“Hey, man! You here for the show?” he said, all chipper.
“I was,” I said. My voice sounded terrible, like I’d been gargling glass. “Couldn’t get in. Did you save me from those guys?”
“Sure did!” He smiled, all teeth. “High five!”
“What? I mean … sure?” I couldn’t get to my feet yet. I held my hand up weakly. He held his hand out too, still five feet away, then walked it over and slapped it against mine. Then he backed up to where he’d been standing.
I put my own hand down, slowly.
“Thank you,” I said.
“No problem!” he chirped.
We stared at each other in silence, me gasping torn breaths, him smiling aimlessly.
“No offense,” I said, “but this is really weird.”
“Oh?” he said, and then his voice went flat and toneless. His face lost all tension. “This is not how humans respond in this situation. I did not know that. It is not a situation I encounter often. I will make a note of it in the future.”
Motherfuck.
NINE
}}}Katilyn. 2013. Los Angeles, California. West L.A.}}}}}}}}}
Carey went out to grab dinner around seven. I gave him twenty bucks from my emergency stash. I promised myself I wouldn’t be surprised when he came back with ten bucks’ worth of food and ten of rotgut. I’d gotten all of my alone-time needs out of the way that afternoon, and with Jackie gone to visit her parents, it felt wrong to have the house to myself again. I guess I had grown used to the motels—to other people not only always being in the same house as you, but the same room. Hogging the television, snoring on the bed, occupying the bathroom for a suspicious length of time without the shower running.
An apartment to myself now felt lifeless, like I was sitting on a couch in a doctor’s office, rather than in my own home. I used to spend most nights like this happily—all alone, doors locked, in my rattiest PJs, having a drink or two while playing internet or reading a book. Now I just kept getting up to check the windows to see if Carey was back yet. I paced into the kitchen, verified the nothing in my fridge, more out of habit than desire, and back out into the living room. I straightened some things on my shelf for no particular reason, then down the hallway to my bedroom. I stared at my bed for a longing moment, then turned around and went back to make sure the fridge hadn’t suddenly spawned something interesting. I wished for a bag of potato chips, just so I’d feel like I accomplished something after I demolished them. That apathy again: not full, not hungry, not interested. I lifted my curtains and checked the empty street. I picked up an issue of Cosmo that Jackie had left over here, and glanced through the comfortingly vapid contents. She had written sarcastic answers to all of the questions in the sex quiz.
Does your man like it when you call him naughty names during sex?
No, he cried a little when I called him micro-dick.
Does your man enjoy it when you dress up for him?
I wore his dad’s old suit and tried to go down on him but he wasn’t into it.
I smiled at the ghost of Jackie in the room with me for that moment, but it faded quickly. I went back to the fridge. Thought hard about just straight up drinking some mustard, then back to the window, lifted the curtains, checked the empty street.
A pale face stared back at me from the other side of the glass.
I jumped and squeaked like a ’50s housewife seeing a mouse. I dropped the curtain, and it fell back across the window.
God damn it, Kaitlyn, how many times do you have to go through something like this before you stop behaving like a frightened schoolgirl?
I took two steps back. There were heavy bars on all the windows and doors—thanks, history of gang activity in my area!—but it’s not like that made me safe from all of the things that could be after me. I patted my right front pocket, feeling for my cell phone. I forgot that we’d ditched them weeks ago for fear of being tracked. I still had that phantom urge to check for it all the time, and a vague feeling that I was forgetting something important when I didn’t find it. It was like realizing you’ve forgotten your keys, all the time.
And stupid Kaitlyn was all “oh, ha ha, who needs a landline?”
Okay, possible scenarios:
Best case, it’s just a pervert or a burglar.
Aw, remember when that was the worst case?
It could be an Unnoticeable, just checking the apartment to see if anybody was here before reporting back to its masters. If so, that meant it was alone, that it wouldn’t come after me, and that I might be able to take it if it did. But only if I had a weapon.
