The Empty Ones

by Robert Brockway

  “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.

  I knew we weren’t really here to see a band, drink some beers, and fuck in the bathrooms. We were here to kill—or, more likely, to die. But I could still feel that giddy excitement dancing around in my guts.

  The stage was low, narrow, and overflowing with instruments. The first band got on it, and cast out a wave of distortion and screaming. The crowd surged as one, bouncing and jostling. Not enough room to dance, not enough room to fight, so you gotta do a little of both. Tub was standing stock-still, surveying the room. Meryll wasn’t dancing, but she was returning the shoves eagerly enough. But me and Randall had the same idea: We hopped and hollered like assholes. There’s only so much fun you can have before you’re erased from the face of this planet. What’s the point of being scared and grim all the time? If I gotta die in twenty minutes, I’m sure as shit going to spend that time doing something fun.

  The other bands passed in a blur of noise, like a series of violent car crashes set to a beat. I wasn’t sure where my beers came from—maybe Randall was getting them for me, or maybe I was just reflexively stealing them from lesser punks when the opportunity presented itself—but I drank them all the same. I jumped and I wiggled and I punched and I groped an ass or two and it was fantastic.

&
nbsp; And then it was time.

  The Talentless took the stage and the room went crazy, but in an orderly fashion. The crowd’s screams sounded like background chatter in a movie. Believable, but only if you didn’t pay attention to it. There was a guy a few feet to my left—“a guy” is about as specific as I can be; his features slipped out of focus when you looked too hard at ’em—hollering himself hoarse. But it was all the same refrain: “Woo! Fuck yeah! All right! Woo! Fuck yeah! All right!” A girl in the front row was screeching wordlessly, but the tone of it looped. Low- to high-pitched, little warble in the middle, deep breath, start again. I saw the blonde with the umbrella from outside. She lifted up her shirt to flash her tits and dance around. She pulled her shirt back down, waited a moment, then repeated the movement exactly.

  I’m not complaining about it—I’m just saying it ain’t human.

  A few of the normals in the crowd were cheering too—mostly younger girls—but the rest looked a little unsettled. They knew something was off about the vibe, but they couldn’t place it. Probably thought the coke was turning on them, or chalked it up to déjà vu.

  Then he was there: Gus.

  Slavic cheekbones. Hooded eyes. Long, greasy blond hair and carefully nurtured stubble. Shirtless. Not exactly muscular, but so skinny he could pass for it. Faded black jeans pulled too low, so you could see his pubic bone. He stumbled on the stage, leaned heavily on the mic, pantomiming a dope high.

  “What’s the word, London?” he mumbled into the microphone and laughed to himself. The chick in front of me visibly swooned. Hand to the head, swaying on her feet.

  What a dick.

  “We’re The Talentless,” the guitar player yelled into his mic, “and this song’s called ‘Fuck Your TV.’”

  Well, at least they’re terrible. That’s good. I won’t have the early breakup of a decent band hanging over my head after I kill these sons of bitches.

  I started pushing my way toward the stage, but Tub grabbed my arm with fingers like old wood and yanked me back. “The bloody hell d’you think you’re doing?” he shout-whispered into my ear.

  “I’m gonna go try to murder that band,” I said, confused. “Isn’t that the plan?”

  “Right now?” Meryll was leaning into the conversation too, all of us yelling over the distortion in the quietest way we could manage.

  “Why, you wanna listen to the rest of their set?” I said. “What’s the problem?”

  “How were you planning on doing it?” Tub asked.

  “I was gonna feed the guitar player his guitar, strangle the drummer, then shove the mic stand up Gus’s ass and parade him around like a dipshit-on-a-stick.”

  “What about the bass player?” Randall asked, all of us now huddled in a circle, scream-shouting in the most conspicuous way possible.

  “I forgot about the bass player,” I said.

  “Everybody does,” Randall said.

  Meryll laughed.

  “Look around, you bloody idiot.” Tub nodded at the crowd. “There’s a dozen Unnoticeables, three or four Empty Ones, and that’s not counting Gus and the band. The last time you tried to take out so much as one of the bastards, you got half your friends killed.”

  Punch him in the neck. Bite his nose. Rockette-kick him in the dick.

  I took a second to calm myself. “Don’t fucking talk about that. You weren’t there.”

  “I’m sorry, boyo,” Tub said. “Truly, that was too far. But we can’t take them here.”

  “So what—”

  The music stopped. Scattered applause. Randall clapped sarcastically. I’m not sure how he did that, or what exactly it was that differentiated it from a normal clap, but he pulled it off. The swooning chick in front of us turned to glare at him.

  “This one’s called ‘I’m a Punk and I’m OK,’” the guitar player announced, and the tuneless distortion resumed.

  “These fuckers need to die based on their song titles alone,” Randall said.

  We all nodded agreement.

  “But not now,” Tub said. “We’ll tail ’em after the show, find somewhere quiet where we can even the odds a bit. Then Meryll does her work.”

