The War Against the Assholes

by Sam Munson

  What it was, I knew already. A sweet stink in the side room. A leaden, long-brewed silence. I shut my eyes, I admit it, as I stepped across the threshold. I didn’t want to look. In the end, you have to look. A simple bed. I’d seen its foot already. Above it the same impossible and starry sky. A wooden table, on which sat a half-drunk glass of water, now bubbling and stale. On the bed lay Hob. Or what had once been Hob. His throat sliced open. I saw: white gristle, blackish inner flesh. Gray tubes. The pinkish root of his tongue. The bedclothes brown with dried blood. His eyes open. His mouth open. I touched his palm. Without meaning to. His small hands locked and flexed as though in terror.

  22

  He was alive when I talked to him,” said Vincent, “he was alive when I talked to him.” “You don’t know that,” said Alabama. She was chivvying Quinn and Sasha upright, their backs against a wall. They left curved smears of fresh blood, charting their movement. “Please don’t kill us,” said Quinn. Pleading. His face ashen. His animal teeth agleam in the lamplight. Sasha wasn’t talking. Her eyelids fluttered. I respected her silence. “Fix them,” Alabama said to Vincent. “Not going to happen,” he said through his tears. “There’s already one person dead here,” she said. “Fuck you,” Vincent said again, “there’s two.” “You know what I meant,” said Alabama. Vincent took Quinn by the throat and spat into his face as he pressed his palm against the wound. Cords stretched in Vincent’s neck. His eyes bulged. Quinn’s color returned: ashes and chalk no more. Vincent palmed Sasha’s shoulder. “Don’t look at me,” he said. Chin shaking. Sweat dripping. She kept her face turned. When he removed his hand the red patch on her white shirt stopped growing. He showed Alabama his open palm. Two bullets. Still gory. “Satisfied,” he said. He pocketed the rounds. His knees buckled. He steadied himself.

  Are you an asshole. So said Mr. Stone. One true art exists: the art of choice. So said Erzmund. No comfort to be derived from those words. Even though Potash had killed Hob. Worse: tried to deny it. You only redouble your guilt through equivocation and lying. Still, when you’re young, your stupidity, commonly called innocence, enfolds and insulates you. All the same I was cold. Stunned and light-headed. Potash lay at my feet. One arm upraised as though in victory. Even dead, he looked like a fucking magician. Far more so than his protégés. Who seemed to have fallen asleep under Vincent’s ministrations. Sasha snored. Mouth open. Her tongue large and pink. Quinn cradled his broken wrist. Even in sleep. “This is bullshit,” Vincent said. His voice crumpled and low. “He was alive. It was him. This is not how it’s supposed to go,” he said. “I know that,” said Alabama. “What am I going to do about my parents? They think he’s on a trip to Spain,” he said. His voice broke.

  The elevator entrance we’d stepped through: gone. Replaced by blank white plaster. A reproduction of a painting hung smugly on the wall. Farmhouse, hillside, golden crops, and in the foreground a white-blossomed chestnut tree. “How long are they going to sleep for,” said Alabama. “I don’t know,” said Vincent, “but can we kill them too.” “Let’s not argue in circles here,” I said. Alabama slid her pistol back into the waistband of her jeans. “He’s correct,” she said. She looked pale. Even for her. Sweat gemmed her hairline and her cheeks looked hollow. We checked the other side rooms: they all had beds. Beds and end tables and starry ceilings. Another comet streaked. Vincent kicked Potash’s corpse. His bone chip rattled. Vincent knelt and snapped the chain. Worked the ring off his finger. “Vincent,” said Alabama. “Don’t try,” said Vincent, “to lay any solemnity bullshit on me. He’s my brother. Plus Stone will want these.”

