The Empty Ones

by Robert Brockway

  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.”

  “I’m done running,” I said.

  Jackie caught my eyes. Her whole body shook like a resonating fork. But she set her jaw and nodded. “Where do we go?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  1978. Purfleet Rifle Ranges, England. Randall.

  With every new gash on Meryll’s body, the Unnoticeables clapped, stamped their feet, whistled, and howled. Gus was hamming it up on stage like a pretentious asshole. He presented the bone to the crowd, made a big show of sharpening it, then cut her and took an exaggerated bow.

  Jerk-off.

  “What the hell are we gonna do about this?” I asked Carey.

  He didn’t answer. I turned to look at him, but it was too dark to see. I patted the ground around where I thought he was. Came up empty.

  “Where’d Carey go?” I asked Tub.

  “What am I, his nanny? Shut up. I’m thinking.”

  Doesn’t seem like that’s your strong suit.

  I thought about saying it out loud, but there was no point in antagonizing the guy right now.

  Then I thought about it again.

  “Doesn’t seem like that’s your strong suit,” I said.

  He grunted.

  Another ribbon of red flowed down Meryll’s arm. Cheering. Hooting. Honking.

  Honking?

  A pair of lights jumped the hill to our left. One shattered and went out when the wheels hit the ground, but that was fine—I could still make out the car by the light of the flames.

  It was the cab we’d jacked and driven here. And the whole front end of it was on fire.

  I started laughing. It was beyond idiotic, torching our only ride out of here. Suppose we actually rescued Meryll? What then? We’re stuck hoofing it through miles of empty marsh with a hundred Unnoticeables behind us?

  But you’ve gotta give it to Carey: as a distraction, it was very distracting.

  I figured he would be sneaking around behind Gus right now, hoping to cut Meryll free while they were still dealing with the flaming wreckage hurtling toward the crowd. Then the flaming wreckage veered sharply to the right, steering toward the nearest huddle of Unnoticeables.

  You give Carey way too much credit.

  He was driving the car. He lit the fucking thing on fire first, then he got inside, started it up, jumped a hill, and was driving it straight into a crowd of monsters.

  It’s like the asshole has never even heard of “Step 2.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  1978. Purfleet Rifle Ranges, England. Carey.

  “HAVE LOVE,” I screamed out the open window, “OH BABY, WILL TRAVEL!”

  Man, this is how you have to listen to The Sonics: on a shitty car radio, the volume turned up way beyond what the speakers can handle. Every little pop and hiss rattling the rearview mirror. You need to hear the cracks in Roslie’s voice when he screams; those cracks are goddamned important.

  I drummed my fists on the steering wheel, hit that post-chorus “WOOP,” then veered into a cluster of faceless assholes.

  I didn’t have enough time to really focus on them so I could make out their features before I hit them, but I bet they looked surprised.

  The curtain of flames parted slightly right where the hood peaked, forming a kind of targeting sight. I lined it up with the crude stage and gunned it. Just before I hit, I pulled the door latch and fell out, only mildly aflame. I was still rolling from the impact, so I figured that would probably put out the fire.

  All told, this was going way better than I expected.

  The cab hit a small mound of dirt just in front of the stage, and went a little airborne. The grill caught Gus right in the crotch with a couple tons of flaming steel, plowed straight through the rest of the cheap plywood, and went ghost-riding off into the darkened marsh. The flames grew more and more distant, until they were no bigger th
an a campfire. With no more stage to support her, Meryll hung limply from her wrists. Her head was down. Her eyes were closed. Her shirt was torn and soaked with blood.

  I really hoped Meryll wasn’t dead, because then she would’ve missed how completely cool that was.

  TWENTY-THREE

  1978. Purfleet Rifle Ranges, England. Randall.

  Tub and I were surfing the wake of destruction. Small fires dotted the high spots, where the grass was still dry enough to burn. Crushed, burning, or crushed and burning Unnoticeables moaned and rolled on the ground in agony. Somewhere off in the shadows, I could feel, more than see movement. Something big and slow. Tidal.

  Carey had gotten the attention of the tar men.

