“Spooky,” the biker told him, and it seemed right.
Nothing climbed up behind Spooky and wrapped his arms around the biker’s waist. Under the heavy jacket Spooky’s body felt loose-jointed, thin as a whippet. The wide saddle thrummed; it was like climbing astride something living. Then Spooky let out the clutch, and the bike leaped forward. The wind pummelled Nothing’s bare head, blew his hair straight back, stung his eyes. He wondered whether they were going very fast.
Around noon they stopped in a little town and got a bucket of fried chicken, which they ate in an old tumbledown graveyard some miles down the highway. Nothing wolfed the crisp flesh and sucked at the bones, but Spooky only picked at a drumstick, peeling off shreds of meat and shoving them listlessly into his mouth. Nothing licked the grease off his fingers and leaned back against the door of a crumbling family vault. The iron bars shifted beneath his weight, and Nothing waited to see whether he would spill in among the bones. The door held. A little disappointed, he looked back at Spooky. The biker’s hands were shaking now.
“Shit,” said Spooky. “Are you cool? I need to fix.” He mimed jabbing something into the vein of his arm.
“Oh,” said Nothing, understanding. “Oh. Sure I’m cool.” He tried to look cool. “Who do you think I’d tell?”
“Just gotta be sure. You never know.” Spooky dug through the pockets of his jacket and pulled out several objects. A tarnished silver spoon, a dirty shred of cheesecloth, a cheap plastic lighter. From the saddlebag of the bike he took a Thermos full of water. Last, he reached into some inner compartment of his jacket and removed a flat lacquered box inlaid with a bright scene of tropical birds. He opened it reverentially; Nothing half-expected silver light to spill out, bathing Spooky’s face, engulfing him. But inside the box was only a plastic bag full of little foil packets, seemingly hundreds of them. And there, as innocuous as a dull gray viper, the syringe.
Nothing watched closely, trying to look as if he had seen it all before. Spooky removed his studded leather belt, shrugged off his jacket, and pulled the belt tight around his upper arm. His skin was faintly damp, mottled. He poured a little water into the spoon and shook a grainy white powder out of one of the foil packets. Then, as if remembering his manners, he glanced up at Nothing. “Oh, hey, you want to fix?”
“Yes,” said Nothing without thinking. If he thought, he might panic. Dead rock stars flitted through his mind. William Burroughs chided him.
“I’ll do you first. You’re just a kid, you don’t know how to do it. You might shoot an air bubble.”
Nothing closed his eyes as Spooky unbuckled the belt from his own arm and drew it snug around Nothing’s. He stroked the inside of Nothing’s elbow, pressing down, smoothing out the skin. His touch was very gentle, but had no sexual quality to it. All of Spooky’s erotic energy seemed to go into the handling of his drug.
“Okay, here’s your vein. Keep your finger on it.” Spooky held the lighter under the spoon until the mixture started to bubble. Then he laid the cheesecloth over the surface and drew the solution into the syringe. Spooky’s hands were steady now.
“Still got that vein? Okay, hold it …” He held up the syringe and flicked the needle’s tip with his finger. “Don’t worry. I can smell you’re scared, but this is good shit. There goes the bubble. Safe as milk, like Nick Drake used to say. Okay. Okay …” He bent over Nothing’s arm and probed the soft flesh with the needle. “There you go.” Spooky drew back the plunger. A diaphanous swirl of blood filled the syringe. Nothing realized he had been holding his breath.
“My turn.” Spooky mixed the solution again and injected himself with a cool eagerness. He shivered when the needle went in. A moment later Spooky just seemed to start fading. His eyelids fluttered, and his voice began to drag like a record played at low speed. As Nothing watched, those luminous bushbaby eyes slipped shut.
Nothing felt the junk spreading through him, tendrils venturing into his hands and his legs, turning his blood as clear and pure as water. He didn’t feel sleepy at all. His mind was sharp, cold. He felt as powerful as a god.
Spooky was completely gone now. He slumped against the vault, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow, harsh. His mouth was slightly open. Nothing saw the tip of his tongue glistening.