  I wasn’t sure about that.

  Meryll didn’t look like she was, either.

  * * *

  The Talentless played twenty songs in thirty-five minutes. They played “Spit On My Love” (the swooning chick practically fainted when Gus pointed at her while singing the chorus), “Don’t Listen to Daddy,” and “I Drink Alcohol.” It was like somebody gave an alien a drunken synopsis of punk rock and really emphasized that musical talent was not necessary or even welcome. A couple of the normal girls in the crowd screamed themselves ragged when the set ended. The Unnoticeables repeated their scripted cheers, and the rest of the crowd left shaking their heads—unsure about what they just saw, but sure they didn’t like it.

  The Talentless headed backstage, and we ducked out of the club to meet them in the alley. Faceless roadies loaded gear into a filthy white van with busted headlights, the body panels so dented they looked like crumpled tin foil. We were hiding in a crowd of punks milling about on the street. That directionless haze after a show, coming down off the adrenaline high, nobody sure of what comes next. Everybody debating whether or not they have enough money to go get properly drunk in the pubs, or if they should just stand here on the street and share a bottle.

  Most share the bottle.

  I slyly inserted myself into the drinking circle with the lines “Helluva show, right?” “What are we doing next?” and “Give me that bottle, motherfucker.”

  Tub and Meryll were keeping their eyes on Gus. Randall was keeping his eyes on Meryll’s ass.

  I hit the bottle so hard the guy next to me objected.

  I practically threw it at him, and went to stand beside Randall.

  I had a delicate subject in mind, and I wasn’t sure about the best way to approach it.

  I finally went with: “What’s your fucking problem?”

  “What?” He broke his hypno-gaze on Meryll’s butt, and looked at me.

  “You always do this shit. I like a chick, and you move in immediately.”

  “You like her?”

  “Well, yeah—I’ve been trying to fuck her ever since I met her.”

  “You do that to literally every girl you see.”

  “Yeah, but with this one, I mean it.”

  “The hell was I supposed to know that?”

  “I don’t know, we’re friends. You’re supposed to pick up on my subtleties.”

  “You don’t have any.”

  “Fine, but I’m into her. Now you know, so back off.”

  He gave it a moment’s thought, then said, “Nah.”

  “Nah?”

  “Nah, she doesn’t seem into you. She seems into me.”

  “Well, of course she’s not into me right now, but I fucking grow on people, all right?”

  “Like mold.”

  I gave him a solid wanking motion.

  “Listen,” Randall said, and fixed me with his “I’m serious now” expression. “The way I figure it, I could back off, but she’s still probably not going to have sex with you. Agreed?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  I’m an optimist, but I’m not deluded. Besides, “probably” doesn’t mean “definitely not.”

  “Or I could not back off,” Randall continued, “and she will probably have sex with me. Agreed?”

  “Probably,” I stressed.

  “So we do it your way, and nobody is having sex. We do it my way, and at least I’m having sex. Probably her, too. That’s a net positive.”

  “I…”

  Shit. The man’s logic is flawless.

  “But I really want to screw her,” I protested.

  I knew it was useless.

  “I know, man.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I want to win the lotto and buy a solid gold Buick, but that’s just not the way the world works.”

  “Fine. You don’t have
to back off, but I’m not backing off either,” I said.

  “That’s okay.” Randall laughed. “I don’t think that matters.”

  He sidled up alongside Meryll and Tub, who were parked at the far end of the punk circle. He touched her forearm to get her attention, and she smiled at him.

  Randall’s a pretty good guy. I mean, he’s still a son of a bitch and I’m still not getting laid, but at least he puts forth the effort to make me feel better about it. That’s what friends do.

  Tub turned and motioned to me. I joined the huddle.

  “There.” He pointed.

  Gus and the rest of The Talentless filed out of the back door into the alley. They were backlit by a bare lightbulb putting out roughly the wattage of a potato, but I could still tell him by his silhouette. Long, lean, moving like thick fluid in that heroin drift. He looked around. Satisfied that nobody important was watching, he let the junkie fugue drop away. He stood up unnaturally straight, head held at an odd angle to his neck. His arms went slack by his sides. Gus pointed back at the van and said something. The gesture was spider-quick. I didn’t actually see him move. One second his arm was by his side, then it was held out, then by his side again. Like frames skipping in a movie. The roadies nodded at him, then one broke off to get in the van. It turned over with a sound like a sick bird singing. The headlights flashed, dimmed, then went out. The driver turned it over again. The headlights were even dimmer this time. He tried it one more time, and they didn’t come on at all.

  Dead.

  Gus’s silhouette clenched, twisting up into an angry crouch, fists balled, head twitching. Then he went slack again. He turned and began walking down the alley, away from us. The other Talentless followed him, leaving the unnoticeable roadies between us and them.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “What?” Tub asked.

  “The fucking van wouldn’t start! Now we gotta get past the roadies, or we’re gonna lose them.”