The Empty Ones (19 page)

“Maybe I will,” Jackie said, after a long, quiet moment. “Are you sure it's okay?”

It wasn't.

“It is.”

“I'm just … I don't know what to do here. You and Carey are out there lighting these dudes on fire and blowing up angels or whatever, and I'm in the back providing color commentary. So I'm going to leave. You have to promise not to hate me forever if I go, though. If you give me the cold shoulder after you're done saving the world, I'll tell everybody about the time I caught you jerking it to that Ginuwine video.”

I leaned over to slap her, but leaning was a bad idea.

Jackie laughed. “I'm serious,” she said. “I'll see you on the news all ‘Girl saves universe from evil disco balls,' and then next up it'll be ‘Savior's friend caught her flicking it to “Pony.”' They'll have to get Ginuwine on for some reactions, then we'll have a panel about what it means for R&B.”

I laughed, too, even though it hurt my bones to do it.

When we stopped laughing, and I stopped dry-heaving from the exertion it took to laugh in the first place, Jackie left to get supplies. She had a feeling Carey wasn't picking up such frivolities as “food” or “water.” The plan was for her to call her dad and ask him to wire her money. She'd say she was flying back, but she'd take a bus instead and split the difference in ticket price with Carey and me. That way we'd hopefully have enough shitty motel and shitty motel diner money to finish hunting Marco.

I smiled at Jackie when she stepped out, but my expression fell as soon as she closed the door. I felt like I should cry. I would have cried, normally—nice and alone, no one to judge me, just wrap myself up in a cozy blanket of self-pity and sob on the floor of this motel room that would need a shower to qualify as “concentration-camp grade.” But it wouldn't come. I didn't feel numb, exactly. I could feel the response inside, but it was like it had to crawl through two acres of mud to get out, and by the time it did, it was too dirty and exhausted to do much of anything but sigh.

So I sighed.

A lot.

I should sleep. That bed was out of the question—it was by far the most uncomfortable feature of the room. But I bet I could prop myself up in the lawn chair, or just lie down on the floor and let the cockroaches snuggle me away to dreamland. It was the same thing as the crying: I was aware of the need for sleep somewhere far away, but it didn't seem like it was heading in my direction anytime soon. I struggled to my feet like Bambi, and went to refill my dusty candleholder.

On the bathroom counter, I found two moderately clean glasses sitting upside down beside the sink.

God damn it, Jackie.

It was for the best. Really, it was. She was right: I had been selfish, asking her to come with me. I needed comfort. I needed to bring a piece of home with me. I needed her color commentary, as she put it, to keep me from drowning myself in a toilet. But that's not a good enough reason to risk her life. I might actually take more comfort from her leaving. Knowing that she was safe somewhere, and I would have at least some small semblance of a life to come back to when all this was done.

It was something to look forward to. A light at the end of the tunnel.

Sometimes that light is a train.

Oh shut up, Kaitlyn.

I drank eight glasses of water. My stomach was so full that it sloshed when I walked. I flipped the mattress, and found that the underside was, impossibly, even more stained and disgusting, but there didn't appear to be any tiny knives poking out of it, so I considered it an upgrade. I lay down. I was laughing to myself about how miraculously, astoundingly uncomfortable it was when I heard keys in the door.

I don't know why, but I closed my eyes. It was a gut reaction—some variant of the “blanket over the head keeps monsters away” defense. If I was sleeping, surely nobody would come and talk to me, crush me with the psychic burden of human interaction.

Shuffling. Paper bags crumpling. The door slamming shut.

I jumped a little, but hoped the intruding presence wouldn't notice. Footsteps. A burp.

Silence.

Then, right next to my ear, at about crotch height, the sound of a zipper being undone.

My eyes flew open.

I scrambled backward, nearly falling off the bed, then held up a fist.

Carey was squatting awkwardly beside the mattress and holding the zipper of his jacket.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demanded.

“Ha! Knew you weren't sleeping,” he said.