Nothing moved closer to Spooky, moved so close that he was almost on top of the biker. He encircled Spooky’s shoulders with his arm. At the neck of Spooky’s dirty white T-shirt his skin was chill, sweaty, goosepimpled. With the tip of his finger Nothing stroked Spooky’s throat and found the spot under the ear where the pulse beat. He left his finger there for a moment, then shook his head. What was he thinking? If you bit somebody there, you might kill him. Instead he picked up Spooky’s limp arm and bit at the soft skin of the inner elbow, where Spooky had fixed.
The vein was already open, and the blood began to flow easily. From somewhere deep in his stupor, Spooky whimpered. A child’s sound. Nothing sucked harder, trembling. He’d never really tasted anyone else’s blood before. No more than a drop here and there, by accident, as when Laine had cut his finger in Jack’s car. That night seemed long ago. Now Spooky’s blood filled his mouth and ran down his chin mixed with spit, and the coppery sweetness of it mingled with the sweat from the biker’s skin, and Nothing pressed closer and licked the last of the blood away. He couldn’t take too much; he didn’t know how much would be dangerous. Never mind that he wanted to eat Spooky, to swallow him whole. The junk-laced blood tasted so good, so pure.
It hadn’t lasted long enough. He leaned against the vault looking at Spooky. Spooky’s hair drifted across his face, stirred by the wind.
It might rain again. Nothing picked up the leather jacket and carefully covered Spooky with it. He knew he couldn’t stay here until the biker came to. He might notice the fresh wound. And Spooky would probably beat the shit out of him. Nothing looked at the slack face one more time and touched his fingertip to Spooky’s tired lips. Then he walked away from the graveyard and headed for the road again.
Maybe it was the effect of the heroin, but what he had done did not seem strange to him. Erotic, yes; sneaky and a little mean, yes—but not strange. He had wanted the blood. He had even been hungry for it. And it had made him feel better, had settled his stomach, just as the albino’s sperm had.
The first spatters of rain started coming down ten minutes later. The cars still went implacably by. Nothing’s wet hair fell in his face. The rain came down harder, colder. He was almost ready to turn around and go back to Spooky—the motorcycle wouldn’t offer any shelter, but maybe they could hole up in the vault—when the black van came thundering down the road.
It was dingy and dusty, black going gray. The back window was covered with stickers and decals. As the van passed him, Nothing caught a glimpse of several legends half-obscured by mud and dirt: PHOTUS/FETUS/VATOS, in dripping red letters; PARTY TILL YOU PUKE; BAUHAUS, with the sketchy face that was the band’s logo. And he thought he saw one that said JESUS SAVES and another that read IF YOU DON’T LIKE MY DRIVING, DIAL 1-800-EAT-SHIT.
Then the van jolted into reverse and pulled up next to him. Three heads swivelled to look at Nothing, three clumps of hair, three faces defined in blots of dark makeup. Their hands clawed at the windows, and their mouths opened, laughing, and for a moment Nothing thought they would drive away and leave him staring after the van, his foot already on the asphalt, his skin ready for warmth. But then the passenger door opened and one of the figures swayed toward him, spat hair out of its mouth, and said, “Hi. Want a ride?”
The air inside the van was as hot and wet as a kiss, and the sweet scent of cheap wine was so strong he could taste it. “I’m Twig,” said the driver. His voice was low and amused, and his sidelong smile was as quick and sharp as a blade. “The bum here is Molochai. And the pretty one in the back, that’s Zillah.”
As the van started up again with a jolt, Nothing crouched next to the gearshift and studied his new companions. Twig was fox-faced, with eyes like chips o
f night. Molochai’s features were more blunt, his smile more babyish. But there seemed to be some invisible bond between them. They laughed at the same time; their gestures mirrored each other.
Right now they were involved in some long meaningless argument about a drink they had invented—strawberry wine and chocolate milk, Nothing gathered after a moment. Twig steered the van with one hand and swatted at Molochai with the other. Molochai swiped back at Twig with grubby fists, then passed him a bottle of wine. Twig sucked at the bottle. Wine ran down his chin, and they giggled wildly as the van swerved across the center line.
Nothing crawled into the back of the van. The ceiling and walls were decorated with more stickers and decals and Magic Marker graffiti. Overlying it all was a pattern of large dark stains like some kind of cancer.
