The Empty Ones (24 page)

This thing scrambles up a drainage pipe to a roof. There are screams from below. They fall behind as this thing runs. It jumps to another rooftop. It squats atop a chimney. It tilts its head and listens.

It hears footsteps more rapid than others. Running.

This thing leaps. It drops three stories. It lands on an overweight man, because the overweight provide superior cushioning. This thing would not be harmed by the fall, but the force of the landing may have caused this thing to stumble, losing precious seconds. It is better for this thing to use the fat man as an impact cushion, so that it may be up and running more quickly.

The impact cushion barks out its own blood on the pavement.

The rapid footsteps are not rapid enough. This thing is gaining.

It skids around a corner, sees a car blocking the alleyway, and jumps atop the roof. There are a series of obstacles littering the path between this thing and its prey. There are animals. There are crates. There are garbage containers. There are people. This thing needs maximum traction and maneuverability. This thing drops to all fours and converts its movement to a quick, scuttling lope. It weaves through the obstacles, and the people scream—is that all they know how to do? Every time this thing does something perfectly logical, the humans scream. It is a useless gesture.

The prey is cornered. It is only a low fence. Eight feet high, at most. This thing could be over it in seconds, but the prey is handicapped by its own shell. It is scrambling for purchase. Its hands are looped through the links, but its shoes are too broad and have no traction.

This thing considers laughing, to show its disdain.

The prey is old. Not ancient, but it appears much older than it is. It has not taken even minimal care of the disposable flesh that it occupies. Its face is blanketed by wrinkles, tanned, covered with innumerable small scars. Its hair is cut short and receding. It is so skinny that this thing can see its ribs through the hole-ridden T-shirt. Though it is hot, the prey is wearing a jacket. The same jacket it always wears: Black leather with worn metal spikes on the shoulders.

The humans call this thing “Carey.”

This thing feels fury welling up inside of it. This thing hates that sensation. It should be beyond even these thin vestiges of emotion. But certain extraordinary circumstances still provoke the response.

The thing called Carey interfered with this thing's mission. It prevented the candidate from ascending. It destroyed something beautiful. It helped kill an angel.

This thing is too angry to even consider torturing its prey. Humans enjoy living, and despite extraordinary difficulties, will attempt to continue doing it. Their lives are ruled by sensations: Pleasure. Angst. Anger. Lust. Torture allows the humans several more hours of life, blissfully full of sensation. It is an honor this thing will not bestow upon the thing called Carey. This thing will dig its fingers into the chest of its prey and it will hurl its organs on the pavement, then it will squish them beneath its feet and dance in the gore.

That seems the appropriate response.

The thing called Carey seems to guess at this thing's intent. It holds its hands up in a fighting stance.

This thing smiles and is on its prey before the other thing can even register the movement. It cracks the prey in the nose with its forehead. The other thing staggers. This thing kicks its legs out from under it. It falls. This thing brings its fist down on the prey's chest. Then its genitals. Then its neck. Then its face. Again and again. The prey is convulsing and twitching from the blows. It tries to breathe, but every gasp is hammered out of it before the lungs can fill. The prey spews blood, but this thing clasps its hand over the prey's mouth. The blood pools in its mouth, and the prey begins to choke. This thing laces its fingers in the spaces between the ribs. It will latch on, and pull the entire rib cage from the body in one swift movement. Then it will—

A sensation. This thing takes a moment to register it. Pleasure? Cold?

Pain.

Something has struck this thing in the back of the head. This thing stands, and turns around, prepared to eviscerate the distraction.

This thing sees the candidate. The one who devoured the angel. The one humans call “Kaitlyn.” It is holding a bottle. It has apparently just thrown one at this thing, and is prepared to throw another.

This thing feels a sensation.

It thinks. It tries to categorize the feeling, but it is having difficulty.

At last, it comes: Fear.

It is consuming. It is controlling. This thing does not often experience that sensation. It is not good at controlling it. It has no practice. This thing is surprised to hear that it is screaming. This thing does not recall telling its legs to move, so it is also very surprised to learn that it is running.