He smiled, pulled a can of Tecate from a paper bag on the floor, and held it out to me.

I nearly threw up just thinking about it. “God, no,” I said.

“Come on—it'll put hair on your chest.”

“I don't want hair on my chest.”

“Sure you do! People'll call you ‘hair-tits'; it'll be great.”

But he wasn't even offering me the can anymore. He cracked it open and fell into the stained lawn chair by the TV. The legs bent crazily. It bobbed and weaved like a seasick boxer.

“Where's Jackie?” Carey asked.

“Gone,” I answered.

“Good.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“I've had a lot of friends get mixed up in this shit. The ones that leave, live. The ones that don't usually last just long enough to curse you with their dying breath. I know it feels like somebody crapped in an open wound right now, but, really—it's good.”

“I know, all right! Stop fucking talking about it and give me time to process. Jesus.”

“Nah, that's not what you need. Your generation and your bullshit ‘processing' and ‘emotional awareness.' What you need is six beers, a good fuck, and a fistfight. And I can offer you two out of the three right now. You pick which.”

“You seriously do not ever shut up, do you?”

Screw it, though. Why not? Like I have a reason to stay sober right now.

I motioned to Carey. He plucked a beer from the bag and tossed it to me. It was cold and wet with condensation. The temperature difference between my flushed skin and the can was so sharp that it stung just to hold it. I cracked it open, took one long pull, and it was gone.

“Holy shit!” Carey laughed. “I knew a kid who could do that once.”

He tossed me another, and I took my time with this one.

“Is what Jackie said true?” I asked him.

“Absolutely not. Why, what'd she tell you? The shower thing? Girl needs to learn how to work a lock. I mean, talk about your overinflated sense of self, I was just—”

“About me. She said … she said we were in a bad wreck and it looked like maybe I wasn't going to make it. Maybe I … didn't make it?”

“Nope,” Carey said, too quickly. “Shock is a hell of a thing. She was just confused. Your brain, it exaggerates when it comes to this traumatic stuff. Every time you remember something bad happening, your brain has to tell you a story about it. Like all good storytellers, that fish gets bigger and bigger every time. You took a little knock, is all.”

“And this girl you guys ran into, this ex of yours?”

“Meryll. Shit. She told you about that, then.…”

“Yes.”

I thought about elaborating on what, exactly, Jackie had told me, which wasn't much and didn't make a bit of sense. But Carey had quick, easy answers to questions I had barely thought to ask. Something was up.

“Look, Meryll is … I don't know what Meryll is. She used to be a hell of a chick, but that was a long time ago and another place. She somehow got mixed up in all this—don't gimme that look, I didn't bring her into it!”

I wasn't giving any look.

“She was at this game long before I was. Knew a lot more than me, and could
do
a lot more than me. Meryll could do crazy things. Things that didn't make sense. But she got too close to the angels, let too much of them into her. Now? I don't know what she's doing. I don't know what she is. I didn't even realize she was still alive. Not totally sure she
is
—she hasn't aged a day since then. I don't know what Jackie told you, but when she touched that Mexican at the gas station, he didn't get solved. He didn't disappear, or fold into himself, or turn into an Empty One or anything—his whole body just …
changed
. I've never seen anything like it.”

I finally placed it—what was off about Carey. When he was just talking to you normally, there were all sorts of tangents and swears, lots of backtracking to elaborate on funny old stories or the quality of your ass. He was mostly bravado, lies, and perversion. Then there were times like this, when everything he said was tempered with reason. When it all made sense. When he was suddenly and perfectly lucid.

When he was lying.

 

FIFTEEN

1978. London, England. Carey.

“Do you bastards just grow gills eventually or what?” Randall said.

He was all hunched up under his coat—pure white with a pink fur collar. He'd taken it off the back of some rich lady's chair when she went to the can back at the bar. He looked like a fancy cat somebody had thrown into a river.

I couldn't blame him much for whining.

