“Did you know Pearl?”
“Shit no, man. She wouldn’t have nothin to do with me, dicklips. She started hangin around the House but she was only interested in the lower numbers like maybe 1 through 4. Why? You lookin for her too?”
“Are you?”
“In my own way, I guess.”
“Why are you looking for her?”
“Without her, Hollow City ain’t for shit. Without her, people just run around doin whatever they wanna do and then it gets to be just like the House. And it ain’t just the people either. You see that slag I capped back there? That wouldn’ta been around if the Queen was here...”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, man. You ask too many questions. She had like powers or something.” Happalance had mentioned something to that effect, as well. Shell adds it to his mental list. Magical powers.
“You talk about her like she’s dead.”
“Well she ain’t here, is she? Best to assume the worst.”
They are on a narrow country road. A corona of light floats in the distance. “Is that the store?”
“Sure is.”
“Do you drive this thing when you’re all boozed up?”
“Totally fuckin crocked, man!” Kid Rider laughs. Shell spares him the lecture.
“You know what you remind me of, man?”
“A walking asshole?” Shell guesses.
“No! A fuckin pirate! With that eyepatch and shit!”
“Gee. I’ve never heard that one before.”
“Arrgh. Shiver me timbers, matey!”
For laughs, Shell places the tip of the gun against the back of Kid Rider’s head.
“Knock it off,” Shell says.
“Okay. Okay. I was just kiddin. You shouldn’t aim a gun at someone unless you plan on usin it.”
“You want me to?”
“Fuck off, Long John.”
Kid Rider veers sharply to the right and into the parking lot of the store. A lonely gas pump adorns the deserted parking lot.
9.
They dismount the bike and walk into the bright fluorescence of the store, Shell tucking the gun into the back of his pants. Even in this day of the slags, it’s not a good idea to walk into a store with a drawn weapon. It doesn’t seem to have any kind of name. Kid Rider comes up to Shell’s nipples. He holds his arms away from his body and puffs up his chest like he’s well-muscled, vigilantly turning his head from side to side. He heads to the back, to the booze, and Shell decides to question the young black-haired cashier. She wears a lot of makeup and looks kind of skanky. Her shirt is black and says, in bright pink letters: SUMMA THIS. It is stretched tightly across her small breasts.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi. Do you know how I could get to the House of Mikes?”
“Why?” She chuckles. “Your name Mike?”
“No. But all my friends are named Mike.”
“You just continue on out this road here until you see a big house. I mean really big. That’s it. They have to fit a lot of Mikes in there. If you reach Fugueland you’ve gone too far.”
“Fugueland?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I see. Do you sell the paper?”
She gestures to a small wire container below the front of the counter. “Only a couple left.”
Shell picks one up. It’s about six pages covered in crayon drawings and letters and stapled on the left hand side. It looks like it was done by a child. The letters are all very large and crooked. Most of the words are misspelled. Shell doesn’t imagine it’ll be very informative and places it back in the container. The cashier snaps her gum and waits for Kid Rider to bring his fifth of whiskey and bucket of slag repellant to the counter.
“Who’s paying?” the cashier asks.
“He is,” Kid Rider gestures toward Shell. “I’m not nearly old enough to buy whiskey.”
“Okay. Get back here,” the cashier says.
“Excuse me?” Shell asks.
“Come on. You have to fuck me. That’s the payment.”
“That’s the payment,” Kid Rider echoes. “I’ll leave you two alone.” He exits the store. Shell watches him to make sure he doesn’t drive off.
“Come on. It’ll be quick,” she says.
“I’m not even hard,” Shell says. “And I don’t feel very well.”
“Just get back here.”
Shell walks around the counter until he’s standing behind it. He’s never been behind the counter of a convenient store before. He finds it kind of exciting. The girl wears a short black skirt, fishnet stockings and combat boots, which he also finds kind of exciting. She leans against the counter, her back to him, and lifts her skirt up over red underwear. She slides those down and rubs her ass.
“I’ll need a condom,” Shell says, suddenly hard.
“There’s plenty right back there.” She throws a hand over her shoulder.
He opens the box, takes the gun from the back of his pants, places it on the counter behind him, unbuttons and unzips his pants, slides them down, tears the condom from its foil wrapper and unrolls it onto his cock, the sterile smell of latex and spermicide hitting his nostrils. He probes her sex with a finger, making sure she’s wet. She is.
“I’m always wet,” she says.
“Um... good?” Shell says.
“Better for everyone.”
He slides into her slowly and comes almost immediately. It feels like the walls of her vagina are quivering, pulsing around his spurting penis.
“Told you it wouldn’t take long.”
He pulls out and hears a sickeningly familiar plop. Three slags are writhing on the floor between the cashier’s boots.
“Oh God,” he says. He loses it. Vomits on the back of the cashier.
“What the fuck?!” she says. She reaches down and pulls a slag from her inner thigh. “Oh shit,” she says, vomiting onto the floor.
“I gotta go.” Shell hitches up his pants, grabs the gun and heads out into the parking lot.
Kid Rider stands in front of the open bucket of repellant, covering himself in the powder. This, apparently, is what makes him luminescent.