Worst-case scenario, it’s an Empty One. It would be able to pull those bars right off the wall and come in after me, and there’s absolutely nothing I could do to stop it.
This is not a terribly comforting list.
Well, what could I do about those things? If it was an Empty One, I might as well put on my one nice dress and try to die looking dignified. Nothing to be done about it. If it was a pervert, burglar, or Unnoticeable, I would need a weapon.
Mental catalogue: I had a telescoping baton under my bed that … shit. I lost that when Marco broke in here last time. I still had that sketchy can of mace with the cartoon devil girl on it, but I didn’t exactly trust its build quality. Seemed just as likely to explode in my own face as the intended victim’s. So, what? Kitchen knives? I’m not really the cooking type. Most of my meals come in Styrofoam containers. I do have some old chef’s knives, but they couldn’t cut tension.
Think think th—
The doorknob rattled.
Whatever it was, it definitely wanted in.
Ad hoc weapons, then: what can you use to stab or bludgeon? A cast-iron pan? A rolling pin? I don’t have either of those and what am I doing, operating on cartoon logic?!
I grabbed a small steel lamp from the table beside the couch. It had a good heft to it. Not aluminum or anything, and the square base was especially heavy. The corners were pretty sharp. I ripped the cord out of the wall, tore the shade off, and unscrewed the light bulb. I got a brief vision of me rearing back to strike the invincible pervert only to realize that the cord had caught somewhere, preventing me from swinging. I wrapped the cord around the shaft and looped it back on itself. It formed a kind of textured grip.
All right, asshole. Got myself an IKEA mace. Ready when you are.
A rattling sound from the backyard. There was a little access gate to get down there from the landlord’s property above me. I never used it. It had a padlock on the latch that I didn’t even have the key to. Whatever the intruder was, it had just tried the gate. Now it would have to jump the fence to check the doors. Maybe I could get the drop on it.
I padded to the back and swung the security door open as quietly as I could. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but it was getting there. I hadn’t turned on the outside lights. A few lemon trees, a tall hedge, and the neighboring apartments, leaving only heavy twilight shading the backyard. I ducked low and stuck to the wall, sliding up to where the intruder would have to step if they wanted to check the back door.
The gate rattled again, louder this time, followed by a weighty thump.
They’d jumped the fence. Footsteps crunched down the gravel pathway. Getting louder. Growing closer.
I wrapped both of my hands around the cord-grip. I heaved the lamp back.
A shadowy figure rounded the corner and went to put a foot on the first step. I leapt up with all the force I could muster and put my full body weight into the swing. The base of the lamp connected with a wet crunch and the figure reeled backward. I didn’t have a landing plan. With all my weight thrown forward, I stumbled awkwardly down the few stairs from the raised deck to the backyard and skidded to my knees. I instinctively used my hands to brace my fall, and came down hard on the lamp. My knuckles got caught between the metal base and the gravel. I felt my skin tear.
No time for that.
I pushed myself up and readied the lamp-mace again. The figure was dazed
, but not down. I took two running steps for another swing, emitting my fiercest war cry—entirely unintentionally, didn’t even know I had a “war cry”—and brought the lamp around in a fast, wide arc.
The figure put out a hand and caught it without flinching. It twisted, wrenching the lamp out of my grip, and tossed it away like a wadded-up napkin.
Well, I guess we’re not dealing with your garden-variety pervert. At least I went out swinging. Literally.
The figure’s back was turned to what little light there was left. It was just a silhouette: shorter, slight, but with broad shoulders. Close-cropped or shaved head. Almost certainly a guy.
I kicked for its crotch. My bare foot crumpled into his groin so hard I thought I might’ve broken some toes. The man just laughed. He reached out and grabbed me by the throat. It happened so fast I didn’t even see him move. He was an inch or two shorter than me, and probably around the same weight. He lifted me off the ground with one hand.
