Lament for the Afterlife

by Lisa L. Hannett

  He can’t go back to Ruby’s. He can’t.

  Springs squeal as he shimmies along the split vinyl bench, millimetre by millimetre, aiming for the passenger door. Do it quick and be out of here, he tells himself. Do it quick before anyone sees you. But now Alpha’s stretching—now he’s getting up! Rolling his shoulders. Twisting out the crick in his neck. Pacing around his dried-out circle, jogging around, getting the blood pumping. An easterly breeze picks up, gusting from the ridge, gullywards. Nose lifted, Alpha inhales great draughts of air, tongue working, sampling for intruders. Round and round, he sniffs and stretches and tastes. Narrow-eyed and scanning the immediate vista—tenements, warehouse, tunnel, greasy spoon, parking lot—getting primed for an evening hunt.

  Peyt huddles his scent close, hopes it stays trapped in the car. Cool air rattles the diner’s neon mouth, whisks burger wrappers across the gravel, skitters plastic bottles down the gulch’s long slope. A rifle shot cracks outside the warehouse. Peyt whiplashes. Scopes for the shooter. Frantically pats himself down for bullet wounds. Checks to see which of the herdboys needs a stretcher. The pack’s tumbling and fighting—the noise got them riled, too—but they all seem to be there still. Pup clinging to Alpha’s belt. Mongrel straddling Rover, fists wailing. Rex nursing his hurts by sharing a visit with Pup’s Ma. The rest yipping, impatient, itching for one type of thumping or the other.

  So where’s the fuckin’ shooter? Where?

  Peyt’s gaze sweeps the warehouse’s rooftop, windows, doors—and there. There it is: polished from so much use, handle straight and true …

  Buckling, Peyt thuds his forehead against the dash, bites his lips hard. Euri and Zaya think it’s hilarious. A broom. A fuckin’ wooden push-broom by the building’s staff entrance, smacked loud, blown over in the wind. What a fuckin’ fool.

  Beside him, the girls giggle themselves empty.

  Now the greys poke Peytr’s arse. Pinch his thighs and calves. Get out … get out … get out… . He collects the bag and his ruck. Looks up to find the herdboys have gone quiet. Even Rex has stopped his thrusting; he’s tying up his shorts, standing beside the rest of the pack, standing in formation, standing eyes-forward. Staring up the ridge at Peytr.

  “Boys idling dangerously through empty time,” he says, but can’t remember how the adage ends. What happens to them if they idle? They do what? His legs jitter—what becomes of such boys?—his stomach aches—and what? What do they do?

  Go … go … go …

  He’ll never outrun them. He’ll trip, he’ll fall, the greys will be on him, he’ll disappear, he’ll vanish, like Merv said, “Just like that.” The herdboys will rescue him, sure, the pack will be on him, all grabbing and snatching, saying “You’re safe, you’re safe,” with hairy muzzles snapping, mottled tongues lapping mottled skin, chewing and fucking and pissing on him, stealing the cost of his rescue. Peyt can’t run if he wanted to, his limbs aren’t his, they’re the greys’, they’re the army’s, they’re jittering like crazy but he’s going nowhere, he’s staying put, and the herdboys, the herdboys are loping.

  Peyt glances to his right. “You girls should hide,” he says, but Euri and Zaya are already gone. Instead, a man in overalls is there, to his right, hurrying across the lot, boot-crunching hurries, jangling keys, fumbling to get inside the warehouse’s staff door.

  Go … go … go … go … go …

  The herdboys are fast, but the man is faster. The padlock clanks when it drops. He leaves it on the threshold, shoulders the door open. Takes one step and gets bowled over by a blur of red skirts and ragged blonde hair.

  Wrists bound with hemp cords, pale arms muddied with blood and dirt, the skingirl’s corset is shredded to the wire, flesh puckering between the gaps. She screams just like Pup did, a klaxon of fear, her wordwind scattered like broken glass. No light shines behind her, no one else comes out. Who knows how long she was in there, Peyt thinks. Alone, trapped in that dark box, all the angles the same, the featureless walls. Monsters hulking in the gloom, hemming her in, biting with sharp teeth, rasping with sandpaper tongues. She stumble-runs to escape, kicking up dust, falling, kicking and kicking, falling and kicking as the man hooks an arm around her thick waist. Starts dragging her back inside.

  “Hey,” Peytr whispers. “Let her go.”

  Go … go … go …

  Do something, Euri pleads.