  Cold pressure against the underside of my neck. The flesh on my arms knotted into goose bumps. Horripilation. That’s what that’s called. Another word I learned from Hob. “We need to leave,” I said. No certain knowledge. I had a strong guess. She was on her way. Messaline. My cock got rock-hard. This bothered me more than anything else that had happened so far. Another sign of youth, which is to say stupidity. Mike Wood: standing in a room with two corpses, sporting a hard-on for a nine-hundred-year-old witch. “We have to take him with us,” said Vincent. Not a question, or even a proposal. Just a simple statement of fact. “You know that’s not possible,” said Alabama. Vincent examined the bone chip. Held it up in the air, to catch the sourceless light. The chip glowed, translucent. “It is possible, Alabama, so we’re going to take him with us.” He pocketed the necklace. Slipped the ring on his own finger. “That fat cocksucker,” he said: the fit was too loose. “We can’t do it,” said Alabama, “I’m sorry.” Vincent bent over Sasha, his hands at her throat. He was removing her green pendant. Not hurting her, as I’d first imagined. He did not look at Alabama. His voice: quiet. The voice a teacher uses when talking to a stupid and recalcitrant child. “We can do it, and we are going to do it,” he said, “we are going to take him back with us.”

  “You know how to get back,” said Alabama. Vincent didn’t answer. The cold draft started to stir the papers on Potash’s desk and finger the pages of the phone-book-sized volume that lay open upon it. Angular characters, tiny, covered them. “You even know how to get out of here,” she said. Vincent said nothing. Sasha whimpered in her sleep. “We need to leave,” I said. The air carried the scent of stone or snow. Her scent. My blood pounded. Rose to my neck, cheeks, hairline. “Vincent, I am so sorry to say this but we can’t, we just can’t,” said Alabama. She barked the last word. I’d never heard her raise her voice before. “We can, we can,” Vincent said, “we can and we’re going to.” His voice broke on the final syllable. Sasha’s pendant dangled from his upraised fist. The chain tinkling in the rising cold wind. I think Vincent knew we couldn’t. He still had to object. That point comes for everyone. Keep silent and you won’t able to face yourself every morning in the mirror. Hard enough to do that anyway. The air: cooling down. “Do you feel that,” I said. Alabama nodded. “No exit,” said Vincent, “like that stupid play.” “That’s not true, though,” I said. Alabama followed my glance. The branches. The night. A long, singing sigh ran through the cooling air. As though Mountjoy House itself were sighing with weariness. “Just climb down, you mean,” said Vincent. “Why not? I’d rather die on the run,” said Alabama. “They’re not going to kill us,” said Vincent, “they’re a bunch of cowards.”

  Hob. His thin throat open. Bleeding out in that guest bed. Vincent looked at me. I looked at him. Another musical groan filled the air. Growing colder. “Do you really want to wait around,” I said, “until whatever it is shows up to deal with us?” Alabama sat astride a branch. “It’s stable,” she said. “No,” said Vincent. “You think he would have wanted you dead, too,” said Alabama. Vincent ground his fists into his eyes. I felt even sicker. I’d never seen anyone killed. When you’ve beaten a guy into unconsciousness, he still breathes. His eyes still quiver. Under his lids. Never, never, never, never, never. The words chased themselves, a mocking chant. Vincent was breathing through his teeth and saying, “Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine. Okay? Okay? Okay? Okay? Okay?” He finished by screaming. Alabama didn’t respond. Iron Tom, Mr. Potash had called the tree. It. Him. “Smells like lavender,” said Alabama, “the leaves I mean.” Vincent said, “You useless.” Voice clogged with spittle. Didn’t supply a noun. I breathed the lavender scent. Not lavender. Similar. It masked the cloying smell of Potash’s blood. He put one hand on a wide, warm branch. He lifted his right foot.

  And then he lowered it. He seemed to be listening. To a voice he could barely hear. “Don’t be an idiot,” said Alabama. “Don’t tell me what to do,” said Vincent. The air got colder. My blood pumped. Heart, lungs, brain, hands, cock. It increased the after-pains. I had to bite my lip. “Do you see what’s going on here,” said Alabama. “I’m not leaving him,” said Vincent, “I don’t care what happens. Do you understand me? Do you understand me? Do you understand me?” He’d started crying again. So, to my shock, had Alabama. Not weeping. Tears were sliding down her face. I was on an outside branch already. Al
abama was still bathed in the warm light of the office. Which is how I saw her tears. “Vincent,” she said, “he’s dead, all right?” Vincent shrugged and smiled. His brother’s crooked, abashed smile. “I’m going,” he said, “to be fine.” He chewed his lip as he spoke. I thought from tears. Wrong. Laughter. I didn’t blame him. Alabama didn’t speak. She squirreled out and joined me on my branch and we started to climb down. The air strange. I inhaled. Balmy. Still. Leaf scented. Water scented. Calming and still. It reminded me of the smoke from Vincent’s cigarettes.

