by Dan Wells
“You can’t go back.”
Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I know.” She stared at the sky for a moment longer, then looked at me and wiped her eyes. “Anyway. We’re standing in the middle of the road in the middle of the night, with backpacks that I assume hold all our worldly possessions. Safe to assume we just got here?”
I nodded. “We hitchhiked.”
“So now what?”
I stared at her helplessly. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“You know what,” I said. “You…” I sighed, feeling like every word was a struggle. “I couldn’t let Brooke get taken over by a demon, and now…”
“I’m not a demon.”
You’re the only person I ever loved, I thought, but I couldn’t say it. I’d only ever said it to her corpse. “You’re one of the most important people in my life,” I said at last. “I want her to be herself, but I want you more than anything, and that’s … this is too much.”
“I won’t be here forever,” said Marci.
“You think that makes this better?”
“We can’t just stand here in the street all night,” said Marci. “I’m guessing we don’t have a place to stay, so do we just … find one? Look for a motel, start knocking on doors—”
“We can’t afford a motel,” I said quickly. “We stayed in one two nights ago.” One hundred and four dollars and eighty-six cents. The money we’d spent that night could have fed us for a week. I bit my lip, pained by the thought of Marci sleeping in the dirt, and tried to talk myself into splurging again. This was a special occasion, right? But no. At the rate Brooke flipped personalities, Marci might not even be around until morning. I rubbed my eyes and pointed toward the empty drive-in theater. “I was going to try that, but if you want to head further into town maybe we can find a … I don’t know. A YMCA or something.”
“In a place this small?” asked Marci. “Come on, John, I’m, like, the outdoor queen. We have a tent?”
“Just open air.”
“Sweet,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
We walked to the gate of the drive-in, and I couldn’t help but study the way she moved. Was she walking like Marci? That slight sway of her hips—was that Marci or had Brooke always walked like that? In my memory Marci would swagger around, sensual and confident. Was that gone now, replaced by Brooke’s physical mannerisms? Or had I exaggerated it all in my mind, remembering a girl who would never walk anywhere, ever again?
The gate was locked and not especially climbable, so we followed the fence around, looking for an easier access point. Despite Marci’s statement that it was the middle of the night, it was only 9:30 or 10 at the latest; if the theater were still in use, there’d have been a movie playing. We found a pair of broken boards in the wooden wall and slipped through to find a wide, flat field full of four-foot metal poles, parking spaces between them. The top of each pole held a small speaker on a curled cord—or at least they did back when the drive-in was still operating; now most of them were broken, dangling, or missing altogether. The inside of the wooden fence was covered with graffiti—no murals or gang signs, just scrawled names and cuss words. The ground was littered with broken bottles.
“Looks like it’s been abandoned for a while,” said Marci.
“And we’re not the only ones to use it since,” I said, looking at the garbage. “Let’s hope we’re the only ones who use it tonight.”
A low brick building stood in the back, just inside the gate, and I walked toward it. “Careful of the glass, Boy Dog,” I said. We walked silently, worried about disturbing other squatters, but I couldn’t imagine a little place like Dillon had a lot of those. The building was closed and locked. It had a metal door, and a wide metal plate with hinges at the top, which I assumed used to swing open for the concession window. The short wall closest to the gate had a ticket window; its glass was broken and the opening was blocked by metal bars. I rattled the padlocks, but they were all solid. “We need a—”
“Whooooooo!”
The loud holler soared across the empty lot, and I looked up just in time to see a glass bottle smash into the ground. Someone had thrown it over the wall, and a figure was coming in through the same fence hole we’d used.
“Stay quiet,” I said, but Boy Dog barked at the intruder. “Dammit.”
“Dog!” shouted a voice, and the figure by the hole stood up abruptly, looking for the animal.
“Since when do they have a guard dog?” asked another voice, and another figure climbed through the hole.
“Get behind the building,” I whispered, but the first figure pointed to us.
