The Cleanup

by John Skipp; Craig Spector

  (SHARP!)

  and it was

  (SHARP!)

  and then he was sticky, and he wiped himself off, and he was back in the theatre with the lonely men and the moaning screen and the darkness.

  Tonight would be a Special Night. The Voices had told him so. He was ready for what was going to happen, ready as he could be, ready-or-not-here-I-come.

  Stanley Peckard stood, turned away from the screen, faced back toward the huddle to the left of the projectionist's booth. There was a wall behind the last of the seats, and the men stood behind it, their faces indistinct. A little gray-haired white man in a business suit and Poindexter glasses was leaning into a large Korean man who looked like he drove a truck. Just one big happy family, unilluminated by the shadow dancers blown up across the screen.

  There was a man in a seat two rows behind him, having a Nasty Thing done to him by one of the working girls who made the Variety Photoplays part of her rounds. Stanley moved toward them, fingering the Master Carver in his pocket unconsciously. He thought about what it might be like to make them smile, and

  (!!!!!!!)

  the pain was white-hot at the base of his spine. He staggered, watery kneed, and waited for the pain to pass. It did. He watched the working girl's head bob up and down, oblivious. He thought about the stickiness he had left behind him. It was no better, and no worse. It was

  (time to go)

  totally beyond him. It was

  (time to go)

  quite simply the way things were.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  LAS PUTAS

  Rickie Perez sat on the front stoop of 527 East 109 Street. He had a can of King Cobra malt liquor in one hand and a boom box on his knee. The moon was a big round circle of light in the sky over Spanish Harlem.

  And all was right with the world.

  On a warmer Friday night, the street would have been crawling with people: kids playing on the sidewalk and in rubble-strewn lots, out extra late 'cause of no school tomorrow; older folks, to many of whom English was strictly a secondary language, crowding the little storefront social clubs and bodegas. On a Friday night less chill and imposing, Rickie wouldn't have been nearly so close to alone.

  No sweat offa Rickie's ass. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of fuckin' monkeys parading around in his face. As it stood, he had the only ghetto blaster on the block living up to its name. Which meant that he got to Name That Tune.

  His favorite tune, cranked up so loud that nothing but tortuous, rhythmic farts could emerge from the blown-out speakers:

  "Oh, Rickie

  You're so fine

  You're so fine

  You blow my mind

  Hey, Rickie!

  Hey, Rickie!"

  Rickie upended the can, toasting himself, letting the last drops drizzle down his throat. There was a cluster of garbage cans near the mouth of the alley. He aimed for it and tossed the can. He missed.

  "Shit!" he yelled, intimidating the garbage. To his left a tight knot of muscle-bound teenage pendejos disappeared around the corner, out looking for trouble. To his right, across the street, one lone shadowy figure came around the corner, heading toward him. A car cruised by, and then another. Nobody seemed too concerned about his wrath.

  Fuggit, he thought. Didn't matter. He tapped his foot and swayed clumsily to the beat, a hula dancer with hemorrhoids. That didn't matter, either.

  The fact was that Rickie felt good. He felt sharp. A hit of crystal meth had taken him halfway home already, and Rex was of scorin' some primo blow that would soon be gracing the inside of his nose.

  All of which was very, very good.

  Because Rickie was ready to party.

  He set the blaster down beside him and pulled out his wallet: a big black leather tri-fold with the letters R.I.P. neatly monogrammed to one side. Ricardo lgnaseo Perez. There were pictures in there, all neatly segregated in little plastic accordion sleeves. Lots of variations on the same theme. Fond remembrances of parties past.

  Las putas. He smiled into their frozen, broken faces. The whores.

  "I had you, bitch," he informed the snapshot before him. Flat paper eyes stared, horrified, back at him. "You weren't so fuckin' hot." He flipped to the next set of shots, then the next, while the meth cruised through his veins like an accident looking for a place to happen.

