal townie. I was human like them, not a spider knit from shadows and death, but I was also a human who had the skills to use knives in addition to guns. Chances were I had enough of a different set of skills to take someone down unarmed as well or use what was at hand. I could impale a nosy son of a bitch on a Norman Rockwell picket fence if I had to. MacGyver had nothing on me.

  Not that I would impale a person. A monster spider from Hell, yes—a person, no. I had faith that a spirited debate between my foot and their ass would get the job done for most people. I was a killer, but I wasn’t that kind of killer.

  Was I?

  No. I wasn’t. I hadn’t been as sure of that last night, but I was pretty sure now.

  Although … I frowned down at the letters I could no longer see—EAT ME. Thoughts of impaling and kicking ass before I even left the motel room—I hoped anyone I ran across got my particular sense of humor, because it might be an acquired taste.

  Leaving the room was harder than I thought it’d be. I knew browsing through the phone book wasn’t going to help me. I had to get out of the yellow pages and into Nevah’s Landing for real if I hoped to accomplish anything. But the room was the only haven I had; the only port in a memory-gobbling sea. That had me ducking my head as I walked out into the gray morning. The desire to twitch came from leaving the weapons. I didn’t want to. No matter what my brain said, my gut said it was wrong in all the ways there were to be wrong. From the fit my stomach was pitching, there were a whole lot of fucking ways.

  I went with my head. As far as I knew, there were only people out there, not monsters. Be smart. Be smart and then you’d have less cause to be psychotically homicidal or rashly suicidal. It was good advice, and damn firmly ingrained, so I followed it. And if I twitched once or twice, I told myself it was low blood sugar and let’s get some food already. More good advice, and I was on my way to follow it when I encountered the first local. I’d left the motel, set among scrubby grass and a cracked asphalt parking lot, and started down the street. Begonia Avenue. There were two stores past the motel, an antique store and a junk store masquerading as an antique store. Both were closed. Across the street with the occasional car parked on it was a drugstore, closed, and a clothing store with lots of fancy sweaters in the window, also closed. All that meant that it was Sunday morning in a town so small that if it had ten streets, I would kiss … someone’s ass. Whoever’s. Right now the only person I knew was the porn-loving, walking zit party of a motel clerk.

  I wasn’t kissing that ass. If the town had ten streets, I’d be surprised. I was currently being unsurprised when I turned off Begonia to Magnolia and met the second person of my brand-new, blank-slate life. A black guy was leaning with arms folded in the doorway of the only business I’d seen open so far. It was a barbershop, which was more useful than antiques or sweaters on the Sabbath. People had to look nice when they went to church, neat hair and dress clothes—no sweaters, and the place probably already had all the chairs it needed. No antique ones necessary.

  The man shook his head the second he spotted me. He was about forty, with dreads pulled back into a ponytail, a dark green button-down shirt, jeans, and a black barber’s smock. “Mmm, damn.” He clucked his tongue in disgust. “Boy, you cannot walk around looking like that. Let me even it up for you.”

  I ran a hand through my DIY haircut and shrugged. “Nah, that’s okay. I’m fine with it.” It was the one thing I was fine with. When you’d lost most of your mind, you didn’t worry about your lack of style offending the local hair-care professional.

  “Come on,” he said with obvious good nature. You automatically had to suspect anyone that upbeat. It was unnatural. That opinion definitely cemented the conclusion that I didn’t live in a small town. “I’ll do it for free.”

  “Free? Why?” I regarded him with even more suspicion, the same level I’d given the deserted beach last night. That seemed to be a current theme for me.

  “Because hair is my life, and I don’t want to live with you walking around looking like that,” he replied, straightening and opening the door to his shop. “You look like something’s been gnawing on your head.”