“It’s not a guard dog, it’s just more people. Hey, people!” He waved, and a third person came through the hole. “You got any booze?”
“All three male,” said Marci, though I couldn’t see any of them clearly. “Teenage boys, it looks like.”
“Be careful,” I said, watching the figures approach. We were trapped, though they didn’t appear to be intentionally cutting us off—as quickly as my paranoia had thought “someone followed us,” I discarded the idea. This was just three teenage guys out for a good time.
Though that could be just as dangerous.
6
Boy Dog barked again, and Marci whispered under her breath, “I don’t like this.”
The three boys walked closer, coming slowly into focus. I guessed they were about our age, probably seniors in high school. The smell of alcohol was strong.
“You guys from Crosby?” asked one of them. He wore a baseball cap, though I didn’t recognize the logo.
I remembered the map I’d used to find Dillon; Crosby was the next town over. “Just passing through,” I said.
“I know Ms. Glassman has family in town,” said the second boy, brushing his long blond hair out of his face. “You guys, like, grandkids or something?”
“Glassman doesn’t have kids,” said Ball Cap. “How’s she gonna have grandkids?”
“She doesn’t have legitimate kids,” said Blondie, “that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have any. It’s like the twenty-first century, man, get out of the dark ages.”
“You’re homeless,” said the third boy. It wasn’t a question, but an observation. Despite the summer warmth he was wearing a dark jacket, though I couldn’t tell what color it was.
“Not homeless,” said Marci carefully, “but you’re right that we don’t have a place to stay. You know of anything here in town?”
“You can stay at my place,” said Blondie, and he grinned wickedly. “I’ll even let you stay in my bed.”
I imagined myself stabbing him in the neck, right under the chin, behind the jaw and up through the skull into his brain. I twisted the knife to the side, and felt the crack of the bones. It was against my rules to entertain those kinds of thoughts and I knew I should push it out of my mind, but this was different—this was a direct threat to Marci, to Brooke, to the two most important people in my life.
“We’re fine,” I said. But I let my right hand hang loosely at my side, ready to stoop and pull my combat knife from where I kept it strapped to my shin, under my pant leg.
“Were you going to sleep here?” asked Ball Cap. “Dude, that’s … that’s kind of awesome. Are you, like, runaways or something?”
“Just travelers,” I said. “Graduated high school last year, didn’t want to start college yet, so we’re just backpacking around for a while.”
“Most people do that in Europe,” said Ball Cap.
“I don’t like flying,” I said.
“This is crazy!” laughed Blondie. “Can you imagine going on vacation to friggin’ Dillon? That’s got to be the worst decision anyone’s ever made.” He jerked his chin at Marci. “Trip not really turning out as awesome as he said it would, am I right?”
Marci smiled. “Actually, Dillon was my idea. I picked it right off the map. Thought it looked cute.”
“Cute,” said Blondie, looking at Ball Cap. “We’r
e cute.” He turned back to Marci. “I won’t say it was the best decision of your life, but we can show you around if you want. We have a bowling alley, and the guy doesn’t card for beer.”
I had forgotten how smoothly Marci could manipulate people, boys especially. She knew how social interactions worked in a way that I had never understood and still didn’t; she was as good at social deception as Brooke was bad at it. Blondie watched her expectantly. In one sentence Marci had turned his mocking joke into an offer of help.
But Blondie’s help was the last thing I wanted right now. “We’re fine,” I said again. How could we get them to leave, or how could we leave without being followed?
“My name is Corey,” said the boy in the jacket. He pointed his thumb at Ball Cap and Blondie in turn. “This is Paul and Derek.” He looked around at the empty lot, then back at me. “We don’t get a lot of new people in town.”
“I’m Marci,” said Marci, and this is—”
“David,” I said, cutting her off. Marci’s name was fine, but Brooke and I were wanted by the FBI. David was the first name that came to mind, though I realized almost instantly that I had gotten it from David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam. Was that too much of a clue?