  Then he turned to his most recent additions—the before shot acquired more recently than the after—and his mind drifted happily back.

  To the source . . .

  They'd made short work of the kitchen. What dishes there were had fully turned to shrapnel within the first two minutes. The few nonalcoholic items in the fridge had taken even less time than that.

  Then Rex had gone straight to work on the loft bed in the nearest bedroom, leaving Rickie to peruse the other. It wasn't as easily rigged for total destruction. He'd had to scout around.

  The record collection had been the first to go: lots of old-looking shit that hadn't interested Rickie in the least. Next had come the desk by the window; he'd rifled through it, looking for money or dope or anything else that might tickle his fancy.

  Her picture had jumped out at him from the top of the stack. Even with her nose unbroken, there was no mistaking that face.

  Rickie stood there for a good five minutes, laughing and laughing as he compared Before and After. The contrast was striking. Teeth, no teeth. Smiling, not smiling. Fantastic.

  When the bed came down in the other room, Rickie decided to help his buddy over there. They didn't need to do anything else to this guy.

  They'd already done more than enough.

  Rickie giggled; the speed was making his brain jiggle in its case. His vision glitched—once, twice—head snapping involuntarily with each twitch, like a dog with fleas in its ears. He wished that Rex would hurry up and get—

  (RICKIE)

  Thought stopped. Rickie froze in his seat. His vision went gray and murky for a minute while the low booming thunder of the voice between his ears echoed painfully off to oblivion. It was loud, like a cherry bomb going off inside his mouth.

  (RICKIE, PAY ATTENTION)

  The wallet dropped to the pavement; Rickie's hands came up to clutch his ears. His body jerked, and the boom box fell over. He could barely hear its ongoing roar.

  But the voice was louder than ever.

  (I WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING)

  Rickie screamed, but his eyes snapped open. Dimly, he could see the huge dark shape behind the approaching headlights. Dimly, he could see the man step into the headlight beams.

  Time ground down to a stately slow motion in the second before the van plowed into the man at roughly thirty-five miles per hour. Rickie's vision cleared dramatically. He could see the horrified expression on the driver's face, the way that the victim lifted out of his sneakers at the moment of impact.

  The smile on the victim's face.

  Rickie jumped to his feet and stumbled, unbelieving. There was a crazed half smile on his face, as well. The van slammed on its brakes, tires screaming as it fishtailed forward. The dead guy lay crumpled on the pavement, two feet ahead of where the van finally screeched to a halt.

  "Holy fuck!" Rickie laughed out loud.

  And then the dead man stood up. His lips moved as he spoke.

  (YOUR TURN)

  The van started to back away. Rickie started to back away. The dead man in the street, not dead at all, started to move toward the front stoop of 527 East 109 Street. The wallet and the boom box remained where they were. So did the undead man's shoes.

  "Holy fuck!" Rickie repeated. He was no longer laughing. His back slammed into the front door of the building, and his fingers dug frantically into his pockets for the keys. The alcohol and Methedrine slam danced through his system, but both of them paled before the rush of adrenalinized terror.

  The keys came out. He fitted the right one into the lock. The door opened. He moved past it. He slammed it. He peeked through its window.

  The dead man's foot w
ent through the boom box, silencing it forever. The dead man's hand scooped up the wallet and pocketed it promptly. The dead man's eyes bored twin holes through the window with red-hot light, pinning Rickie's own.

  (HEY, RICKIE, YOU'RE SO FINE, YOU'RE SO FINE YOU BLOW MY MIND)

  Rickie jammed a second key into the second lock. It didn't work. It was the wrong one. He cursed in a whimpering high-pitched whine and thumbed clumsily through the rest of the keys on the chain. The right key came into his hand, slipped out of it, fumbled its way back in. He jammed it into the lock. It worked. The second door flew open.

  The front door blew open behind him.