The third occupant of the van—Zillah—lay stretched out on a mattress where the dark stains were even more profuse. Zillah had an androgynous, perfect face and a ponytail tied back by a purple silk scarf. Wisps of hair escaped the ponytail, framing that astonishing face, those stunning eyes green as limes. From the sleeves of an oversized black jacket emerged strong graceful hands with long nails, nails filed sharp and painted glossy black. Nothing twined his own fingers together, trying to hide his chipped polish job.
Beneath the skin of Zillah’s hands was a delicate purple tracery of veins. Nothing thought again of the heroin he had shot up, the drug still coursing through him. Then he looked away from the strong veined hands, up into Zillah’s eyes. And Nothing felt himself falling into a green sea.
“Hello,” said Zillah. The voice was soft, a little husky, razor-edged with amusement. Surely Zillah was used to being stared at, used to taking strangers’ breath away.
“Hello,” said Nothing. His voice wasn’t working very well.
Zillah lit a tiny pipe carved in the shape of an ebony rose and passed it to Nothing. The substance in the bowl was dark, sticky.
When Nothing sucked at the pipe, a sweet strange taste came into his mouth. It was like smoking incense. “What is it?” he gasped, trying to hold the smoke in.
Zillah gave him an evil, heartstopping smile. “Opium.”
Two new drugs in two hours. Nothing thought he could get to like hitchhiking. He lit the pipe again. With the next drag he became aware of Zillah’s eyes still on him, felt that green light blazing along the lines of his body. But when he looked up, what he saw was Zillah’s mouth: lips parted, the pink tip of a tongue caught between sharp teeth. And then Zillah’s hands were on him, drawing him toward that mouth. He wondered whether he might fall in and lie on Zillah’s tongue until Zillah swallowed him down.
“You are delicious,” Zillah told him after they had kissed.
“So are you,” Nothing answered, and his heart contracted. He had never felt so far away from home, or so glad to be there.
“You’re bewitching.”
“Bewitch me,” Nothing managed to say, and then Zillah was sucking at his mouth again. Nothing slipped his hands inside the baggy black jacket, under the soft shirt. When he felt the rings through Zillah’s nipples, his eyes widened a little—this was a wilder crowd than he was used to. Not that he was complaining.
Zillah’s teeth were at his throat, biting hard enough to hurt, then seeming to hesitate and release his skin an instant before drawing blood. He had made out with virtual strangers before—among his friends back home this was almost as fashionable as bisexuality—but he had never done it with anyone half as beautiful as Zillah.
There was an explosion of loud laughter from the front seat. Zillah was whispering something in Nothing’s ear. The words were jumbled, but Zillah’s voice was as smooth as Kahlua with cream, and the junk in Nothing’s blood made him passive. His body felt heavy and very warm. He lay back, not knowing what Zillah wanted to do to him, not caring.
Later, he could only remember trying to raise his hands, wanting to push Zillah’s head away from his chest because Zillah was biting his nipples too hard. But he could not raise his hands, could not move them at all, so he lay back and concentrated on enjoying the pain. It was easy. He had been doing it for so long.
“I guess we could take you to Missing Mile,” said Twig, trying to focus on Nothing’s face. “We’re headed for New Orleans. We’re going to see our friend there.”
New Orleans! That sounded good too. Nothing had never realized how many places there were to go. You could spend your whole life going from place to place, seeing everything and never getting sick of it. That was exactly how Zillah and the others seemed to spend their time. The piles of clothes and bottles and the heavy, almost meaty smell made him think they must live in the van. Again, he wasn’t complaining. The smell did not seem unpleasant to him, and the idea of life in a travelling caravan was as glamorous as anything Nothing had ever dreamed of.
“Who’s your friend in New Orleans?” Nothing asked. But Twig didn’t answer at all, and Molochai only mumbled “Chrissy” through his mouthful of chocolate cupcake and washed down the sweet stickiness with a swig of strawberry wine. Nothing turned to Zillah, wanting to ask about New Orleans, but Zillah met Nothing’s mouth with his own, his tongue flickering in and out like a snake’s.
Nothing clung to the edge, teetering happily. He was laboring under the influence of more drugs than he’d ever had all at once before. He wasn’t exactly drunk, and he wasn’t exactly high; he simply floated. Fucked up, Jack would have said—in that other world, in that other life. Just plain ol’ fucked up.