I was being paranoid.
My hand itched for the knife.
“So,” said Ball Cap—Paul, the guy said his name was—“this is fascinating to me. You’re just, what, hitchhiking around the country? Were you planning to sleep here?”
“That’s what we were hoping,” said Marci, “but there’s an awful lot of broken glass.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Blondie. Derek. “This place is a pretty common hangout for the kids at school—kind of hidden, kind of isolated. Not everyone’s as cool as the dude at the bowling alley, so this is a great place to get drunk.” He leered at Marci. “A lot of guys bring their girlfriends here too, it’s kind of our Make-out Point.”
“It’s been a really long day,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Do you guys mind—”
“The building is full of broken glass, too,” said Paul, walking to the barred window. “Probably a couple of inches of it; people chuck bottles through the bars all the time.”
“Come on,” said Derek, “it’s early! It’s barely ten o’clock! Corey’s got more beer in his bag, let’s make this a party!”
I looked at Corey, standing so quietly in the back, and realized that he had a backpack I hadn’t seen, hidden in the silhouette of his jacket. He stood a moment, watching us, then slowly shrugged the pack off and handed it to Derek. Was he looking at me or at Marci? Whichever it was, his eyes didn’t leave us for a second.
“Beer!” shouted Derek, and he cracked one open, sucking the suds off the top of the can when it foamed. Paul took another can from the pack and offered it to Marci, but she declined. He held it out to me, and I shook my head.
“Suit yourself,” he said, and he cracked it open.
Derek was chugging his entire can, which was now sticking straight up in the air above his mouth. He gulped it down loudly, then tilted his head down to look at us, smiling broadly. He belched and threw the can to the side, then went immediately for another.
I kept having to remind myself, over and over, that they didn’t mean us harm, that they were just three dumb guys out looking for fun in a small town. I’d grown up in a small town and I knew how boring they could get. Drinking stolen beer at the old drive-in might literally be the most interesting part of their entire week—or least it would have been, if we weren’t here. We were a novelty. Given the opportunity, they’d hang out with us all night. I couldn’t allow that, but I didn’t know how to stop it without starting a fight.
“It’s no fun unless you drink with us,” said Paul, sipping his beer more moderately.
“But they’re not with us,” said Corey. He didn’t seem to speak often, but when he did it was simple and to the point. “They’re just here, purely by chance, and tomorrow they’ll be somewhere else.”
“All the more reason to drink right now,” said Derek, opening his second can. “Man, I wish I was like you guys—free to go anywhere, do anything, just screw all the responsibilities and jobs and whatever the hell other stuff the rest of us are stuck with.” He took a long pull on his beer, then pointed to me with his fingers wrapped around the can. “I bet you just steal stuff all the time, right? Like, whatever you need—pies off windowsills and Doritos off the shelf at a truck stop—because who’s gonna find you? They look up and you’re gone, and you’re never going to see those idiots again.”
“And no one ever sees him again,” said Corey. “Or her.”
They’re not here to hurt us, I told myself again.
“That’s a good point,” said Paul, his speech slightly slurred. Either he’d already been drinking or he didn’t hold his liquor well. “How does this work, like, mechanically? Do you choose where you go? Darcy said she picked this place on purpose—”
“Marci,” said Derek.
“Marci,” Paul corrected himself. “Why come here instead of just going where the cars take you? Like, how does hitchhiking work? Do you ask them to take you somewhere?”
“Have a beer,” said Derek, handing another can to Marci.
“No thank you,” she said again. Her voice was thin and even; she was as uncomfortable as I was.
“Come on,” said Derek, “a hot girl like you needs to loosen up.” He stepped toward her. “Let me help you take that backpack off, it looks way heavy.”
I stepped forward quickly, inserting myself between them, and Derek backed off, holding up his hands in innocence.