The rain was thick and nasty. Smelled like charcoal, and felt thicker than water. Like some sort of industrial gel. I wouldn't have minded it so much, but it was goddamned everywhere, and I couldn't keep it out of my beer. It was getting all watery, and the kind of beer I can afford is already about as watery as it can be.

At least the Marquee felt like home. Set into the bottom floor of a building so old it looked like they'd carved the club right into the brick, it was small, crowded, loud, and I could smell it from the street. There was a thick and chaotic line of punks sprawling down the sidewalk, drinking openly and eagerly. Most of them didn't seem to notice or care about the rain. Tub and Meryll weren't hiding under their coats like Randall, or pressed up against the brick wall trying, pointlessly, to shield their valuables from it, like me. Meryll's hair was plastered to her forehead, but her makeup didn't run. Girls are magical things that I do not understand.

Tub looked like he was born in this rain and he'd gladly die in it. He was leaning heavily against a signpost—he'd ditched his rebar cane behind a couple of garbage cans around the corner after Meryll had pointed out that they probably wouldn't let him in the venue with a ragged steel club. The punk kids were throwing odd looks in his direction. He was a few decades too old to be here, but he also looked half-crazy and all-ugly, so maybe he belonged after all.

From inside, I could hear guitars complaining and drums pounding nervously. The show would start soon. There were five bands on the bill, but only one we cared about: The Talentless, Gus's band.

“What if they're good?” Randall asked.

“No way,” I answered. But part of me worried. It might be slightly harder to kill their lead singer if they actually rocked. “I think you need at least one soul between you for a decent punk band.”

I took a sip from my can. Seemed like the water was mostly floating on top, so what I got tasted like a polluted river that somebody had spilled part of a beer in once, long ago. Tub saw me sneering down at my drink.

“We call that a Soho Shandy,” he said.

Meryll laughed.

I didn't get it, so I flipped him off just in case he deserved it.

I scanned the line again. Drunks and junkies festooned with acne scars, cheaply dyed hair, and ragged clothes. Some of them were already fighting, just to get practice before the main event.

Good people.

But then, clustered here and there like high school cliques, were kids with shoes that were just a little too clean. Jeans just a little too torn. Faces with no features.

“Only maybe a dozen Unnoticeables,” I said.

“Yeah, but look at all the Empty Ones,” Tub said.

“What? You can spot them?” Randall asked.

He'd been standing just a little too close to Meryll all night. She didn't seem to mind, and I hadn't yet spotted an opportunity to kick him into traffic.

“Of course. You can't? Look there, lad. The blonde.” Tub nodded toward the back of the line.

She was gorgeous. Short white hair done up in random spikes, denim jacket lined with patches, and short shorts over black fishnets.

“What about her?” I bit.

“She's brought an umbrella to a fucking punk show,” Meryll answered. Her voice went flat, a mockery of the Empty Ones' monotone speech: “Humans do not like being wet, isn't that right.”

“There's that, true,” Tub said. “But it's also in the eyes. She's not really looking at anything, is she? It's like they're painted on.”

I looked, but didn't see it. She looked cold and empty, sure, but most pretty girls do. At least when they're interacting with me, anyway.

The line moved a few steps.

“Here we go,” Randall said, excited for the chance to get somewhere dry.

He put a hand on Meryll's hip and steered her forward just a little bit. She barely seemed to notice, but I did. I took it as an excuse to drink harder, and slammed the rest of my watery beer.

I skipped my empty can off the back of Randall's skull and we passed the time by wrestling in a puddle.

*   *   *

The inside of the Marquee was nasty, even by scuzzy punk club standards. I couldn't tell if the floor was carpeted, or if there was just a thick, soft layer of accumulated filth. The walls were the color of nicotine where they weren't scrawled over with crude profanities. The air didn't move at all. It congealed around you. Felt like you were breathing sweat-flavored gelatin. I'd already been elbowed twice, and a fat-faced girl had spat on my shoe and called me “a fucking yank wank.”

I felt at peace for the first time in a long while.