  We reached the stage before the crowd could recover and close in on us. We could maybe even have slipped out into the dark and gotten away, if Carey hadn’t destroyed our getaway vehicle in the most beautifully stupid fashion imaginable.

  We’ll just have to improvise, like always. Too bad we’re so terrible at it.

  Carey was holding Meryll’s legs, trying to lift her up and over the branch she was hanging from. His hair was singed, parts of his jacket were melted, and clumps of muddy grass were embedded in his shoulder spikes, but he seemed mostly okay. Meryll sure didn’t. Looked like she’d dove headfirst into a pool of blood. Her hair stuck to her face. Her skin was pale, even for an English chick.

  “How’s Mary?” I said, jogging up behind Carey and helping him hoist.

  “Meryll, asshole,” he said.

  I know, man. Jesus, of course I know.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Is she dead, or what?”

  “I don’t know,” Carey said.

  One more big push and we had her hands up and over the end of the branch. Tub broke her fall, and laid her head on the ground. He put his ear to her mouth. Held his hand on her neck and pulled up her eyelids.

  “Barely,” he said. “I don’t think she’s going to—”

  He stopped, looked at her funny. He pawed at her neck, then held her wrist.

  He shook his head.

  A big emptiness hit me in the guts. Then a spark caught, and lit into fury. I ground my teeth so hard I tasted enamel. I wanted to wade out there and personally strangle every single faceless fuckhead I could wrap my hands around.

  Instead, I said, “No use crying over spilled milk. We need to get the hell out of here while we still can.”

  Carey glared at me, but he didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t really have the chance.

  The world behind us exploded. As bright as a lightning strike. I turned and stared into the ball of light hovering there. I saw something twist inside of it. I heard something that sounded like the beach—if the beach could scream.

  I grabbed Carey’s shoulder and pulled him toward the path that the car had cleared. The Unnoticeables were still reeling, so if there were no tar men lurking out there in the dark, we could …

  There were two fires out in the marsh now. One larger, and more distant than the other.… the car. One closer, and moving toward us.

  Gus.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  2013. Federal Highway 132D, Mexico. Kaitlyn.

  A pack of Unnoticeables stood guard around an old Volvo idling at the end of the alley. Meryll had Jackie drag Carey to the car, but she wasn’t managing it very well. I took his feet. He was trying to say something, but he couldn’t get the breath. He left a smear of red across the filthy asphalt. One of the Unnoticeables—I couldn’t master Carey’s trick for pushing past the blur and making out their features—opened the back door. Jackie shoved past him and hefted Carey in after her. I tucked his feet in, and huddled up next to him. Meryll took the passenger seat and made Jackie drive. The car ride was awkward, to say the least. Meryll refused to even talk to me, instead directing a stream of innocuous questions at Jackie.

  “You’re from LA, right?” Meryll would say, staring down at her chipped black nail polish.

  And Jackie would fire right back with, “Yeah, why? You thinking about breaking into the biz? You’d play a mean psycho bitch.”

  She did her best to keep up the banter, but every once in a while Meryll would hit her with a curve. “I can see where he touched you, after the birthday party. You’ve only been able to make friends with girls ever since.”

  Jackie didn’t have a clever response for that.

  We left Tulancingo behind and hit a long, straight stretch of empty highway. Sand, shrubs, and the moon. Hours passed. Meryll plugged in a series of battered cassette tapes, all plunky guitars and distortion and off-key yelling. Carey would have liked it, if he’d been conscious. Desert gave way to forest. Too dark to see, but you could feel the shift in the air, see the edges of it crowding the road. Meryll told Jackie to turn. A dirt road, divided into two tracks by waist-high weeds. The Volvo bottomed out at every bump. Carey groaned.

  After miles of creaks and sways, we pulled into a clearing. Meryll reached over and twisted the keys. The engine died, but the headlights stayed on: cookie cutters defining a pair of sharp circles, two patches of dense forest picked out of the darkness.

  Meryll and Jackie got out and started toward the tree line.

  “Hey!” I hollered after them. “I can’t lift Carey alone.”

  Jackie turned back.