“Want some before I close it up?” he asks.
“Why not,” Shell says, still shaken. He covers himself with the glowing powder, dropping a little down his pants for good measure.
Then he faces Kid Rider and says, “You’re not gonna like this.”
“What?” Kid Rider is slightly shocked, expecting the worst.
Shell levels the gun at him. “I’m taking this.” He holds the gun up. “And I’m taking the bike.”
“You fuckin cranksucker. I saved your fuckin life.”
“I know. And I do apologize. I just can’t be held responsible for a minor. If I ever see you again, I’ll give it all back.”
10.
He slams the Glock down the back of his pants and mounts the bike. He wants to look cool driving away but he’s almost too large to control it and tips it over, skidding across the parking lot. He hears Kid Rider running for it and pulls the gun back out. “Stay away!” he shouts. “I’m okay.” Kid Rider freezes. Shell puts the gun back, uprights the bike, mounts it and speeds away into the night. Smoother this time.
He isn’t on the road for long until he reaches what has to be the House of Mikes. He checks his watch. It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning. The whole night has been a blur and he doesn’t think he’s any closer to finding Pearl than when he first started. Behind the House of Mikes are a couple banks of floodlights. Shell dismounts and hears cheering and shouting coming from back there. He wonders if he should pull the gun out and keep it in his hand. Are the Mikes dangerous? Well, if they are, he figures it’s probably best not to put them immediately on guard.
He walks around the large house and sees a circle of people gathered around something. A few of the Mikes are walking from the house, probably to watch whatever spectacle is being played out. They all seem to be slightly different, which means
they are also slightly the same. Short hair. A little meat on their bones. All shirtless and wearing khaki trousers. Each of them has a large number tattooed on his chest. Shell guesses the number is permanent. Once a 25, always a 25. So says the tattoo.
He imagines, perhaps from what Kid Rider said, the Mikes to be a closed society but he is welcomed immediately.
“Hey!” Mike 16 shouts. “You gotta come and watch this! We’re practicing Mike control.”
Shell wanders over to the circle of men. They surround a pit. In the pit is a boy with the number 38 on his torso. Also in the pit are three mature slags. They snap at the boy as he frantically tries to climb the dirt wall. Shell doesn’t want to watch this but, at the same time, he needs to find a Mike who can supply him with information about Pearl. Most likely Mikes 1 through 4.
Watching the boy try to get away from the slags, Shell has a revelation.
He no longer cares about finding Pearl. What is one girl’s life, even if she is a queen, in exchange for someone else’s? There are enough people looking for Pearl. There is a sizable reward for finding her. But what about this boy who is trying so desperately to get away from the slags? Born into Mikedom. Handed over by his Mike brothers, turned into some form of perverse entertainment.
Of course, he never really cared about finding Pearl in the first place. He cared about the money. He still cares about the money but fears he may have to end up writing it off.
Nevertheless, he can’t stand around and watch this kid get devoured by slags.
Shell pulls the Glock out and fires down into the pit.
The Mike in the pit drops to his knees and covers his ears as the first slag explodes. Shell aims again and fires. The second slag explodes. The third slag, now desperate and alone, makes a lunge for the boy. Shell fires again and catches it in mid-flight, its toothy head disintegrating.
“Aw, man,” Mike 12 says. “We was just havin fun.”
“That is not the way to have fun,” Shell says.
“Who the fuck are you? Your name ain’t Mike,” Mike 6 says.
Shell holds the gun out in front of him, suddenly feeling very threatened.
“I need to speak with Mike 1, 2, 3 or 4. And one of you needs to help that kid out of the hole.”
“Well, Mike 2’s dead,” Mike 18 says. “He’s been dead for years. As for the other Mikes, they’re fulfilling their civic duty by searching for the Queen.”
“What can you tell me about the Queen? I heard she used to come here a lot.”
“I wouldn’t say a lot.”
“But you’ve met her?”
“Sure I’ve met her.”
“Have any ideas where she might be?”
“If I had any ideas where she might be then I’d be the one out there looking for her instead of the other Mikes.”
“Do you know anyone who would want to kidnap her or hurt her?”
“No, man, everybody loved the Queen.”
“Is this true?” he asks the rest of the Mikes.
They all nod their melon-sized heads.
“What wasn’t to like? She was just a little old lady who didn’t have any real power anyway.”
“A little old lady?”
“Shit. I don’t know. I always thought she was old. I never got too close to her. All I know is she’s real small. Most queens are old, I thought.”
“How do you feel now that she’s gone?”
“Well, I feel like hell. She was the life of this city. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. It was just... just good to have her around, you know?”
“What will I find if I go to Fugueland?”
“You don’t want to go there.”
“Why not?”
“Nobody goes there. It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
“It’s why they call this place Hollow City. Fugueland empties people out. I don’t know how it does but... people who go there, they ain’t the same when they come back. But, like I said, no one goes there anymore.”
“Thanks,” Shell says, turning to leave. “You’ve all been a big help.”
“Mister?” Mike 18 says. “You ain’t goin there, are ya?”
“I think I have to,” Shell says, turning his back on the Mikes and heading for his bike.
