Slashback

by Rob Thurman

  I spotted his form in the air in less than a blink. Literally. I was looking at Nik and there was only flames behind him; I blinked and Jack was behind him, silhouetted against Sodom and Gomorrah or the Towering Inferno, whichever catastrophe-type media you were into.

  “Nik! Behind you!” I shouted and gated again.

  I shouldn’t have bothered with the warning. Niko had already been turning when I traveled. He could’ve felt the change in temperature—Jack ran ice-cold. But against the flames of the bridge behind him that might not be so. It could be Nik knew because Nik knew these things since he was . . . shit . . . fifteen. Nik knew things humans couldn’t know although he was one. He knew things paien couldn’t know although they thought him a sheep. I didn’t care how he knew as long as he did. He needed to watch his back long enough for me to get there and do it for him.

  I gated above Jack’s whirlpool form of smoke and racing electricity, but not too far above him. This wasn’t an action movie, which meant when I appeared in midair, I immediately fell, no hovering, no momentary suspension of gravity or shit like that, convenient though it might be. I simply fucking fell. With Jack, I wanted to fall the least amount I could. I did not want to skewer myself on whatever glassine spears that hid in that dirty dark haze.

  Landing on top of him and feeling the skin of my legs split open—not good. I jammed the MP7 into the mass below me and fired at least ten more rounds before he vanished again and I fell to the concrete beneath me. That didn’t do my ribs any good at all. Instantly I saw Jack appear again, this time by Robin. It hit me, a memory close to as fucking freaky as Jack himself.

  We had a neighbor once, we had lots of neighbors that we used for, you know . . . reasons. Good reasons. Getting us medicine if we needed it. Calling us in sick to school. Signing flu shot forms—all things Sophia couldn’t be bothered with or was sober to do. Most of them were nice old ladies and one of those nice old ladies had given me a toy when I was five—the same year I’d found out about the Auphe and how I was half one. She meant well. The people who screw up in the most interesting ways mostly do.

  She gave me a jack-in-the-box. I’d never seen one before. There I was, an unsuspecting kid, because monsters were lurking outside the window, not in an innocent box a nice lady gave me. I cranked and cranked, the music screeched and played as best as its rusted innards let it and then . . . pop goes the weasel!

  A clown came exploding into my face. And this clown, he’d been around a long, long time. His once white teeth were brown, dirt you’d say, but I knew better—it was dried blood. The blue eyes faded to a blind white . . . but the blind that could still inexplicably see you. The carved hands curled into talons from the damp. That’s what Niko had said, the damp. I wanted to believe him, but, shit, I knew better. Five years old and I knew better.

  Jack-in-the-boxes were evil. Beginning, middle, and end.

  This Jack was no different.

  I staggered up with Niko’s hand on my elbow, careful and slow. He could tell by the way I was breathing, shallow and panting, that I’d messed up my ribs. With most people that would’ve bugged me, knowing that much about me with one sweeping observation. With Niko I expected it and I didn’t mind. Again, that’s what Niko did. What he’d always done.

  Jack was drifting closer to Goodfellow and I could hear the music in my head. Hear it plain as day. Round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel . . .

  Robin had his sword between him and Jack, but would that be enough?

  I watched as Jack grew, a storm cloud no one wanted to chase.

  Probably not enough.

  The monkey thought ’twas all in fun . . .

  “Let go, Nik,” I said urgently. He hesitated, then let go of my arm. Robin was one of us. He knew that the same as I did.

  I was gone and then back again, right between Jack and Goodfellow and firing the MP7 at nothing. That was how quickly he flickered in and out. He was something and then he was nothing and then . . .

  Pop goes the weasel!

  He was on me again, grinding me down into the rough surface beneath me. This time the MP7 did fly from my hand. “A wolf who hides among the Flock. I am not surprised,” he said as thickly cloying as the first time I’d heard his voice. “That is why the Flock needs saving.”

  At this point my vision was wavering between bizarre paien serial killer and a jack-in-the-box clown from hell. To be fair, weren’t all jack-in-the-boxes and clowns both from hell? I didn’t wait to sort it out. I gated again.