  Vincent: outlined in shadow, poised among the branches. Mountjoy House sighing and the cold wind rising and rising within it. The night-colored river I’d seen from the library windows divided the lawn below us. Not far down: thirty, forty feet. The geometry of the building I could not fathom. From our perch in the tree we could see that the roofs of Mountjoy, angled and canted and looking built up over time with no plan, spread and spread. The roofs of a small city. The roofless projection of the building that housed Potash’s office—former office, I should say—was half supported by wood and masonry and half supported by the trunk and branches of Iron Tom. The elevator ride made no sense in this context. Then again, neither had the lobby or library. Or the fact that we were shimmying down a giant tree of no known species under a sky full of stars neither of us recognized. Not that we were nature scouts. Night sounds. Babble of the river.

  You don’t get a lot of tree-climbing practice in Manhattan. So we struggled. I admit. Though the tree seemed to have been designed for human climbing. Deep hand- and footholds in the bark, honey colored; branches sticking out every five or six feet. I say we struggled: I mean I struggled. Alabama never missed a grab or a foot-plant. The large, serrated leaves rustled as we passed through them. They brushed our faces and ears. With curiosity, almost. Nothing malign. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” said Alabama. I did not know if she meant descending to the unfamiliar ground. Or leaving Hob’s dead body and Vincent’s living one in Potash’s office. Or both. Or neither. Out over the lawn fireflies pulsed gently, white, amber, orange, pink. The same insects had been trapped in the jars in the library to give light. I couldn’t believe we were doing this either. Descending. That Hob was dead. That we were alive. That Alabama Sturdivant had just murdered the de facto head of the theurgical community on the East Coast, as Mr. Stone would have put it. I could not believe how easy it had been. Mr. Stone had made him sound extremely dangerous. He had taken Hob, the first time, with such little effort. Then again, all I’d had was my fist. He had a bodyguard. Fat guys, I reasoned, get complacent. And if you have to jabber on for two to five seconds before you get down to business, a girl with a gun will defeat you. Especially if you are doing the jabbering on in a foreign language. A simple question of tactics.

  The grass of the lawn lapping Mountjoy House reached my ankles. We stood there in the unseasonal warmth in our coats and hats. Alabama pressed her hand against the tree trunk. Then we started off. Walking along the river toward the forest edge. Across the meadow field. Under the alien stars. Cry of night birds. At least I assumed they were birds. “He’s going to get killed,” I said. “Yes. I think so. The air kind of smells like Connecticut in April,” said Alabama.

  23

  Are you awake, Mr. Wood, or are you dreaming? So Sister Immacu­lata asked me. No mortal can answer that question. We left the amber penumbral glow of Mountjoy House behind us. I kept checking to see if pursuers had appeared. Flashlights on the lawn. I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe they’d let us go to die of exposure. Maybe they would consider it a wash and move on. You can’t judge the personality of a whole organization. Especially schools. Schools value only one thing above cruelty and stupidity: caprice. We ran. Alabama taking long, choppy strides, holding her pistol with two hands to keep a grip and be ready to fire, I thought. I wished I had a weapon. Two fists and a hard head don’t count.

  The grass hit our knees. The soil by the river was spongy but not muddy. The multicolored fireflies blinked on and off as we ran along the water, heading toward the woods. The over-the-shoulder looks stopped. The night was quiet enough that we would have heard any ruckus of pursuit. Nobody came. We still trotted. We hit the edge of the trees. “Okay,” said Alabama. Slowed down. “What now,” I said. “I have no idea,” she said. So we kept going. The air much cooler within the border of the trees. The moonlight and starlight much brighter. We had to march with care. The forest coalesced. From wide-spaced stands of trees to dense bramble. Trees that looked like oak. Like Iron Tom. Trees that looked like sycamore. Almost-birches. I peeled a scrap of bark as I walked by. Papery. Just like at home.