  (HEY, RICKIE)

  Rickie shrieked and followed the voice's advice, slamming the second door behind him as he went. He hit the first flight of stairs without looking back, raced halfway up, slipped, banged his right knee against the nearest step. The flesh on top of the bony kneecap stripped away, stinging. He yowled, recovered, and continued to run.

  (HEY, RICKIE)

  The second door exploded just as Rickie rounded the second-floor landing. The rapid staccato of stockinged feet started up the stairs behind him. It picked up Rickie's own pace, pushed him harder and harder, up to the third floor, up to the fourth . . .

  . . . and on his way to the fifth floor, he realized that he'd passed his apartment. As if that mattered. As if that locked door or any of the others that slit open and slammed shut before him would have offered any consolation at all. The flesh-covered killing machine behind him was closing in fast. Rickie sincerely doubted that he'd have gotten the door unlocked before winding up, head first, through it.

  And there was nowhere left to go.

  But up.

  Rickie's legs were tiring rapidly, and his brain was severely addled; but midway up the seventh and final flight of stairs, a plan began to take shape. It had fermented in his mind over the many long years spent in stir, just waiting for this kind of Moment of Truth . . .

  Pick a cop show. Any cop show. Chances are good that you'll run into a scene where the Good Guy chases the Bad Guy up onto the roof of a tenement building.

  And what does the Bad Guy do? He runs straight out into the middle of the roof and stands there, looking stupid. Or maybe he runs straight to the edge, searching desperately for an escape route that doesn't exist. If he's armed, he ducks for cover at the far side of the roof and starts firing off shots that inevitably miss. Not much in the way of options for a television Bad Guy.

  But this wasn't television.

  And Rickie had a better idea. At least, he hoped it was a better idea.

  It was, guaranteed, the only chance in Hell he had.

  Rickie slammed into the storm door at the top of the stairs with all his might. It was unlocked, as usual. With an alley on one side and a vacant lot on the other, why bother?

  The crisp October night twinkled mutely overhead; on a clear night in Manhattan you can almost see the stars. Rickie saw his TV options very clearly, pissed on all of them. He burst through the door, out onto the roof, and stood off to the side. Gauging the distance.

  When the Good Guy/dead man raced through the doorway, Rickie grabbed his right arm and spun him violently toward the edge. There was a two-foot ledge there, perfectly suited for tripping. It fulfilled its function admirably. The fucker let out a shout that sounded like SHIIIIIT! before disappearing into the darkness below.

  There was a moist thud at the foot of the alley.

  "ALRIGHT!" Rickie shrieked. He let out a coyote howl. He pounded on his chest in triumph. The image of the man getting hit by a van and living had already receded, dreamlike, into the back of his head.

  But like a bad dream, it haunted him, and so he moved to the edge of the roof. Visions of Arnold Schwarzenegger as The Terminator minced uncomfortably through his mind.

  He peered over the edge.

  The body was there.

  The body was not moving.

  That was good enough for him.

  The walk back down the stairs was hallucinogenically fine. It didn't bother him a bit. The aching muscles in his legs were like all-star trophies. The people in the building, well accustomed to chaos, didn't so much as stick their heads out the doors as he descended toward the street. Which was good. Rickie felt like He-Man and all the Masters of the Universe combined, at that moment. He felt proud of the fact that he hadn't needed Rex to bail him out. He felt like he could take on any stupid motherfucker that got in his way.

  He started thinking about the coke, and the fact of how late Rex was. He imagined the gram that Rex would finally bring home, with more than half of it already gone-gonegone. It drove a sharp wedge of resentment into the heart of his glee, made him pissed as he swaggered out the front door and down the steps onto the uncaring Spanish Harlem sidewalk.

  I'm gonna show you, man, he told the image of Rex that lived in his brain. I'm gonna show you that I'm bad enough to earn my fair share of this partnership, man. I'll show you a corpse that you'll never forget.

  Rickie giggled and fished into the pocket of his Army surplus field jacket. Out popped the camera. The now-extremely-dead man had his wallet, but that could be rectified easily.