 

NINETEEN

1981. Los Angeles, California. Meryll.

Carey and Randall are trying to sing “Sugarlight,” but they're too pissed to even stand, much less enunciate. It's coming out as a series of gargled howls. They don't seem perturbed by that fact. The louder one yells, the louder the other yells.

It's just past midnight, and they're lying on a couple of lounge chairs beside a bright blue pool. The underwater lights cast undulating shadows on the walls of the slick little mansion behind them. I figured they must have hopped the fence, and are just hoping nobody's home. Can't imagine anyone inviting them into a place like this.

They're wrong about the place being empty, though: Lights are coming on inside. Somebody slides the patio door open. A young black kid with a shaved head. He's in a pair of Mickey Mouse boxers and nothing else. He looks pissed, but not surprised. Carey and Randall see him now, and they start yelling greetings. The black kid says something low and unhappy, but they're too oblivious to catch his tone. They holler back at him, all blissful ignorance. Carey holds out a beer and says something. The black kid smiles. He takes it, cracks it open, and downs the whole thing in a matter of seconds. I hear the ensuing belch all way up here on the hill. Carey and Randall applaud. They hold out another, the black kid takes it and sits down. He nurses this one. Soon all three are yammering a bit too loudly. The patio door opens again, and this time a pretty blonde steps out in an oversized T-shirt. The guys fall silent. She glares at each in turn, then pulls up a deck chair. She sits down, crosses her legs, and holds out her hand. They all cheer as Randall passes her a beer.

It took me forever and a day to find the two of them after they left London. I went to New York first. I trawled the Manhattan punk clubs for months with no luck. Some kids remembered Carey (not fondly), but they all said he took off for England a while back. So I stopped following the guys, and I started following trouble instead.

There were rumors of Unnoticeables all over the place—Baltimore, Detroit, Chicago—but LA came up the most often. I hopped a series of trains, bummed a few dozen rides from assholes expecting road-head. A few got aggressive. I broke some bones. One had a gun. I didn't mean to, but I did something to him, that thing I swore wouldn't happen again. I saw a little piece of his insides, and I changed it. Then the rest of him changed. His jaw fell off. His upper teeth wouldn't stop growing. They plowed down into his stomach and grew right through his skin until they pierced his back, pinning him to the driver's seat. I bolted, leaving him there to pull at his own canines.

When I got to LA, I started hitting up the seediest clubs I could find. Carey and Randall were regulars at every single one.

I'd followed them back to this house after the X show. I guess they were staying here legitimately after all. Certainly a step up from the Rape Office.

How the fuck do they deserve this? After everything we've been through—everything they put me through—they're the ones that get a happy ending in a Barbie Dreamhouse? To hell with that.

I could jump down there and beat them all to death without much fuss. Maybe I could do that thing again, change them all into something else.

Or maybe I could just go down and say hi. They'd yell and holler like they did at the black kid and the pretty girl. They'd hand me a beer and we'd all get right and properly pissed.

Right?

I remember the way Carey looked at me, when we last saw each other. That horror in his eyes.

No. We're not drinking buddies anymore.

I could take their fairy-tale ending away. I could do it right now. I'm so much stronger than I was, and I was always pretty strong. It would be over in a matter of seconds.

But tonight, down there, they're not thinking of anything. Of the Husks, or the Faceless, or what happened to me. They're not remembering the blood and the loss. They're just friends around a pool, drinking too much and bugging the neighbors. They don't deserve this happiness. I deserve it. But I can't have it, so I at least deserve to watch.

 

TWENTY

2013. Tulancingo, Mexico. Kaitlyn.

I don't know what the hell I was thinking.

Sure, girl, just whip a bottle at Marco. You broke his neck and he didn't so much as blink, but the recycling will totally kill him. Empty bottles of Fanta are like silver bullets to his werewolf.

The glass exploded across the back of Marco's head. It didn't even draw blood. He stood up slow, then turned around so fast I couldn't even see the movement. He silently appraised me with those black doll eyes.