  “Did you ever write on them,” said Alabama. “Of course,” I said. “I used to write messages for people on them,” she said. A hollow, plaintive, and melodic cry rose and fell. “That makes sense,” I said. “Not people I knew,” said Alabama. The lambent moon above us. Its shadows and pockmarks different. No gouty face. Instead I saw a dragon. Rearing. Foreclaws raised. Or just a smear of ashen gray. You never can tell with the moon. “There’s a birch outside my house,” Alabama said. The wild cry repeated. Closer and clearer. “And you used to tear bark from it,” I said. More to hear myself talk than to answer. Your own voice reassures you. A branch swiped my face. Fruit dangled from it, under heart-shaped leaves. Grape-black in the moonlight. “Do you think we could eat these,” I said. “I mean, we could,” said Alabama. One had burst against my forehead: a cool, sticky juice trickled down. It smelled like smoke and mangoes when I wiped it away. “I used to write on it with black crayon and send the bark down the gutter stream in front of my house,” said Alabama, “Mark and Lena loved it. They have like thirty million pictures.”

  Progress: simple. We followed the river. “It has to end,” said Alabama. “In a sea,” I said, “or its source, right?” Primitive truth will not fail you. Copious moonlight. Not a crow to be seen. I wondered if they existed here. Wherever we were. I didn’t mention that. Neither did Alabama. As far as terrain went it was no worse than walking through the woodsier parts of the park, in the dead of night. Mild hills and dips. Knuckly roots. I tripped over one and stumbled. I soaked my coat sleeve in the river. “Shit,” I said. The water teemed with darting, golden fish. Faintly alight. Tiny black eyes. Tiny yellow fins. They didn’t flee my sleeve when it broke the surface. They scraped the cloth and the skin of my wrist with their delicate jaws. They knew me. Or had been expecting me. At least that’s the first thought that flashed through my head, watching them swim and arrow, point to point. Watching them glow. “Wow,” said Alabama. I’d never heard her sound impressed before. She dipped up a double handful of water. The fish circled between her palms. The faint light touched her chin. Lit up her eyelashes and dark eyes. The sweat at her hairline and at her temples.

  To my amazement, the flickering points in the water started to rise into the air. Forming a small cloud of golden motes above her cupped hands. The fish leaving their element behind, floating off among the dark branches. Their illumination so delicate I could not see them once they’d drifted beyond Alabama’s narrow head. “Wow,” she repeated. She got down on her knees. Held up one finger: wait a second, let me finish talking. Loudly, violently, wrenchingly, she vomited on the black soil. Her cropped head bobbed. Her shoulders shook. Bile fountained out of her open mouth. She aimed away from the river. “You okay,” I said when she’d gotten back up. “Now I am,” she said. Her breathing still ragged. I took off my wet-sleeved coat and sweater. So did she. The air warm and sweet. Another brace of that nameless fruit hung over us. She took one down and examined it in the river light. Deep red. She opened her mouth and placed it on her tongue. “There are worse ways to die,” she said around the fruit. I took one. I ate it. As soon as the juice touched my tongue I knew we’d be all right. It tasted the way it smelled. Smoke and mangoes. Fall and summer at the same time. No pit. No seeds. Flesh of a cherry. Also of an apple. Alabama crammed two more into her mouth. The
juice blackly stained her lips and shining teeth. Trying to erase the taste of bile. “These are delicious,” I said. “And nutritious,” she said.

  Silence. River sound and river light. The loud cries were, I was sure, following us. I wasn’t worried. Alabama could take care of animal threats. Especially birds, I figured, which was what these sounded like. We loaded up my sweater with berries: Alabama tied it into a bag and we stripped three branches. I was starving. She must have been, too, having emptied her stomach. Her hairline still glistened with sweat in the moonlight. She walked with her gun out, pointed at the earth. The river followed a straight course. The dragon-shadowed moon above and its twin in the phosphorescent water. “Do you think it’s two parts of the life cycle,” I said. “What are you talking about,” she said. “The fish in the water and the fireflies,” I said. My mouth full of berry. “I’m no zoologist,” she said. She sounded anxious. Her shoulders, at least, under their blue shirt, expressed anxiety. Some people have expressive backs.