  The greys pinch and pinch and pinch him in place.

  The herdboys have reached the slope, but the skingirl hasn’t seen them. She’s intent on the few feet in front of her, the few feet after that, her focus immediate, not forward-looking. The man, though. His head’s never still; up, down, up, down, he’s calculating, he’s weighing the odds. Skingirl takes advantage of his distraction, dead-fishes herself, drops her centre of gravity, flops to the gravel. Caught now only by her crossed wrists, she flips and wriggles, making it hard to hold onto her, making the decision for him.

  Peytr’s heart swells when the man takes a last look at the herdboys, and spits on her. Backhands her. Then lets her go.

  Go … go … go …

  The warehouse door slams behind him. A single bolt shunts true. Entrapping even as it releases.

  “Run,” Peytr says. Shouts? Thinks. Run … run … run …

  Agonising seconds pass, shivering and sobbing.

  Skingirl wobbles to her knees, face-plants, tries again. Bits of stone embed in her bare arm, her cheek. She gains her feet, hikes her skirts and finally, finally starts to run.

  “No,” Peytr says. He stretches one big toe to the gravel, instantly recoils. “No,” he repeats. Aloud. But she can’t hear him. She’s too far, he’s too quiet. What else can he do? He touches the heaving ground, pulls back. “No,” he says again and again. Skingirl’s disoriented. She’s running the wrong way. Not past Peytr, not to the road to the highway to the markets to the corners where her kind linger in town. Not to safety in numbers. Not to people.

  She runs, a blind, blooded deer, straight to the slavering herd.

  “Thinking of your Ma now aren’t you, Pup?”

  Euri and Zaya are gone, sheltered in the safety of the past, but Peytr whispers to them still. Fervent. Furious. His ’wind lashing from the holes in his hood. The words yellow on their undersides, spotted white, and vibrating. With indignation, Peyt tells himself. Not fright. He will talk until it’s all said and done. What else can he do? One man against so many. He’ll just wait ’til it’s over—won’t be long, now—wait for the herdboys to leave. What else can he do? He’ll watch, bear witness, give testimony, and remember this girl’s death. His memory is long, he’ll remember her for posterity. Someone has to. He can’t do anything else, can he, not alone, no, not all on his own. He’ll just wait. Remember. It will all be over soon.

  Zigzagged scuffmarks trail across the scree, following the dogs into the gully. They’ve wrangled their prey back onto the footpath. Staked her out for all to see. Two pitbulls have laid claim to her ankles, pulled them as far apart as her hips will allow. Between them, Rex and Rover have mauled the skingirl free of her wire cage. Each kneeling on one of her arms, they’re gnawing on her ’wind. Grunting and snuffling her terror. Pawing her breasts red. When Rover moves to do more, starts clawing at the girl’s waistband, scrabbling for her cleft, Alpha boots the dog hard in the temple. Knocks his ’wind clear off its mooring, letters and punctuation bobbing loose on the breeze. Alpha kicks Rover’s limp form to the side, snaps for another mutt to take his place, then leans over and tears the girl’s skirts off himself. The camouflage pattern on her thighs—oval prints of yellow, blue, green—doesn’t hide the pink folds and creases of her. The contrast makes them stand out even more. Soft, open targets. Weapons at the ready, the dogs clobber each other to be first to take aim.

  Alpha scratches his balls. Growls everyone back—except for Pup. He fondles the kid’s ’wind, whispers in his ear, then shoves him hard. The pup cries out, attempts to stand. Blood patches his little brown knees. Red grinds into the dirt
as Alpha holds the kid down.

  “First dibs,” Peyt says. “Choicest meat. Thinking of your Ma now, Pup? What would she say? You think she’s watching from over there, waiting to see how you’ll treat this girl?”

  Pup hesitates.

  “Maybe you think it’s her, come back to cuddle and warm you, to let you slip into her arms, those big pillows of hers plumped with life and so soft against your face. Maybe you want to nuzzle right in …”

  And the other dogs turn to Alpha, just for a second, they turn and contemplate really turning, threatening, ganging up. No fair says the curl in their lips. No fair says the wrinkle in their snouts. And for a second, while the lesser, braver dogs turn, Peyt sighs, suddenly hopeful.

  Do it, he thinks, and the greys pummel him, head to toe. Do it, he thinks, trying not to bite his tongue as a seizure grabs hold. Trying not to touch ground, not to be connected to the tension, the agony, the guilt coursing through the dirt. What a relief to let them do it, to be free of the responsibility of watching, to simply let Alpha go.