  It wasn’t like I could say for certain that he wasn’t right about that. I had the bite on my neck. Who was to say one of those things hadn’t tried to swallow my head whole? And if I looked so bad that a guy was willing to give me a free cut, then that meant I would stick out even more than I already did in this four-way-stop, churchgoing, roll-the-sidewalks-up-on-Sunday town. I hesitated for another second before going on into the shop. I’d wanted to find out if anyone knew me anyway. If anyone had seen me come into town before the beach. If I’d said anything to anyone. This wasn’t home; I’d known that before … not from memory, but from the fact that it wasn’t a good place to hide. Hiding was important. Always. That was a “sky is blue” fact. The memory of why was gone, but the tendencies it caused weren’t. It was an instinct as basic as you’re hungry, you eat; you’re tired, you sleep; you’re out in the open, you run. You hide.

  But I was also thinking about ghost white crocodiles. I reminded myself to take it all with a big grain of salt to go with the little bit of crazy.

  It was in my best interest to accept the offer, I reminded myself, and I cautiously followed him into the shop. I sat in the one chair he had. There was a tile floor gleaming and empty of a single hair and one big-ass utilitarian rectangular mirror on the wall. I avoided its clear-water shimmer and waited while the smock was shaken over me and tied around my neck. I needed a good question to ask. So … you know me? wasn’t the most subtle. You know you have, okay, had a monster epidemic on your beach? wasn’t any better, and I already knew the answer to that.

  He didn’t know. I knew, yeah, but I knew it in a way you knew a secret—one that was dark and wrong. When that kind of secret lived in you, then you could just look at someone and know if they were part of the club or not. This guy wasn’t. His nights were just nights. The glitter of lights outside his window were only fireflies in the dark, not the greedy eyes of a predator. He’d never know how lucky he was. Hopefully. I wouldn’t tell him. He was giving me a free haircut. I wasn’t going to ruin his life with the truth. That was no kind of tip.

  “Um … ,” I started. Shockingly articulate, but still without a viable question, I was prepared to wing it. It turned out I didn’t have to.

  “I’m Llewellyn.” Fingers tunneled ruthlessly through my hair. “Jumped-up Jesus, look at this mess. Sorry, Lord, but take a look down this way and you’ll forgive the blasphemy.” A squirt bottle was snagged and it was as if a cloud dumped its contents on my hair, soaking it in five efficient pumps. “I know, Llewellyn. It’s Welsh. Do I look Welsh to you? Black Irish maybe.” He grinned as scissors began flashing past my ears with startling speed, making it a damn good thing on my part I’d left my weapons back in the room or instinct would’ve left me with more uneven hair and a dead barber on the floor.

  Unaware of my inner defensive instinct, he kept talking. “Most people around here call me Lew. But you’re
not from around here. We don’t get much in the way of tourists in the off-season. It’s as cold and miserable here as most places in February. We ain’t Miami. But as pasty as you are—and sorry, man, but you’re like Cool Whip—you’re no sun lover. So I guess any time on the beach is a good time for you. And, like our tourist bureau would tell you, cold water, wet sand, and all the sweaters you can fit in a suitcase. Nevah’s Landing’s got it all. Live it up.”

  The scissors kept snipping and I kept trying not to flinch when he laid his first question on me. “So, what’s your name? Where you from? Besides someplace where people don’t give a shit about their hair.”

  Since he had answered my one unspoken question, Do you know me, have you seen me around before? I owed him … nothing—not a damn thing. This was my life. I couldn’t afford a misstep. But it didn’t matter, because what I gave him was nothing anyway. “Cal … ,” I said, glumly starting to supply one of my fake names, but I became stuck on which was the least offensive, the least god-awful. And I was stumped. Calvin, Calvert, Calhoun—what a trifecta of bad choices.

  It didn’t come to that. Lew, the friendly barber, made the choice for me. “Good to meet you, Cal.” A hand shoved my head forward and there was more metallic clicking. “What brings you to the Landing?”

  Cal was better than the full version of any of my fake names and it might not have been a coincidence that they all began with Cal. If you were going to choose fake names, how much better would it be if you could genuinely answer to a fake name because part of it was true?