An Empty One.
My bare feet kicked wildly. I tried to get some purchase to take the weight off of my neck, but there was nothing. He swung me in toward him, then back out and straight down into the ground. All the air left my lungs in one great rattle. The edges of my vision faded, grew black, and then I was out.
I opened my eyes and saw the underside of my landlord’s deck. I felt gravel grabbing at my T-shirt and fleece pants. Pressure on my scalp. I was being dragged by my own hair, still in my own backyard. I must’ve only been out for a few seconds. I tried to twist away from the Empty One’s grip, but I could barely lift my arms. The slightest physical effort sent the blackness seeping back into my vision. I instead focused solely on breathing, and didn’t even manage that very well.
The Empty One opened the security door, which I’d left unlocked behind me, and dragged me inside my house. He threw me into the couch so hard it rocked back on two feet, then came down with a thump that shook the bones of the house. He closed the door behind him, and turned to face me.
He’s so young.
I guess I knew the Empty Ones could be any age when they were taken, but this one was almost a kid. Barely out of his teens, if that. He was Asian, short, slender, wide nose and thin lips above a dark patch of goatee. He had his head shaved nearly bald, just a bit of black stubble showing. He wore a heavy motorcycle jacket, torn jeans, and big clunky Frankenstein boots. He saw me staring at him and his slack, emotionless face split into a sheepish grin. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. He didn’t get the eyes right. They stayed flat.
“What do you got to drink around here?” he asked.
I just stared at him in mute terror.
He went to the kitchen. I took the opportunity to roll off the couch. I wanted to land on the balls of my feet and silently stalk out the back door, hop the fence, and run forever. Instead I fell straight on my face and moaned like a dying cow.
“Hey,” he called from the other room. “Don’t try to go anywhere, or I’ll butcher you, okay?”
He sounded so amiable, like he was asking a good friend to bring him a Coke.
The floorboards reverberated beneath me with every footfall from his heavy boots. He bent and lifted me by the back of my shirt and the seat of my pants, then dropped me unceremoniously back on the couch, facedown.
“You don’t have any booze here at all?” he asked, sounding positively heartbroken.
I turned my head so I could see him with one eye, my nose and mouth buried in the couch cushions.
“Mmf,” I said.
“Damn,” he said. “What about dope? Weed? You look like a weed chick. Probably got one of those medical cards, am I right?”
He laughed and stood up straight to survey the living room.
“Come on, let’s smoke up. Take the edge off while we wait,” he said. He clapped his hands, rubbed them together, and held them out toward me.
When I didn’t respond, he dropped the human face and let the slack visage take over.
“This does not have to be bad,” he said, his voice like a cold wind. “People can have fun, even in bad situations. Let’s make this a positive experience.”
Jesus fucking Christ, I thought Marco was creepy. What the hell did a thing like this consider fun?
“I don’t have anything,” I said, barely able to speak above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Should I tell him about Carey, so he’s not surprised and liable to do something nasty? Or would that ruin Carey’s element of surprise, and screw us both?
“There’s some money in a coffee can above the stove,” I said. “You could go out and grab us some drinks if you want.”
He actually seemed to think about that for a second.
“No,” he finally decided. “You would probably try to run, or do something else stupid in the name of survival. We will just wait.”
Wait … for what?
“But hey,” he said, back to feigning humanity. “Surely you got some music or something, right?”
I pointed at my iPod, charging on the low table that held my TV and Bluetooth speakers. He picked it up and stared at it with open disgust.
“These things are so soulless, man,” he said. “I miss vinyl. How do you…?”
He mimed poking at buttons, then tossed it to me. I picked it up slowly. No sudden movements. I powered it on and scrolled through the menu. I paused with my thumb above the wheel.
“What uh … what kind of music do you like?” I asked.
He smiled big and said, “Got any punk?”