“Sorry, wow, touched a nerve there. Didn’t mean to move in on your girlfriend.”
“Please,” Marci whispered, and I knew she was talking to me. Don’t start anything.
“Do you coordinate with somebody?” asked Paul, oblivious to the mounting tension. “Like, does somebody know what route you’re taking? Or is it literally just ‘go where the wind takes you’? Like, does anyone even know where you are?”
“I doubt it,” said Corey.
“Then what the hell is your problem?” demanded Derek, suddenly angry. Hadn’t she gotten him on our side? Weren’t they trying to impress her? Or had they already given up impressing her, and now it was time to punish her for not being interested?
Derek waved his hand at us, taking in our backpacks, our clothes, everything we had in the world. “A couple of homeless nobodies,” he said, “sleeping in the friggin’ Movie Time Theater, and you think you’re better than us? Can’t have a drink with us, can’t even talk to us? You act like you can’t wait for us to leave.”
“Can you blame him?” asked Corey, and this time I knew he was looking at Marci.
Paul giggled, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, as alert to the sudden danger as I would be to a cold breeze.
“Abso-damn-lutely!” shouted Derek, wagging his finger at me before taking another swig from his can. “You’re not an a-hole, you’re just trying to get lucky. You were hoping to tap this chick right here in the theater, while your friggin’ dog watches, and now you can’t because we’re all up in your love nest.” He threw the second beer can and opened a third.
“What’ll you give us if we leave?” asked Paul.
Derek looked at Brooke’s body. “What’ll you give us?”
“I think it’s time for you to go,” said Marci.
“Oh man,” said Derek. “She wants it too. Can’t wait to be alone. Maybe we’ll hang around and listen.”
“Or watch,” said Paul.
Corey was simply smiling, saying nothing.
I could feel my anger growing as they talked, incensed at the way they looked at the Marci, the way they leered and suggested and filled the air with filth. I wanted to hurt them, to make them scream in pain and terror, but then suddenly all my anger was gone, replaced by a cold, clinical calm. I had killed several Withered in the past few years, but only one human. I’d dreamed about it my whole life,
or at least since the first time I made the connection between death and the dead. We don’t always think about that connection, as obvious as it sounds, because death is so common in movies and games and stuff, and so sterilized, but it’s like meat: there comes a time when you realize that bacon, for example, is literally the sliced up flesh of a living thing, an animal that used to walk around and do things and enjoy things, and now it’s dead and you cut it into pieces. The body in the casket at your grandfather’s funeral used to be your grandfather, not because of magic but because he died, because something—maybe old age or cancer or a car wreck or a murderer—killed him. I’m fascinated by that moment, that act of turning a live body into a dead one, and eight months ago I got to do it, and it was … nothing and everything all at once. Disappointing and amazing. Not what I thought it would be, but I couldn’t wait to try again. They say your first time having sex is the same way, but I can’t imagine it would have that level of intensity. People have sex all the time, but killing is … rare. Beautiful, in a way, and I know how that sounds, but think about it. It’s like alchemy, a magic transmutation—not just of physical matter but of something ethereal. A spirit or a soul, turned from … something, into something else. I didn’t know what that something was, but I wanted to. I lay awake some nights, most nights really, thinking about it, about how to do it, about how to slow down and do it right, and now here I had three people practically begging for it. What would it be like to shove my knife into Derek’s chest? To cut out Paul’s heart? To peel back Corey’s skin and watch the muscles move underneath it, stretching and contracting and glistening in the starlight—
“Pay attention when I’m talking to you,” said Derek, and I focused my eyes and saw him right in my face, so close I could feel the flecks of spit when he shouted. “There’s three of us and one of you,” he said. His voice came at me through a cloud of beer and halitosis. “How you gonna stop us from taking whatever we want from your little girl here?”
Which one should I start on? I bent down and pulled out my knife, and all three of them backed up in a rush.