Freaks in the City

by Maree Anderson

  Sixer considered appropriate responses and chose one. “No.”

  The driver shrugged. “Could have given you some change.”

  Sixer couldn’t fathom why the driver would make an issue of this when his passenger had already paid the adult fare, but humans were frequently illogical. He cut short the likelihood the man would feel compelled to pursue the subject by heading for a seat at the rear of the bus.

  As his torso swayed with the motion of the vehicle, Sixer reviewed Michael and Marissa Davidson’s interactions thus far. He’d detected obvious tension that centered around their son’s girlfriend, one Jaime Smythson, but neither Marissa nor Michael seemed inclined to discuss the issue openly. Sixer had been unable to unearth anything detailed about the girl thus far, and he was forced to concluded that until new data came to light it would be a waste of resources to continue observing the adult Davidsons.

  The Davidson’s daughter, Caroline-who-preferred-to-be-called-Caro, was also useless for Sixer’s purposes. Caro Davidson was involved with her boyfriend and her studies to the exclusion of almost everything else. She had not visited her brother at his apartment. Their encounters were limited to texts and meeting up at their parents’ house over holiday periods.

  Gamma-Dash-One had formed an attachment to the young female, but after analyzing all the data Sixer had concluded the rogue cyborg’s attachment to Caro’s twin, Tyler, was far more significant.

  Those same anomalies in Gamma’s creation that had forced her to evolve, made the probability of her keeping a watchful eye over Tyler extremely high. The probabilities skewed still higher once Sixer factored in that all records pertaining to Tyler Davidson’s attendance at Appleton Performing Arts School had been wiped around the same time Tyler had moved out of the apartment he’d shared with another student. And higher still when cross-referenced to T. Michael Rowen, a current student at Wasserman College of Fine Arts. Rowen had been Marissa Davidson’s maiden name. Sixer sensed Gamma’s hand in this.

  Conclusion: Tyler Davidson was the key to locating Gamma. But Sixer did not deem it strategically sound to make direct contact with Tyler Davidson—not when Gamma could have the young human under close surveillance. The risk of revealing himself before he was ready to confront Gamma was unacceptably high.

  Sixer got off at his stop. He purchased a newspaper at the nearest newsstand before heading for the park to wait for his next subject.

  Shawn Evans was the son of Snapperton’s former mayor. The scandal that had left Shawn’s reputation in tatters had compelled his father to make a substantial donation to Greenfield High School to “encourage” the school board not to expel his son. Wesley Evans had then prudently bowed out of the next mayoral election. Upon his graduation from Greenfield High School, Shawn Evans had immediately been enrolled in a business course by his father. All evidence pointed to Shawn’s future career path being to join his father’s vending machine franchise—whether Shawn liked it or not.

  Sixer chose a bench near the public basketball court and pretended to read the newspaper for the next three hours. No one questioned him.

  A red Miata screeched into a parking space. Shawn got out, his cell phone glued to his ear. He rang off, stowed the phone in the back pocket of his jeans, and sauntered over to a group of young men shooting hoops.

  Sixer watched the young humans play a truncated version of a basketball game while he reviewed footage of Greenfield High Raiders’ games he’d accessed and stored in his databanks.

  Shawn, then the Raiders’ captain, had been described in one brutally honest article as a “ball hog” with a reputation as a “chucker”—a player who took frequent and imprudent shots at the basket. Conclusion: Shawn had directly contributed to the Raiders’ many losses on the court. This conclusion was borne out by the fact that after Shawn had been dropped from the team, the Raiders’ win ratio had dramatically improved.

  Sixer abandoned all pretense of reading the newspaper, folding it up and placing it on the bench. He rose from his seat and walked over to the mesh fence enclosing the court. He hooked his fingertips into the mesh, leaning into it as he observed the game.

  For the third time in a row Shawn’s shot hit the backboard and missed the hoop. He scooped up the ball and in a fit of temper, heaved it at one of his teammates.

  The young man ducked and the ball just missed smacking him in the side of the head. He made a rude gesture at Shawn, and tossed the ball to his friends.