  I was back with Nik, who’d moved closer to the action and who was still scanning the sky with the flamethrower ready as Jack had disappeared at the same time I had. Beside Nik, the gate around me fading, it took me a second to get my balance with both arms wrapped around my ribs. Cracked definitely, the first time. They might be broken now. I let my head hang for a second and concentrated on shallow breaths to ease the stabbing pain. “I lost my gun. I fucking never lose my gun,” I panted.

  Niko and I both knew now wasn’t the place for an impromptu physical, and he knew just by the way I was standing I had either cracked or broken ribs. The medical advice would have to wait. But he wasn’t waiting on another type of advice. “Cal, you idiot. I didn’t mean die instead of gating. I meant if there’s another way then use it. If not then at least weigh the mental cost to you later, after the fight, but don’t let yourself be killed if it can save you.” His arm hooked lightly around my neck, his breath a human warmth and not Jack’s frostbite cold exhaled against my jaw. “Can you fight? If we can get your gun back?”

  I gave a nod. “Yeah, I’m good. You know how much that gun cost?” Ruptured spleen? Lacerated liver? Screw that. I laughed at internal bleeding. I truly loved that gun.

  “Then let’s see if we can save Goodfellow’s ass as Ishiah treasures it so much. And, Cal, do not die,” he ordered. “Or I’ll have this Jack raise you from the dead so that I might kill you all over again.”

  “You’re a marshmallow inside, Nik. I’ve always known it.” I grinned as best as I was able with a distinct lack of breath and gated again, scooped up my gun, and gated one more time to end up beside Robin, a bruise of a light—purple, gray, and black—still swirling around the outline of my body. “Hey, Jack, we can both come and go. That makes this game more interesting, doesn’t it?”

  It did. Besides Auphe and half Auphe, I’d not seen anyone who could do what Jack and I could. Although I was ripping holes in reality. Sometimes I tore them open and stepped through them, sometimes I opened them in monsters that deserved it and they exploded/imploded—a little of both—sometimes I built them around myself and it almost looked as if I were teleporting, but I wasn’t.

  Jack wasn’t building gates. As far as I could tell, Jack was teleporting. He was here. Then he was gone and he was quicker than I was as I hadn’t managed to take any of him with me when I went. Now he was almost on top of Robin again who was fighting him off with his lighter version of a broadsword. He was having slightly better luck than I’d had with my combat knife on Jack’s first visit, but he also had hundreds of thousands of years of fighting experience with weapons. Millions with a pointy stick and a hefty rock. His blows were so fast they were a blur.

  “Enough banter with the psychopath,” Robin spat. “Shoot the malaka and be done with it!”

  The sirens were seconds away, lights were getting brighter and closer, I could hear the people collecting down in the park by the river. We were out of time, but we weren’t winning this battle. That left the war and for that we needed Jack’s attention on us and only us. “Got your attention with the bonfire, didn’t we, Jack? We’re bad, bad boys. If you don’t take care of us we’ll do the same tomorrow night and the next and the next. None of us are the Flock. We’re the pack and we’ll eat what you want before you ever have a chance to save it in whatever special Serial-Killers-R-Us trophy case you got from IKEA.”

  The eyes transmuted from pale electric blue to nuclear white. “Fire is for the pure. Fire is
for the punishment. None of you are worthy to use it.” While Jack waxed poetic on fire safety or whatever the hell he was talking about, I emptied the rest of the magazine. Lightning roiled in him and for a second in the mist I thought I saw something glittering. A vein of the purest white diamonds, the curve of a wing, but it must’ve been a trick of the dark cloud, the lightning, and the fact that Jack was gone. The same as if he’d not been there at all.

  I could hear the voices of the police and firemen making their way through the smashed barriers and unless we thought we could survive a hundred-forty- foot jump to the water, which I didn’t, and wanted to swim the Harlem River, really didn’t, then there was only one way home. Niko was already running toward us, but still too far. I threw up a gate directly in front of him that swallowed him—a hole in the world—then grabbed Robin’s arm and took us through one of our own.