I was more or less just waiting for him to kill me. I still felt like shredded crap from the car wreck. My knees were boiled rubber. I had a blinding, dry headache—like my sinuses were packed to bursting with sand. I was freezing, even though it was a hundred goddamned degrees out. I could no more fight than I could do a standing backflip. I thought about running, and nearly passed out—even thinking burned too much energy.

Marco took a step.

Backwards.

Something feral took over his face. His lips peeled back over his teeth. He hunched low and hissed. Then he leapt ten feet, straight up, over the chain-link fence behind him. He ran down the length of the alleyway, his fading screams high pitched and feminine.

What. The. Fuck?

There's no reason for Marco to run away from me, unless.… Oh, God.

There's something worse than Marco behind me.

I turned slowly.

Fear danced across the little hairs on my neck.

Almost there. Slowly now. Slowly …

Behind me, I saw …

Nothing.

At least, nothing that wasn't there before. There was an old couple huddling in an alcove, but they'd been hiding there since Marco first scuttled past. A small wire pen with two chickens. An upended garbage can.

Carey coughed. It was wet and thick. I know jack about medicine, but I know that cough wasn't good.

I managed to walk to him without collapsing. His mouth was full of blood, so I turned him on his side and he threw up an unhealthy amount of it. His breathing was better, but it still sounded like somebody working an accordion underwater.

“Call for help!” I yelled to the elderly couple, but now that Marco was gone, they were swiftly backing away.

I looked around for something—a conveniently idling ambulance would be lovely—but unless one of those chickens possessed magical healing powers, I was shit out of luck.

I wasn't up to dragging Carey anywhere. I could go find a phone, but what if Marco came back? Was it safe to leave him here, even for a minute?

A shuffling noise behind me. I grabbed what remained of the broken Fanta bottle and tried to look threatening.

“Jesus pogoing Christ,” Jackie said. “What the hell happened?”

“I thought you left!” I wanted to stand, run to her, give her a big hug, but instead I sat down cross-legged on the pavement and tried not to faint.

“Like I'd ditch you? Seriously? You know me and my dramatics. Sometimes a girl just needs to make a gesture.”

“It was Marco,” I said. “Carey told me he was just coming down to the set to scout it out. See if Marco was alone, or if there were more Empty Ones, or what. He wouldn't take no for an answer. I followed him, but I guess Marco saw and—”

“I'll call an ambulance,” Jackie said. Then stared at her phone. “What's uh … what's Mexican for 9-1-1?”

I laughed, despite everything.

“No, seriously,” she protested. “It's a different number, right? Is it?”

“It's 066 in Hidalgo,” said a girl's voice.

Young. Raspy. British accent.

“Thanks,” I started to say. Then I saw Jackie's face. Stark white.

“You're resourceful, darling, I'll give you that. I was sure the old farmer would get his fingers in you, one way or another. You scared off Marco, eh?”

“You're the one, aren't you? Carey's ex. The chick who turns people into monsters,” I said. I tightened my grip on the Fanta bottle. My mighty sword. My mighty, grape-flavored sword.

Jackie nodded.

“I didn't know anything could scare the Husks,” Meryll said. “I mean, aside from me. Is that what you are? Something like me?”

“I don't know,” I answered. “What the fuck are you?”

Meryll just smiled.

“Are you going to kill us?” Jackie asked, her back still to the girl. Like, if she didn't turn around, didn't see her with her own eyes, she wasn't yet real.

“You, personally? I don't even know if I can,” Meryll said. “Besides, that sounds boring. No, I've come to invite you to a party. A grand old bash. They threw one just like it for me, years ago. But this one's yours.”

“And if we don't go? If we just leave?” Jackie's voice trembled.

“I'd be very disappointed.” Meryll laughed. “It's important that you come voluntarily. But if you don't—well, I'll just find you again. I'll send Marco for you. And if you've broken him … well, I know plenty of other Husks that listen to me like I'm the bloody messiah.” She twisted her skirt, smoothed her Misfits T-shirt back down over it. “I'll have them pay you lots of friendly visits. Leave more disasters like Boris Karloff here”—she gestured to Carey—“bleeding out in filthy alleyways. Until one day you decide you
want
to volunteer. Up to you. The chase might be fun, for a few.”