  Meryll stared at her. “What’s your problem?” she asked.

  “What about Carey?” Jackie said.

  “I’ll send some of the beasties for him. He’ll definitely want to see this. Well, see it again, anyway.”

  She grabbed Jackie’s arm and shoved her toward the forest.

  What was I supposed to do? Wait here? Just sort of bundle in with Carey and wait for “the beasties,” whatever those are?

  “Hey,” I yelled after them, “I don’t know what to do here!”

  No response.

  The jungle sounded like a city street early in the morning. Distant honks, horns, chattering. All from unseen creatures out there in the dark.

  I didn’t have a flashlight. I couldn’t even see the path they’d taken, if they’d taken one.

  I shook Carey’s shoulder as much as I dared. He wheezed and rolled over onto his side.

  Well, at least he won’t choke to death on his own vomit. That’s probably an ever-present threat to his lifestyle.

  Somewhere far away, I heard an excited yell. Definitely human, or at least something trying to pass for it.

  I patted Carey down, hoping he maybe had a weapon hidden somewhere on him.

  No such luck. All I found was a battered and faded Zippo with a cartoon bumblebee on it. I took it. Maybe if Meryll stood still for long enough, I could singe her shirt before she killed me.

  Sight stopped at the edge of the headlights. Nothing but deep, unbroken black—the kind you forget exists, living in the city. No diffuse glow from distant streets, unseen factories, and passing cars. Just the two neatly delineated circles of light, and then a big, wet, blind expanse of jungle beyond. I headed off after Meryll and Jackie, sweeping my feet in front of me first to make sure I didn’t trip over a root or kick an alligator in the face or something.

  When I reached the tree line, I opened the lighter and flicked it on. The tiny flame was so pathetic against the massiveness of the surrounding dark that I actually felt bad for it. I crouched down and held it closer to the ground. I could only see a foot in front of me, but it would have to do.

  I crab-walked as fast as I could down a thin jungle path. I call it a path because the plants were slightly more trampled in the center than they were to either side of me. Whoever made it had only started coming here recently. After a while, I could see that the jungle around me wasn’t entirely dark. There were little glints of light between the trees, off in the distance.

  Fireflies, maybe?

  I kept focused on the patch of grass and broken branches directly below me. It was my whole world.

  This must be how a dachshund feels.

  I checked the fireflies agai
n. Tried to see if maybe my eyes had adjusted enough that I could see something by their light.

  Shit!

  I wasn’t paying attention. I held the lighter at the wrong angle and burned my hand. I dropped it on the ground somewhere, and it went out. I patted around. Branch. Wet thing. Slimy round thing. Moving thing.

  Oh god.

  Small, cool rectangle.

  I picked up the lighter and felt around for the flint.

  I looked out into the jungle again. No fireflies.

  … weird?

  I struck the flint. It sparked but didn’t light.

  The fireflies came back for an instant, then blinked out again.

  I flicked the lighter. Spark.

  Fireflies, then gone.

  I flicked it again and the flame caught. The fireflies stayed with me this time.

  Are they like, responding to the light? Do they think I’m a giant, stupid firefly just stumbling through the jungle or …

  No.

  They’re not fireflies. They’re just reflections, catching the light from the Zippo. They are thousands of reflections of my own meager flame, coming from thousands of brass gears floating out there in the darkness.

  The tar men.

  I am swimming in an ocean of them.

  I froze in place. My first instinct was to run, but where, and how? I’d run blindly into a tar man, or else I’d trip and break my neck, or I’d get lost in the jungle, then run into a tar man, then trip and break my neck. Stupidly, I thought about putting out the Zippo so they couldn’t see me.

  They don’t have eyes. Can they even see?

  If they could, I was a lighthouse out here. They had already seen me a long time ago. I watched the glints, hovering in the darkness. They were all pointed in my direction, but not moving toward it.

  There was nothing to do but press forward, and hope this path led to somewhere other than an embarrassing and untimely death. I willed one of my feet to move. After it refused with every ounce of resistance that a foot can muster, it eventually complied. I bent low. I watched the twelve-inch patch of light. I crab-walked through a sea of monsters.