  Then we were home and we didn’t know a thing more about how to take down Jack than when we started. Hell, we knew less if anything.

  What a waste of a good fire.

  10

  Niko

  Twelve Years Ago

  “Give me the matches, Cal. I am not playing here.”

  He handed them over, muttering under his breath, but I knew enough to know when he was playing at teasing the big brother. He wasn’t a budding pyromaniac. One fire didn’t an arsonist make. And that one had been an emergency. I couldn’t hold that one against him.

  I was sure enough that he wouldn’t burn down Junior’s house, but while I more than still had doubts about Junior’s basement of dead bodies, it was true that people were going missing. It would be safer if Cal weren’t home alone after school while I worked, whether it was light outside or not.

  “Why don’t you stay after school today and play a few games of baseball, football—whatever your gym teacher has planned? Then I can come by after work and we can go home together.” The students at Cal’s school had many parents with odd schedules who weren’t home in time for the bus to drop off their children. The principal had decided an after-school sports session was a good idea for those parents who needed two or three hours to come by and get the kids who couldn’t take the bus to be home alone. I’d met Coach VanBuren. He wasn’t especially bright and I didn’t think he’d volunteered for the job, but he did it. He might not be a patient man or a man who loved his job, but being there until the parents could be—that made him a good man.

  “I don’t like sports anymore and they won’t let me play,” Cal finished without showing much concern. He hadn’t been a fan of team sports since he knew there were team sports. Except football. He liked football. He loved tackling. I was hoping when his growth spurt came it would be enough that he could play on the team of whichever school we were in at the time. Or I had hoped, but now . . . what was this?

  “Since when don’t you like sports, and what do you mean they won’t let you play?” I frowned. Cal was small but he could outrun anyone his age. “Why not?”

  “Since this year.” He started to scoop all his papers off the kitchen table and wad them into one big mass. “I got tired of faking it. I like to win. When you play games you’re supposed to win. That’s the whole point. If you’re not trying your hardest to win, then you’re not playing it right.” He began shoving books and wads of what I hoped was doodles but knew, knew was his homework in his backpack. “If you’re following ‘rules’”—he pulled a face at the word—“then you’re not trying your hardest. Games shouldn’t have rules, not if you want to win. They’re . . . um . . .”

  “Mutually exclusive?” I provided.

  He zipped up the backpack. “Exactly. If I’m going to play a game where I’m supposed to win, then I’m going to win. Coach VanBuren doesn’t understand. He says I have ‘poor impulse control issues,’ ‘the attention span of a frigging gnat,’ and I’m a ‘little psycho asshole.’” The three quotes, I could hear them as if that potbellied, balding, worthless excuse for a human being was standing beside me. I felt a flush of anger, but Cal was indifferent. He was snorting at the man’s idiocy. “For a coach he doesn’t know anything about winning.”

  I supposed he didn’t. He’d also been demoted from good man to jackass in my book. “No, he doesn’t. You know what my teachers tell me in the dojos?” I hadn’t thought it was time for that yet, but I’d been wrong.

  Stuffing a candy bar in the zippered pocket of his backpack, he slung it on, finally ready for the morning in his worn Batman T-shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed sneakers. “What?” he asked curiously.

  “That in there are rules and honor, but outside in the real world, rules and honor only get you . . . mugged or worse.” I’d been about to say killed, but we had enough of that word for the past few days. “You don’t have poor impulse control and you’re not a psycho. You know how to protect yourself, to come out on top, and that’s something your coach doesn’t know himself.” I gave him a nudge for the front door. I could hear his bus wheezing down the street outside. “Come home straight from school, lock the doors, and don’t let anyone in. All right?”

  “And jack-off Junior next door?”

  “Language.” I’d told myself that battle was lost, but the reaction was knee jerk. I gave him a carefully light swat to the back of his head. “Behave.” As for Junior, that sad miserable lump of a neighbor was making my life a living nightmare and he had genuine monsters to compete with in that area. “I’ll think of something at school today. Now go. Catch your bus.”