  “Just roaming around,” I answered easily. “I was taking care of my grandma, but she died last month. She raised me.” I shifted my shoulders in the most minute of shrugs. I didn’t want those scissors spearing me in the scalp or neck. “She always told me I should travel when she went. Find who I was besides her, hell, nurse, I guess. See where I fit in. Not that she dragged me down. She never did. She took me in when I had no one else and made the best damn double-chocolate-chip cookies in the world. But she wanted me to travel, and I’m traveling, looking for that place I fit in. It would’ve made her happy.”

  It was the biggest load of bullshit ever, and I had no problem spinning it as naturally—more naturally than if it were true. And so much talking at one time almost made my throat sore, but not only was it a massive amount of bullshit I’d so easily shoveled up, it was absolutely perfect bullshit. Dead granny, all alone in the world, I was practically a lost puppy. It covered a number of sins, such as looking ratty and homeless or being a smart-ass. Poor widdle guy lost all the family he had in the world. He’s hurt, wounded, sad. Pat pat. Give him a Milk-Bone. Monster killer, liar—I was beefing up my resume fast. I wondered if it was wrong to be proud of talents like those.

  Probably.

  “And you think the Landing might be where you fit in?” Lew asked dubiously. “That wouldn’t have been my first guess.”

  “Why?” I shot back. “Am I not good enough for your sweater-loving town?”

  He snorted. “Seriously, Cal, my friend, are you kidding? There’s a shitload of crazy in little towns. Big cities can’t hold a candle to us. And that’s what I’d have pegged you for—big city all the way.” Lew and I agreed there. “Dressing all in black. And your hair, again, Lord, I’m sorry, but Jesus Christ himself lived two thousand some years ago and he had a better conditioner than you. With hair that bad, you probably come from someplace where no one knows your name or cares enough to tell you to get thine ass to a barber. That smells like big city to me.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to reply, to say I’d cut it myself, or to ask what the hell conditioner was. He towel-dried my hair vigorously, combed it again, and said, “There you go. Minimum fuss. I figure you’re a minimum-fuss guy. Wash it, comb it, and you’re done.”

  This time I risked the mirror to see hair that was now an inch above my jaw. No more ponytails for me. I dropped my gaze. Mirrors—I was never going to like them. As I moved my head, my hair flopped in my face like a frigging Labradoodle. No, they were curly, weren’t they? Like a sheepdog, then. A pissed-off sheepdog. Damn annoying either way. “I’m glad you don’t want money for this,” I bitched.

  “You look like a damn rock star.” I could hear the wide grin in his voice without needing to see it. When I grunted, less than impressed, he added, “Okay, at least you don’t look like a goth bum anymore. That’s something.” He whisked the cape off me. “By the way, if you want to try out small-town life, for your granny’s sake, I know the diner is hiring. Tell them Lew sent you. Can’t get a better reference there, and if you stick around and get paid on a regular basis, maybe you’ll come back. I can always use the business, plus it’ll do my soul good to know you’re not walking around looking like a deranged mop. Do your granny up on high good to see it too.”

  I got up and the last thing I expected came out of my mouth. “The diner, huh?” Despite the inner need to move, to run, I had to look at this logically. Monster killing was either my job or my hobby or both. Whichever it was or not, without my memories, I didn’t have a client list to go by.

  It was a ridiculous thought. Getting paid to kill monsters. What crappy career fair steered you in that direction? Bottom line, the money I had wasn’t going to last forever. If “Cal” didn’t have a job, I’d soon be as homeless as my hair had labeled me. And this was where I’d woken up without most of my mind; this was the best place I could think of to look for it. My license’s fake address was in New York City. Good luck walking the streets there and randomly running into a clue to my identity. Going against my visceral fight-or-flight reaction was my best option. I had to have gotten here somehow. Maybe I’d find my car. Maybe it would contain some real ID or would trigger my memories. Then again, maybe my badass monster-slaying self rode into town on a fucking scooter. Sticking around was the best thing to do, no matter how wrong it felt.

