“S’what happened?”
“I gave him my ID. Fake, o’ course. I got it from Basil—which, by the way, I need the Yeti’s new address from you later, get some more fakes he’s supposed to have waiting on me—but anyway, the cop knew my face. By that time an enhanced image of the banks’ security cameras started circulating, courtesy of the FBI.”
“Yeah, I remember that shit. I was tellin’ e’rybody around here, like, ‘Spence done fucked up now.’ I was still pullin’ fuh ya, yo,” he said, toasting the memory of the Spencer That Was and downing the last of his beer before grabbing another one from the fridge. “I heard ya beat a fuckin’ cop nearly to death before they pulled ya in. Didn’t go out like no punk, eh? Was it the cop that pulled you over?”
Spencer nodded. “Yep. He asked me to step outta the car. Now, I knew what the score was. He was gonna check me out, pat me down, but his back-up was probably already on the way. He didn’t wanna just ask me to stay inside my vehicle because he was actually pretty smart. He figured if I lingered much longer, I’d know that he recognized me and I’d speed away. So he asked me to get outta the car. I got maybe two steps out before I head-butted him an’ then he an’ I went at it. He went right to the ground but snatched the collar of my jacket and pulled me down with him. They’re not supposed to do that, they’re supposed to roll so that they can get to their gun or Taser and make space to shoot, but I guess it’s the animal in fighters like us. An’ fuck, was he a fighter.”
“His back-up show up an’ fuck you up?”
“Yep. But not before I fucked him up good.”
“How so?”
Spencer looked up at him. “You sure you wanna know?”
“Uncle Spence, please tell me the story o’ the little piggy ya fucked up.” Pat had on a childish grin. The folks in the Bluff had ever despised the police, and it would surely always be so.
“I bit off his nose,” Spencer started. “I swallowed it. They tried to give me syrup of ipecac—you know, the automatic vomit stuff?—and tried to see if I could puke it up so that they could reattach it to his face. I held it down as long as I could, but it finally came up. I hear they reattached it, but it doesn’t look too good. Had to take some flesh off his ass and grow it on his forehead to make it look better, but still…” He shrugged. “I bit off a finger when he pushed at my face, but I didn’t get a chance to swallow that one. He pulled out his Taser with his free hand, screamin’ the whole time, but he couldn’t make it work and I just kept head-butting him. He was goin’ unconscious by the time the other two patrol cars pulled up.”
Now, Pat’s smile had died. He’d wanted to hear about a pig getting fucked up, and he’d gotten it. Only it’s not exactly what he thought he’d hear, Spencer thought. A couple of punches, maybe. A knee to the groin. Maybe a broken limb or somethin’. But not a face bitten off. Not a finger that I meant to swallow an’ a nose that I did.
But what Spencer had left out was a thing he felt not even Pat could endure, because most people couldn’t. After all, how does one explain that the more he bit and tore at the police officer’s face, the more aroused he’d become? And how would Spencer be able to explain—and make Pat understand—how he’d come in his pants during the beating the cops gave him. He’d relished it, every knuckle and boot heel that smashed against his body.
Pat took a sip of his beer, and said, “I bet they—fucked—you—up, didn’t they?”
“A tweaked elbow and a dislocated shoulder that got fixed up courtesy o’ the taxpayers,” he said, chuckling. “Otherwise, just some cuts an’ bruises. Some bleeding, of course. Nothing that didn’t heal up completely in two months.”
“An’ then?”
Spencer looked up at him. “Then, what?”
Pat reached out and smacked Spencer’s knee. “Don’t leave me in suspense, nigga! I axed you about Leavenworth? What happened when ya got in the joint, playa? How the fuck did you get outta there?”
“That’ll require another cold one,” Spencer said, holding out his hand.
Pat sighed, and gave a knowing smile. He reached into the miniature fridge and plucked another Bud out, tossed it at him, and fixed him with a look that said No more bullshit.
“They said I found a weakness in the fence, a minor hole that’s since been covered up, and that I snuck away in the night, got picked up by some friends waiting for me nearby, and we drove off.”
Pat nodded. “But that ain’t the whole troof, is it?”
“No. You want the whole truth?”
“Fuh sho, money. That’s what I been askin’ this whole fuckin’ time!”
Spencer popped the lid off his beer, wincing again at the snap-pop-hiss, and took a sip. He enjoyed the buzz he was getting for a moment, then lowered the bottle and said, “I walked out.” He took another sip, and savored the look of disbelief on Pat’s face as he stared at him over the bottle. He lowered it, smacked his lips, and sighed. This is the life.
“You walked out,” Pat said skeptically.
“That’s right,” Spencer said. “Right out the front fuckin’ door.”