  Shawn abruptly realized he had an audience. “What’s your problem, asshole?”

  Sixer selected an appropriate response from his databanks. “I’m not the one shooting bricks.”

  Shawn’s friends snickered.

  “Think you can do better, douche-bag?” Shawn’s stiff-bodied stance and outthrust jaw shrieked the challenge as clearly as his words.

  Sixer unhooked his fingers from the wire mesh and walked through the entrance, onto the court.

  The young male with the ball heaved it in Sixer’s direction and he snatched it from the air. He did not bounce the ball to gauge its current level of inflation and get a “feel” for it. He already knew how he would adjust the trajectory to make the shot.

  Fixing his gaze on Shawn, Sixer tossed the ball one-handed at the hoop. “It wouldn’t be difficult to do better than you,” he said as he turned on his heel and walked off the court.

  He did not bother to glance over his shoulder to verify whether the ball had gone through the hoop. He knew with one hundred percent certainty he had made the shot. The whoops of the young humans only confirmed it. “Hey, dude,” one of them called. “You wanna play?”

  “No. Basketball doesn’t interest me.” Sixer resumed his seat on the bench. Shawn was useless to him. The young human was not intelligent enough to suit his purposes.

  A female approached the court.

  Sixer didn’t need to access any of Snapperton’s online databases to discover her identity. He already knew of her because she’d dated both Tyler and Shawn.

  Her name was Vanessa Ward, but she went by the name “Nessa”. She wore a fitted black short-sleeved t-shirt, tight denim shorts, and scuffed black canvas sneakers. Shawn pretended not to notice her as she took a seat on the bench next to Sixer.

  “Hi Shawn,” she called out, just as her ex-boyfriend attempted another shot.

  Shawn botched the shot. Nessa’s lips twitched upward.

  Sixer noted Shawn’s clenched fists and set jaw as his teammates rolled their eyes. The opposition high-fived each other. One of them whistled at Nessa, and although she affected not to notice, she tossed her head.

  Shawn sneered. “Hey,” he said to his friends. “Check it out. The Time-Out whore is having some time out. Can’t have that. Who’s in? One of you losers gotta be desperate for some action.”

  Time-Out was a truck-stop on the outskirts of Snapperton where Nessa was currently employed as a waitress. The establishment was popular with truckies, down on their luck locals, and visitors passing through who were unaware of its dubious reputation. Nessa had been working at Time-Out ever since she’d been expelled from Greenfield High and her parents had kicked her out of their house. She currently shared a dwelling with two other Time-Out waitresses in what was deemed to be an undesirable part of town.

  Nessa had flushed at Shawn’s jibe, and Sixer noted a vein throbbing at her temple. “Asshole,” she muttered. Then, pasting a friendly smile on her face, she stuck out her right hand. “Nessa.”

  Sixer shook it, careful not to grip too tight and bruise her. “Sixer.”

  “Unusual name.”

  Sixer hadn’t found himself in a social situation that had required him to give his name before, so he hadn’t given any thought as to whether “Sixer” would be deemed unusual. “I was named by a Philadelphia 76ers fan,” he said.

  Nessa laughed. “Could be worse.”

  “Yes,” he said, agreeing despite not comprehending what constituted “worse”. A name was merely a combination of letters—a labe
l that could be shed at will. It was neither good nor bad. It was just a name.

  “Found another sucker, huh, Nessa?” Shawn jeered. “You’re off your game, babe. Chances that loser has cash to throw around are sub-zero.”

  An expected observation, given that Sixer wore jeans, an old brown t-shirt and a pair of boots he’d liberated from a used clothing bin. Appearances were frequently deceiving, however. Sixer had never literally thrown cash around, but he had plenty at his disposal.

  Nessa slanted a mutely pleading gaze at Sixer from beneath her lashes. “Ignore him. He’s full of crap.”

  “He’s not a particularly talented basketball player,” Sixer said.

  Her smile this time appeared more genuine. Good. His efforts to build rapport were working.

  “You got that right,” she said. “Shawn’s always been nothing more than a legend in his own mind.”