  And he was sure he could find an empty sleeve for the poor old Terminator.

  "Say cheese," he singsonged, rounding the corner and

  (CHEESE)

  the hand closed around his throat.

  Rickie tried to scream. No wind. No way. He was up in the air and slamming against the wall before the word no had a chance to form coherently in his brain. The world went white with pain for a terrible second, and then he crumpled to the alley floor.

  "Where's your friend?" the killer asked: no longer booming telepathically, but simply speaking in a low, level voice that was all the more terrifying for its normalcy.

  But Rickie couldn't answer. All he could do was lie there: pale, bug-eyed, and gasping like a fish out of water. This wasn't a dead man; this was Death Himself, freezing Rickie in place with His terrible gaze. For a moment, he couldn't even remember his name.

  But when Death kicked him for the first time, he remembered how to scream.

  Rex was staring at the late great boom box and the former front door when the screaming began. He jumped, much to his own surprise. Ordinarily, it was a sound that he much enjoyed; but his nerves were jangling from the toot up his nose, and the voice was unpleasantly familiar.

  Then the second scream came, and the pieces fell together. Rex spat out a curse and ran into the alley.

  There were two dark shapes near the alley's dead end. One of them was punting the other one down the lane. He didn't recognize the kicker, but Rickie was the kickee. Under the howls of anguish Rex could hear the sound of breaking bones.

  "Holy shit," Rex whispered, hissing through his teeth. He had slowed for a second, stunned, but now he pulled out all the stops. His legs were long and strong. He cleared the distance in twenty seconds.

  And in those last twenty seconds his mind was racing, too. He was thinking about his friend and feeling little more than anger. He was wondering where he would find another partner, remembering what it was like to work alone. He was wondering about the man he was about to kill: who he was, why he was here, how much danger he represented.

  He was thrilled to note that the man was small.

  He decided that this would be easy.

  Rickie's screams covered up the sound of his approach beautifully. The man never even knew what hit him. The same hydraulic flesh press that he'd used a million times wrapped around the guys chest in the form of Rex massive arms. He'd felt spines snap in that grip before, at least a dozen times.

  He was about to feel it again.

  But until the thin arms slipped around his back and squeezed, he had no idea that it was going to be his own.

  Every nerve in his body went wild, then: a sustained hysteria of pain that hovered well above his threshold. He couldn't feel himself fall like a truncated redwood. When he hit the pavement, the pain notched up
another octave, but he had no idea why.

  He couldn't even hear himself scream.

  But he could hear the voice.

  This is how I'm sending you to Hell, the voice said. So soft. So unspeakably cruel. This is how you'll feel forever.

  And that was the last thing, aside from the pain, that Rex would ever know.

  Rickie was huddled against the dead-end wall. Very faintly, through the tears and pain, he could see the dark shape of Death standing over, him.

  And Death was about to claim him. Oh, yes. His broken ribs were spears that scraped his lungs and poked out through his flesh into the cold night sky. Every breath that he took was a bloody burble. If nothing else came to steal his life, he would drown within minutes, and he knew it.

  The knowledge was strangely comforting. The knowledge liberated him from fear. Death was more real than ever, but it had never seemed less real. It brought the closest thing to a smile he could muster to his lips as he watched the dark shape advance upon him, finally.

  Something dangled in front of his face. It took him what seemed like forever to figure out what it was.

  "I've got a million good reasons to send you to Hell," Death said. "But I only need one."

  The dangling thing was his wallet. Open.

  To the picture that he'd stolen, only a few hours earlier.

  "LAS PUTAS!" Rickie roared, through a sudden warm mouthful of blood. "THE WHORES! THEY WANTED IT, MAN!"

  "Oh, yeah," Death said, stepping back and closing the wallet. "Just like you want this."

  There was a wet explosion at the end of the alley.

  In Hell, it never ended.

  THIRTY-NINE

  COIN OF THE REALM