Zillah had claimed him immediately, which scared him a little and excited him a lot. Zillah was a rougher and more thorough lover than any of the inexperienced kids back home. He had a purple, gold, and green streak in his hair—he said they’d been in New Orleans for Mardi Gras a while back—and he teased the skin of Nothing’s stomach with it, flicked it over the ridges of Nothing’s hipbones. Molochai and Twig stared at them, then laughed and opened another bottle of wine.
An hour ago, sometime after midnight, Twig had slumped over the wheel, and Molochai had had to grab it and steer them away from the guardrail. Now they were parked in a field somewhere in southern Virginia, or maybe already in North Carolina.
Nothing sat up and cleared a spot on the foggy window with the sleeve of his raincoat. He saw rows and rows of stunted tobacco outside. The window was cold against his hand. He put his cheek on the glass and realized how hot his face was, how hot his whole body was.
Then his stomach convulsed, and he fumbled at the door handle. Molochai said, “Just puke on the floor,” but Nothing fell out of the van and rolled over the crackling dead tobacco leaves and vomited copiously on the frosty earth. He choked, spat, felt steam from his vomit wash over his face. He tasted fried chicken, strawberry wine, bile. Dimly he became aware that Zillah was holding him, that Zillah’s hands were smoothing his hair back from his burning face.
Zillah bent to Nothing’s lips and licked away the sour sticky spit that webbed them, tenderly forced Nothing’s mouth open, kissed Nothing full and deep.
“I love you,” Nothing told Zillah before he knew what he was going to say. But Zillah only looked at him with those glowing green eyes, and Nothing thought he saw a touch of amusement there.
Back in the van, Nothing expected howls of derision; in this crowd throwing up surely meant you were a pussy. But Molochai and Twig didn’t laugh at him. They were snuggled down on the mattress, clutching each other like children. Nothing lit a Lucky but wrinkled his nose and pitched the cigarette out the window after two drags.
“Still sick?” said Molochai. “I bet we can make you better.” A glance passed between the three of them. Molochai dug under the mattress and pulled out a wine bottle half full of a dark liquid, ruby-brown and thicker than wine. The outside of the bottle was covered with dried smears and fingerprints of the liquid. “Drink this. It’ll fix you up.”
“If it doesn’t kill you,” Twig added with his quick blade of a smile.
Nothing took the bottle, uncapped it, lifted it
to his mouth, and sipped. There was some kind of liquor—vodka or gin, something oily and stinging—but mingled with that was another taste, dark and sweet and a little decayed. Familiar. He brought the bottle down, blinked, then lifted it again and drank deep. Molochai, Twig, and Zillah watched him. All three sat very still, seeming to hold their breath. Nothing stopped drinking, licked his lips, and smiled.
“I don’t think drinking blood is so weird,” he said.
At first they only looked surprised. Molochai and Twig were perhaps a little disappointed; Nothing thought he saw a faint feral glow fading out of their eyes. Zillah raised his eyebrows at them, lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. The air in the van was thick, tense; something seemed to be passing between them, something Nothing could not read. Then Zillah laid his hand over Nothing’s and pushed the bottle to Nothing’s lips again.
They passed it around, drinking until the insides of their mouths were stained rotten red. Nothing no longer felt sick. He was giddy with joy, and when Zillah grabbed him again, he kissed back hard, then hooked his fingers through Zillah’s nipple rings and tugged gently.
“Do that again, about three times as hard,” sighed Zillah.
Nothing complied, dizzy with arousal. He could not have imagined a better lover if he had been given the blueprint.
He didn’t know where the blood had come from, whether it was something they used to scare outsiders or a taste they genuinely cultivated, and right now he didn’t care. Anyone who wanted to play vampire was all right by him.
Everyone passed out sometime before dawn. Nothing slept close by Zillah, his smooth cheek resting against Zillah’s arm. Zillah watched him in the darkness, studied the lashes lying smudgily against the pale skin, the sweet lips parted in sleep, the breath from them rich with wine and blood. He brushed a strand of dirty black hair away from the boy’s brow, traced the shape of the boy’s face with his forefinger. It was a fine clear face, the delicate yet strong bone structure just beginning to emerge from the mask of childhood. He was perhaps the most attractive hitchhiker they had ever picked up. And what was so strange about him?
Lost Souls Page 14