  Sixer indicated the coffee shop across the street. “Would you like to join me for coffee?”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “I have to be at work in a little over an hour. I was visiting my parents but they wouldn’t—” She swallowed, ducking her head so her hair fell across her face and hid her expression. “They weren’t, uh, home. So I thought I’d hang here for a bit and wait for the bus.”

  Sixer sought the correct slang term. “My shout? And I can drop you off at your work if you like.”

  Nessa peeked out at him from beneath the curtain of her hair. “Okay. Thanks. That’d be really nice.”

  Based on her relationship with Tyler Davidson, this young female was Sixer’s best option. She would be easily controlled. She would suit his purposes admirably.

  ~~~

  Sixer leaned over the seat and instructed the taxi driver to wait while he escorted Nessa to the door of her workplace. He draped an arm across her back and dug his fingertips into her waist. A shudder wracked her body.

  He inhaled and could taste the sourness of fear leaking from her pores. “Remember, I’ll be watching you.”

  Her breathing hitched as he pressed the cash he’d promised in the interim into her hand.

  He shouldered open the main doors. Rank air smacked him like a physical blow. If he’d been a human, and cared about such things, he might have been revolted by the noise and the grime, the mingled odors of unwashed bodies and overcooked food.

  She ducked beneath his arm and darted inside, heading straight for the ladies’ room.

  Sixer debated following her—not into the ladies’ room, of course—but taking a table inside and ordering a meal. In the next three-point-two hours he would need to refuel in order to maintain his body’s optimum physical performance, and this place was as good as any to meet that requirement.

  A heavyset waitress, the dimpled skin of her fleshy thighs bulging over the confines of her shorts, placed her order on the table and dropped him a wink. Her lashes were so coated with layers of mascara that they stuck together when she blinked. It required some effort for her to pry open her eyelids again. “You comin’ in, cutie-pie?”

  Sixer backed away, pivoted on his heel, and headed for the taxi. He did not wish to draw unwanted attention from the locals. He’d discovered all he needed to know and it was time to leave Snapperton.

  ~~~

  Chapter Three

  Great, just great. The elevator was on the fritz. Nessa jogged up the gloomy stairwell. She made it to the fourth floor landing before she had to lean against the handrail to catch her breath. She sucked in a deep breath, and choked. God. Smelled like something had died. She quickly clothes-pegged her nose with her fingers.

  As she peered about the dingy landing she noticed an untidy pile lurking in the corner. Garbage bags. Someone must’ve figured they’d leave ’em here until garbage day rather than have ’em stink up their apartment. Nice.

  She resumed climbing, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. One flight. And another. Until there was only one more flight to go. Yay.

  She found the right apartment easily enough and paused to knead her burning leg muscles as she planned what she was going to say. Then she thumped the door with her fist, only letting up when she heard faint footsteps from inside.

  The door was yanked opened and she copped an eyeful of a skinny, shirtless boy who’d thankfully pulled on sweats—sort of—over his grungy boxers. He yawned and mumbled, “Yeah?”

  “Tyler ’round?” she asked.

  He blinked like a myopic owl. And then seemed to realize his visitor was female, for he hastily yanked up his half-mast sweats and forked his fingers through his mop of hair. “Heyyy,” he drawled. “I’m Pete. And you would be?”

  Nessa knew his type. She had to shut him down before he could get too hopeful and think he might have a chance. As if. “Looking for Tyler. Could you get him for me? It’s urgent.”

  Pete failed to hide his disappointment. “Tyler’s not here right now. He’s at Jaime’s.”

  “His girlfriend, right?” Hope she wasn’t a total bitch or this could get tricky.

  “Yeah.” Pete gave her a second head-to-toer and stared at her chest until Nessa clicked her fingers in his face. “Got an address?”

  His expression turned sheepish. “Sorry. Bit slow today. Late night.” He turned away to holler for his roommate. “Hey Chandler. Get your butt out here, dude. Some chick needs Jaime’s address.”