  Alpha, so bold. With his back turned to the pack, to their fledgling, feeble betrayal. His confidence crushes theirs, postpones their mutiny. There is no later in war, Peytr thinks. Do it now. Interfere. Take him down. But doubt flickers on one mongrel mug after another. First meat is the best, their scowls agree, but sloppy seconds, thirds, fourths are better than no meat at all.

  And the greys, the greys are bruising.

  Eager for their seconds, the herdboys bark and clap and howl Pup on. They thump thump thump the kid’s shoulders and butt, whooping, excited for their own turn at the hump. Pup’s fumbling through it, not sure what goes where, the girl moaning and thrashing as Pup tries to fuck her, instinct-driven to pump his hips up and down, thrusting and grinding impotently through his pants. “He’s too young,” Peyt says, belly twisting like the skingirl, and he thinks it must hurt, pelvis smashing against pelvis, pink bits chafing against grimy denim, scalp tearing in chunks on the rough ground as she smashes and crashes and roars, and the greys jab him in place, fuckin’ greys paralysing, when he should help her, help her, fuckin’ help her, but he can’t move, what can he do? He’s no saint. He’s no fuckin’ saint.

  With a resonant crack, a broomstick crashes over in the breeze.

  Rex sags forward. Drools red on the skingirl’s white breast. Mongrel laughs loud and long, calls him a slobbering hog, nudges him aside. Rex shudders, frothing at the mouth. Crack crack! Two more broomsticks, two more herdboys, fall. The noise ricochets around the gulch, carries with it smoke and a whiff of sulphur. Peyt’s heart jackrabbits as the herdboys spin as one to face the warehouse. Peyt follows their gaze. Sees the push-broom lying, undisturbed, where it landed earlier.

  Another crack and dust erupts near Alpha’s feet. Another. Another. Shots gone wide, Peytr thinks, on purpose. Trying to distract them. To scare them. To shepherd them away from the girl. Giving her a chance. Forgotten, she gets to her knees. Worries at the knots in her bindings. Quickly gives up and begins a tripod crawl that develops into a hobbling jog away from the hounds.

  “Thank you,” Peyt whispers, standing. The ground is calm, steady beneath him. “Thank you.” Craning through the windshield, he peers to glimpse the shooter.

  Clouds steam from the Pigeon’s pistol as he fires another shot. Muzzle pointed just above the herd, it shoots explosive commands. Cease and desist! Turn around! Disperse! The deliveryman approaches the herd cautiously, staring back at them. His uniform is garish, navy blue, pleats in the pants ironed sharp. The hood is new, denim or leather, glinting with reinforced steel. His two satchels are twice as big as Peyt’s ruck, bulging with parcels. Enough for a horse to carry, but there’s no horse around. Just one man and a polished word-launcher. One man against many.

  “Thank you, Artie,” Peytr says, digging his toes into the earth. Stability propels him from the gravel, thrums up his legs. Head clear, he swings the knapsack over his shoulder. Steady hand clutches the food bag. Get ready to go, he thinks. This will all be over soon.

  The herdboys disagree.

  Robbed of one snack, the dogs are keen for another. When the Pigeon breaks eye contact, looks down to reload, the pack swarms, stampedes, pounces. Hankering for some skin-on-skin contact. Fists on face contact. Knees in groin. Knuckles on knuckles. Feet on ribs and neck and spine and skull… . Now the ground quakes so violently Peyt’s vision blurs. Light tunnels to a tiny circle in his sight. In it, Artie disappears, just like that, trampled under so many feet. His satchels skid to the periphery. His shining hood envelops a ball of mince. Fingers dig into the ball, dig out two white orbs, grip and pull and snap connective tendons, leave two welling black caves in the meat.

  Clever hounds, says a voice, far down the dark tunnel. Wily hounds. Gouging the poor man’s eyes. Using the greys as scapegoats for their crimes.

  Down the tunnel, someone is screaming.

  Boys shouldn’t scream like that, Peytr thinks, but it’s too late, the sound’s out, tearing down the slope and into the gully.

  Now his rucksack is open, his hands rummaging, shifting scrunched plastic bags, unworn socks, a soft red shirt, excavating an old grenade casing, one of Jean’s making, and suddenly the shell’s open, it’s ready in his hand.