  He was gone and climbing onto the creaking yellow whale. Looking through the windows he gave me a half wave. When you had one person in the world, just one, who gave you affection, you were slow to outgrow that. I waved back. I hoped he didn’t for a long time, because it was true of us both. We each only had one person.

  Inside the bus a kid nearly half a foot taller than Cal stood up and said something insulting from the sneer on his face. Behind the smoky glass I saw Cal look up at him and bare his teeth. It wasn’t a smile or a grin. What had he said the other day? “I like lions. They’re cool.” Cal showed the would-be bully the teeth of a lion and the kid sat back down hurriedly, letting Cal walk on to find his seat. By now the bus was halfway down the street and I was thinking that hateful idiot VanBuren could be right this one time.

  Cal probably shouldn’t play sports anymore.

  Lions didn’t play to win. Lions didn’t play at all.

  Lions survived.

  * * *

  There was nothing in the newspaper or on the Internet in the high school library about a missing prostitute. But it had been only last night. That sort of information would take days, maybe weeks to pop up considering her occupation. Considering if she went with Junior at all. She could have the worst drug habit in the world, but one look at the sweaty, watery-eyed, generally leaky blob that was Junior could change anyone’s mind and put them on the straight and narrow. It could be that Junior had been asking for directions or decided that a prostitute the hepatitis yellow of old chicken fat was one disease risk too many. He did work in a hospital, cafeteria or not. He had to know some people were deathly ill by looking at them no matter how dim he was.

  The hospital. Lawrence Memorial, had to be, it was basically the only hospital to speak of in New London. I could tell Cal we were checking to see if Junior did work there or if he’d lied. If he was behind plastic, slowly scooping up burned squares of lasagna with a blank expression, wearing a hairnet and plastic gloves, looking as harmless as he had in his bathrobe only more so, Cal could be persuaded no one like that could be a serial killer so clever that the police wasn’t aware he existed. I could convince myself as well. After last night, I was not having doubts, but . . . questions. Junior wasn’t a killer, but you didn’t have to be a killer to be a predator. It was best to cover all the bases.

  “Hey, Leandros.” There was a hot and heavy breath hitting the skin of my neck not covered by my ponytail. “My uncle lives on your block. He says your mom’s a whore.” There was the laugh of an excit
ed monkey, screeching and aggressive. “’S’at true?”

  I turned off the library computer and swiveled in my chair to see buzzed brown hair and gunmetal eyes. Rex. That wasn’t his real name. That wasn’t a dog’s real name these days, but it was all I could be bothered to remember. Rex. Bully. Brothers who were already in prison and waiting for him to join them. Completely not worth my time. “She is,” I said agreeably, standing a little too close in his personal space. He automatically stepped back and my lip curled. Bullies, so predictable. “But she charges extra for pathetic fumbling virgins like you. You might want to save up.” I walked around him and went out the door.

  Cal was a lion, but he wasn’t the only one.

  * * *

  Cal shifted from foot to foot in the autumn brown grass. He was nervous. Cal didn’t get nervous or he hadn’t much past the age of seven. “It’s a good plan,” I repeated. “We go in, find the cafeteria, check that Junior actually works there. We might even be able to talk to some people there.” Or I would. Cal was not especially adept at being casual if there was nothing physical to be gained. “Ask what kind of place it is to work. Are the people nice. Are there any weirdos because I’ve worked with them before and I don’t want to again. It’s simple and it’ll work.” I wouldn’t use the word weirdos if it weren’t a con, if only a little one. When I went to college, I’d fit in. My vocabulary would be correct, my behavior perfect, my grades exemplary, and that would save Cal and me.

  Being perfect.

  Ducking his head, Cal stared at the strip of grass we stood on along with its one spindly tree that would explode with cherry blossoms in the spring. For now it was bare and vulnerable and Cal was doing a flawless imitation of the same. “It’s a good plan,” he echoed me with an uneasy mutter. He looked up at the ER entrance, the place that had the most people coming and going. Blending in would be easier there than the front. I’d taken a look there first. The moment you stepped in you were facing an information desk with sharp-eyed elderly volunteers who wanted to know where, why, who, when . . . trying to be helpful. They would’ve been more helpful without the security office six feet away.