  A guy wearing an eyeball-searing purple-and-pink-checked shirt overtop bright blue skinny jeans emerged from the kitchen shoveling something that vaguely resembled a grilled cheese into his mouth. A burned grilled cheese, given the sharp smell staining the air.

  Huh. These boys were living in the lap of luxury if they could afford cheese. Nessa had survived on cheap instant noodles when her tips for the week hadn’t been as good as she’d hoped. Not that Time-Out customers tended to tip very well at the best of times.

  “Just a sec.” Chandler flicked through the contacts list on his cell phone. “Here it is. 64 Parkway.” He fished a pen and a scrap of paper from his pocket and scrawled the address for her. “’Bout fifteen minutes drive from here. Nice part of town. Want directions?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He gave her easy directions, finishing with a shy smile that still managed to telegraph his appreciation of what he was looking at without being sleazy. Chandler seemed like a real nice guy. Pity about the tragic fashion sense.

  “Tyler not answering his cell, huh?”

  “I didn’t call ahead—it’s a surprise visit. I just presumed he’d be here.” Nessa shrugged as if to say “More fool me”.

  “We don’t see much of Tyler these days,” Chandler said.

  Pete gave his sweats another hitch so only four inches of underwear showed instead of six. “If it was me scored a chick with stellar digs and fancy wheels, I’d be out of this shithole in a hot minute, too.”

  Chandler rolled his eyes ceiling-ward. “Don’t mind him, he’s special.” He sniffed the air. “Crap! That’s my grilled cheese. Gotta go. Nice to meet you—?”

  “Nessa,” she said. And threw him a dazzling smile as she left.

  The smile vanished as she trudged down the stairs, cursing her luck. She stuck her hand in the pocket of her jeans and fingered the cash she had left after paying for the coach ticket to get here. She considered springing for a taxi… for all of five seconds. If this “surprise” visit didn’t go to plan, she might need the money for a motel.

  She pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle a whimper. If this surprise visit didn’t go to plan, she was in a whole heap of trouble—more trouble than she’d ever been in her life. And given her track record, that was saying something.

  ~~~

  After his parents’ visit a few months ago, Jay had been vigilant about appearing as humanlike as possible. She knew it was illogical but a part of her felt that if she slipped up and did something extraordinary in front of Tyler it would only prove Marissa’s point. However Tyler wasn’t anywhere near the kitchen right now, so Jay didn’t see any re
ason to bother with the oven glove. She grabbed the pizza stone from the oven with her bare hand and placed it on the granite countertop.

  “Dinner’s ready!” she called, modulating her voice so Tyler would hear it from his top-floor studio. She blinked and uttered a very humanlike snort—the sort of self-deprecating snort that usually indicated the snorter had remembered something of significance, and thought himself or herself stupid to have forgotten it in the first place. The area she’d converted so Tyler had a place to work on his portfolio and practice his music was sound-proofed. Even if she screamed at the top of her lungs he wouldn’t hear her.

  She sliced the pizza she’d made, grabbed paper napkins and plates, and headed for the studio. When Tyler was in the zone he often forgot to eat. It was one of the reasons she preferred him to stay over at her place. At least then she could tempt him with home cooked meals and ensure he ate properly two or three nights a week.

  Jay had always been what humans labeled a “good” cook. Cooking was simply a matter of combining the available ingredients in ways that pleased the human palate. It wasn’t difficult. She’d cooked all the meals when Father was alive but she’d never “enjoyed” cooking. Now she found herself holding her breath as she waited for Tyler to take that first all-important bite of a meal she’d prepared for him, so she could analyze his responses. And if his eyes half-closed as he savored the flavors, and he uttered a tiny moan of appreciation, she would release her breath on a sigh of pure satisfaction… and immediately begin planning the next meal she would cook for him.

  She juggled her burdens so she could open the door to the studio, and paused on the threshold to observe him.

  Tyler sat on a tall stool, hunched over his guitar, his eyes half-closed as he strummed. Jay’s enhanced hearing could detect the faint hum in the back of his throat as he sub-vocalized the words in his mind, braiding them into lyrics that, when he deemed them fit for her ears, Jay knew would move her to tears.