  Wind whistles past Peytr’s ears. Gravel becomes water and he’s floating, he’s sailing stormy seas, he’s plunging over verges, he’s cresting swells. Spewing the filthiest words into his ship’s small cannon, powering full steam ahead, he launches his hatred, his remorse, his impotent rage, sees the round blackness of it soar and arc through the air, cutting through ’winds and the stolid rocks of the herd, plunging, plunging, plummeting down, making barely a splash, barely a bang, as it is swallowed by the dark waters.

  The herdboys retreat as Peyt screams towards them, following his useless grenade. They take a step or two back, not far, tamping listless scattershot from their clothes. Baring yellow grins. Turning to Alpha for direction. Waiting for the order to attack.

  Peytr stops, abruptly, beside the Pigeon’s body. He stops no more than a metre away from the man, the dog, the leader of all these boys. Up close, his muscles are more wizened than Peyt remembers. His tanned skin gone sallow, tattooed with teeth marks and scabs. Scalp bristling with scars, a mohawk of spiked words. Lips chapped but still plump, still capable of producing the most awesome warbles. Clutching Artie’s pistol, Alpha looks at Peytr, sees the bag of food shaking in his grasp, and the dog, the man, whimpers.

  Around them, the herdboys fidget, hackles raised, as if sensing a shift in power. Alpha is afraid of this new dog, their posture says. Alpha is crying like an unweaned pup.

  “Fuck you,” Alpha says, and his voice sounds just like it always has. No trace of a stupid accent. No inbred twang. The words rasp, but the tone is perfectly familiar. “Fuck you, Peyt.”

  “Here,” Peytr says, offering the parcel. “This is yours.”

  “Don’t touch it,” Daken barks. He turns and runs, leaving the herdboys to follow or to stay with their new Alpha. “Whatever he offers—it’s poison, don’t touch it!”

  Tongues lolling, the herdboys look at Peytr, then look at the man he chased away. Peyt howls, throwing the food after Daken, throwing it hard as he can.

  “Come back,” he says, then turns on the other dogs and yells, “Get the fuck out of here.” One by one they sniff the air, wrinkle their noses, turn tail. The herd scatters at his command, at the command of this strong Alpha. But Peytr doesn’t feel powerful. He collapses, legs unable to hold his own weight.

  Stupid, he thinks, looking at the mess he’s made. What a waste.

  Reaching for the Pigeon’s satchels, Peytr scans the horizon for signs of the herd, for signs of leftover food, for signs of what to do next. In the rush, the dogs have left all the parcels behind, papered boxes scrawled with names and addresses, places to go wrapped up in string. He bends, rounds them up, brushes off the dirt. There’s room in these packs for a week’s eating, he thinks, refilling the bags.
Slinging them across his shoulders. The straps pull but he doesn’t slouch. There’s a reassuring heft in the weight, in pockets bulging with purpose. It’s too late for night work, Peyt thinks as the sky is soaked in charcoal. It’s too late for gathering, but not for delivering. Adjusting his load, Peyt scopes the tenements for signs of life. Dogs bark in the hollows, unseen, unthreatening. The greys pinch Peyt’s legs, urging him to go … go … go …

  Gravel rumbles beneath his bare feet as he turns around, and goes.

  On both sides of the driveway the front yard is already riddled with holes, so Jean decides to head out back. After kicking the dirt off her treaders, she cuts through the house, passing the den with its dusty couches and cold hearth, pausing by the formal living room. In her usual place by the picture window, the silent watcher stands, up to the ankles in a mound of grief. Woes too hard to bear remain on the floor, but so many—too many, Jean thinks—find their way back into the woman’s system, soaked through skin and spirit.

  “Can I get you anything, Ann?” she asks quietly. “Cup of warmth?”

  Was that a nod? Jean waits, running her fingers over carved lines laddered into the door jamb, the children’s names and ages scrawled beside their heights. Peyt’s was always a good few inches shorter than Daken’s, no matter how he stretched his little neck when she rested the ruler on his crown, no matter how liberal she was with the measurements. Just below, the girls’ last gouges are primed to overtake their brother’s highest mark—but really, Jean thinks, it’s been such a long while since they butted heels against the baseboards, so long since they got that dandruff of paint-scratchings in their hair, that by now they’ve both probably outgrown him.

  “All right,” Jean says, pushing away from the wall. Ann glances over her shoulder, seeing but not really acknowledging. Blinking through a haze of ’wind, she blows clumps of letters away from her eyes. They drift, thick as musk, on streaks of pale blue angling through the window. Words too raw and personal for Jean to feel comfortable reading.