  Brain over guts. Brain over guts. Unnatural, but that was what I was going to do.

  Besides, no matter what my guts were clamoring about, there was something about the Landing. I couldn’t put my finger on it and I definitely didn’t belong, but there was something… . I sensed that it was waiting right around the corner, if only I could find the right corner. Something waiting. Something … interesting.

  Crazy thoughts for a crazy guy.

  It turned out that the diner was two blocks away on Oleander. Besides loving their sweaters, they loved their flowers here too. Campy tourist Southern. The diner was the same on the outside. Flowers were painted on the plate-glass window… . Maybe they were oleanders—what did I know about flowers? Red-and-white awning, a welcome mat that actually said WELCOME, Y’ALL! No joke … WELCOME, Y’ALL! I didn’t step on it as I went through the door. It scared me worse than the dead monsters from the beach.

  Inside it was the same. Red vinyl booths, desserts in a rotating pie case, little cow salt and pepper shakers on the table. It was homey and quaint, and anyone, with or without memories, could see this was not my kind of place. I started backing out the door before I was all the way through, but there was no escape.

  “Lord, there you are. It’s two blocks. Did you get yourself lost on the way?” She was either Llewellyn’s older sister or aunt. She had the same face, same eyes, but not the same grin. She had no kind of smile showing, big or little. She was also about three times his size, but if you thought anything except “just more to love,” I didn’t think you’d live to regret it.

  Moving over to me, she shook her head at my appearance. “I should’ve never answered the phone. That Lew and his damn strays. Three dogs, five cats, and now you.”

  “I’m not a stray,” I objected immediately, although, technically, I was.

  “Whatever you say,” she replied dismissively, obviously not believing me and as obviously too busy to bother coddling my self-image. “I’m down to one employee. That trash waitress of mine ran off with the principal at the school, if you can believe that. And him married with three kids. Trash, trash,
trash.” She looked me up and down. “Lew said your name is Cal. He didn’t say you’d be dressed like some sort of undertaker or vampire. Suppose that’ll have all those silly girls hanging around—see if you sprout a fang. Like they never saw a real man before. Denzel, Clooney, now those are men. Mmm mmm.” She shook her head again, this time probably wishing I was one of those real men. “Well, hardly matters. Might up the business some. All right, Cal, tell me, can you cook? And I mean really cook. Sling it, dice it, and throw it on a plate, looking and tasting pretty?”

  The question had me automatically checking for the nearest fire extinguisher. It could drive you nuts, your body remembering what your brain couldn’t. But whoever was doing the telling, it let me know that me and a griddle went together like Frankenstein’s monster and fire. “Not so much,” I said.

  “Fine. Then you can replace that home-wrecking waitress of mine.” She pushed up against the counter, reached over, and returned with a red-and-white checkered apron that matched the napkins and the awning outside. That kind of pattern had a name, something that began with a G, but I couldn’t remember it. I doubted it was amnesia, though, and figured it was more of a guy thing that was causing that particular failure. “Now put that on and be the best damn waitress you can be. Don’t let Lew down.”

  Taking the apron with two reluctant fingers, I asked, “Don’t you mean waiter? I’m a guy. Guys are waiters.”

  “Not in a diner, honey. We only have waitresses. That’s part of our charm.” She gave my arm a light pinch. “Now hustle, Vlad, and stop with the scowl. Smile. This is a happy dining establishment. Happy sells.”

  “You’re telling me to wear this”—I held up the apron—”and smile?”

  “No, sugar, I know you’ll wear it and smile or you won’t get one tip. And with what I pay, you’re going to need those tips.” She swatted my ass. “You can call me ma’am or Miss Terrwyn. I had the same crazy-ass parents as Lew, but, unlike him, I’m going to respect their wishes when it comes to my name. Now get that apron on and hustle. The church crowd will be here soon. And there isn’t nothing like a good churching-up to give you an appetite.” When I hesitated, she gave me another pinch. “Go! Hustle!”