I did not. We listened to Herman’s Hermits instead. He was tunelessly screaming all of the words to “I’m Henry the VIIIth, I Am.” It was just starting on the third refrain when somebody knocked on the front door. Well, “knocked”—it sounded more like they were trying to kick it in. The Asian kid hopped up and went for the door. I couldn’t see it open from my spot on the couch, and was too terrified to move.
The back door, Kaitlyn! You can make it!
I remembered one of the first times I’d seen Marco. He’d come to the bar I was working at to surprise me. I had barely even thought about running when he closed the ten feet between us in the blink of an eye. The Empty Ones were so fast. I’d never make it.
“Carey!” the kid yelled excitedly. “You ugly son of a bitch! Haha, you got old as shit!”
Carey said something to him I couldn’t quite hear, but it was plain that he wasn’t nearly as enthused as the kid. And yet he wasn’t screaming in panic, either.…
The door swung closed. Heavy bootsteps and shuffling Chucks. Carey had a greasy paper bag in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He saw me frozen there on the couch, all disheveled and shaking, weeds in my hair and bits of gravel on my clothes.
“Jesus Christ, Zang,” Carey said, turning to the Asian kid. “What did you do to her?”
“What?” he said, all innocent. Then the façade faded and he continued: “She provoked me. She is not seriously wounded, much less torn in half with her guts strewn in the trees. I thought you would be happy with the progress I’ve made.”
“Happy with…?!” Carey snapped, but then thought for a moment. “Actually, yeah, this is a big improvement over last time.”
Zang beamed. He slapped Carey on the shoulder so hard that he dropped the food bag.
“And you brought whiskey!” Zang laughed.
I didn’t want to speak yet, lest I risk pissing the thing off. But I gave Carey every ounce of “what the fuck?” my eyes could muster. He saw me, mouthed “sorry,” and shrugged. He followed Zang into the kitchen. I heard them bang around in there, looking for something.
“No shot glasses?” Zang said, after a minute of fruitless searching.
“Nope,” Carey said. “All she’s got are these.”
Carey came out first, holding three coffee mugs that I’d picked up in bulk from a Salvation Army store. One said CAMP CADY WILDLIFE ASSOCIATION, one said I’M NOT AS THINK AS YOU DRUNK I AM in Comic Sans, and one just had a picture of a really fat cat
on it, stuck in a cat door. Carey set them down, twisted the cap off the whiskey, and slopped a good amount in each mug. Zang grabbed his and downed it, then immediately started pouring more. Carey came over to me with the fat cat mug. I shook my head.
“Take it,” he said. “You’re gonna need it.”
I wanted to slap it across the room and punch him in the nose, but instead I grasped it with shaking hands and took a sip. I winced and gagged, coppery hellfire steaming up my sinuses.
“Whoa, no,” Zang said, laughing. “Never sip liquor with a screw-top cap, girlie.”
He shot back his own refill, by way of proof.
Carey clinked his mug against mine, and we downed our drinks. It was exactly as bad as before, but at least it was over with quickly. I gestured for a refill, and Zang obliged, smiling the whole time like we were old friends.
“So,” Carey said. “Zang, this is Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn, this is Zang.”
“Charmed,” Zang said, and shot me a practiced bad boy smile, all full of the promise of sexy mischief. I’d seen that same smile on every glam rock album in the ’80s, but his eyes were still flat, like a lake on a windless day.
“Make him promise not to kill me, no matter what I say,” I told Carey.
He looked back and forth between me and Zang.
“I don’t think he can promise that,” he said.
“I can,” Zang answered, his voice atonal. “I can promise that I will not harm you, no matter what you say. The words you things bleat are largely irrelevant, anyway.”
“Seriously?” Carey said. He eyed Zang with equal parts apprehension and appreciation.
“It has been a long time since you knew me,” Zang said. “I have become more practiced.”
Carey raised his eyebrows, a gesture of appreciation.
Kill All Angels Page 7