Interlude: Fugueland
Birth
The bike long discarded he comes upon Fugueland. No. There are no blinding lights. No carnival signs. Just a swirling mass like a fogbank and standing there looking at it he feels life catch up with him. His body aches. His empty socket throbs beneath the patch. Nausea continues to gnaw at his stomach and head. Shell. He finally feels like his name. Takes a deep breath. Puts the gun down. Sheds his clothes and steps into something very much like pure consciousness. Each droplet clings to his skin and he feels it and he likes the way it feels and even though his eye is open it might as well be closed because he can’t see anything. The gray darkens but he doesn’t see it. He feels it. Darkens all the way to black. Deep space black. And he’s floating through this space and is suddenly aware it is not space at all but the womb and the womb smells like the earth. All the dark rich fertile loam of things long dead and things coming back to life and when he reaches out he clasps two handfuls of dirt and pulls away at them. Rending the womb. Opening the womb to the outside world and he pours out screaming.
Life
And comes to a plateau of sorts. Flat smooth earth and he’s at the top of something maybe the top of everything and this is all new to him and this feeling of newness feels good. He’s all emptied out and this lack of insides makes him less aware of his outsides. But awareness builds. He feels his bones coming up from nothing. Massing around themselves. And he feels his muscles and his nerves take shape and strengthen and then his skin. Blood chugs through everything and he takes his first deep breaths and fills his lungs with this unsullied air. Aware of his solidity in this space. He approaches the edge of the plateau and looks out onto a world not yet built. He knows what is to come. It hits him in a single blinding flash of knowledge. The people will come. The buildings will come. The cultures will come and with them will come all those dangerous human emotions. With them will come everything that can gnaw a person away from the inside. And he is also aware of the inescapability of that. He becomes aware of life’s grim march. Onward. Forever onward. Meeting whatever cruel fate awaits but it is through this cruel fate and face of humanity that true beauty can shine. No death is a good death but all death is inevitable. He turns to meet it. Casting out his insides to the blank world around. Hollow. Full. And now hollow again. Approaching through the fog is a pack of wolves. Except for their heads. Their heads are the tapered toothrimmed heads of mature slags. He lies down on the cool earth. Feels the air swirl around him and drop down onto his face and kiss his lips as the first of the slag wolves bites into his flesh.
A Kind of Death
It’s a mangled form emerging from Fugueland. Whole on the outside. Slagwolf-gnawed on the inside. The human body is an ever expanding collection of things some of which have to be trimmed away. Sometimes death is necessary. It gives us something to bury far beneath the ground so more light can shine on the life that is left. Some people are here. Some people have always been here. Some people deserve to live. Some people deserve to die. He is only the messenger. Only the envelope. Only the shell. He could break and crumble at any minute.
11.
Shell dons his clothes, mounts the dirt bike, and heads back into town. He isn’t sure what just happened to him. The taste of vomit lingers on his tongue but he feels a renewed sense of purpose. He will look for Pearl in one last place and, if she isn’t there, he’s decided to go back home and quit the agency. And if he decides he can’t live without the agency, can’t live without a job, then he’ll take a gun and put it in his mouth or perhaps his hollow eye and pull the trigger. Maybe the Mikes were right about Fugueland but Shell doesn’t know if being a different person is a good thing or a bad thing. The world certainly doesn
’t need more people like him.
The final shreds of darkness are still all around him and he can feel the immense weight of the day breathing a sunny whisper on the other side of the curtains.
12.
It’s dawn by the time he gets back to the apartment. He’s tried to shut everything else out of his mind and concentrate only on finding Pearl. Everything else will have to wait. Fuck everything else. Whether he finds her or not, he’s decided this is his last hurrah. He might as well go out with a bang.
He thinks about Mr. Happalance saying Pearl has always been here. He thinks about Mr. Blatz saying Miss Fitch has always been here. He thinks about the man in overalls saying everyone was looking for Pearl. Shell knows someone who is not looking for Pearl. He knows someone so wrapped up in psychotic insanity she has to drag herself from the living room. Hollow City. Okay. So some people are hollow. Some people make good vessels. Maybe Pearl is in the apartment. Maybe Pearl is in Miss Fitch. Maybe her psychosis is the act of a diminutive Queen trying to fight her way out. Maybe Pearl has chosen to hide in the one place where she will go undetected. The insides of every other house are devastated, torn apart by people, the occupants, searching for Pearl.
Shell figures it’s time to do some devastation of his own.
He pulls up in front of the building. Main Street at dawn is only slightly buzzing. Trash and the insides of people’s homes, often one in the same, line the street. The sound of the chainsaw continues to rip through the air. He makes sure the Glock is still tucked into the back of his pants.
He opens the door to his apartment and crosses the kitchen. Miss Fitch lies face down in the living room. She is covered in slags. Shell kicks some from her hand, grabs it, and drags her into the kitchen. He then goes about ripping the apartment apart. Cabinet doors torn from hinges and then the cabinets themselves from the walls. Cushions and beds ripped apart. Carpet up. Drywall smashed. Nothing. Nothing. And more nothing.
Slag Attack Page 3