“Bullshit.”
“It gets even better.”
“Yeah? How?”
Spencer smiled. “They opened it for me.” He couldn’t help it anymore. He laughed so hard he nearly pissed himself. For a moment, for just one instant, he thought he heard children screaming. And he thought he heard them close by, although their screams were muffled, like they had something in their mouths. It interrupted him for maybe only a second, and the sounds were gone. Probably just the drills in the shop going to work.
When the first gunshot went off, it jolted Kaley, who had gasped an instant before it happened because she felt it coming. She had felt it coming. That sickening anticipation, like having to go number two but having to hold it. It hurt. The anticipation hurt everything inside her. The others hadn’t known it was coming, but the burly, lusty white man with the crimson bear tattoo had known. It had been his plan all along.
First, there was loud, rancorous bickering just down the hall. Lots of raised voices. Adrenaline surged through her. It was the adrenaline of the dying. Each gunshot hammered in her head and in her heart. She felt the fear of the others who were taking the bullets. She also felt their pain, and the sinking knowledge that they were going to die.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Glass and furniture crashed. There was the sound of heavy objects hitting the floor.
Bodies, she knew.
Kaley started yanking and pulling at her cuffs throughout this madness. She jerked and pulled and wrenched against her bonds until they bit into her wrists and brought blood.
A few minutes ago Shannon had lowered her head, closed her eyes, and looked ready for sleep. That’s good. Let her sleep, Kaley had thought. She needed it.
The gunshots jolted Shannon awake. The Little Sister Terror that Kaley now felt was at a crescendo. She was taking it all in again—the dark room, the cluttered floor, the ceiling fan on its most sluggish setting and the Marilyn Manson poster on the far wall—and was recalling with startling clarity where she was and what sort of predicament they were in.
The Little Sister Terror made Kaley dizzy, nauseous, and she almost blinked out.
Four more gunshots followed, along with screaming. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG! “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck y—!” Another shot fired and silenced that screamer forever. Somebody else started begging. “No, man…no, no, no, please, dawg, no, man, NO!”
BANG!
Somehow, that last bang had finality. The period at the end of a long, angry sentence.
Kaley sat there, panting. She smelled something. Faintly, she was aware that Shan had peed herself again. She looked over at her little sister, saw that she was looking up at the ceiling with tearful eyes. She’s asking God for help. Kaley didn’t feel that, she just knew. They didn’t go to church very often, just whenever Mom sent them to Aunt Tabitha’s. Aunt Tabitha always made sure the girls had nice clot
hes to go see the Reverend, and though Shannon was very small (or, perhaps, because she was so very small), she understood that some powerful being was “up there” somewhere, and was supposed to be a just and considerate Lord that protected the weak and punished the wicked.
We need that kind of help. Oh God, help us! Help us, please! Send your best angel! Then, she felt something twist inside her guts, she felt the violent yet joyful emotions of the white man down the hall, triumphant now with the final shot fired. No, send your worst! Send the ugliest fucking one! Help us!
A minute went by. She heard nothing else from anywhere in the house. Not a footstep. Not a television. Nothing.
They’re dead, she thought. They’re all dead except the tattooed white man. Kaley knew it was true. The black man who put the gun to my sister’s head and threatened to kill her is dead. There ought to have been satisfaction in that thought but there wasn’t. There should have been because, strange as it was, they were now trapped with the creature so abnormal the others had repudiated him.
Like two dogs fighting over a bone. And we’re the bone.
She heard talking. It was the burly white man, talking to himself. Or, no, probably not to himself. Probably on the phone with someone. His voice approached, and when the door flung open and Oni came inside with that wife beater of his bloodied and his brow glistening with sweat in the moonlight, both Kaley and Shannon froze. It was probably something ingrained in every animal. Don’t move, and the monster won’t see you.
Oni flipped on the light switch with his gun barrel—it was some kind of silver pistol that Kaley didn’t recognize—and he held a cell phone to his ear with his other hand.
“Harosho. Da, harosho,” Oni was saying, glancing at the two girls and checking on them the way he might a pair of dogs, worried that the fracas between humans would’ve caused them to thrash against their bonds and kill themselves. “Ya tebya penimayu. Da. Da.” He walked right over to girls and leaned over them. Both Kaley and Shannon now tried to roll out of his way, but their hands were firmly secured to the space heater. He parted the curtains above Kaley’s head with his gun and said, “Shto? Net, net. Ya pozvonyu tebe pozdnee.”
What language was that? Russian? German? It certainly didn’t sound like French or Spanish, at least no kind that Mrs. Moore at English Avenue Middle School had ever taught.
Kaley felt something swell inside her. It wasn’t the lust from the white man. No, that had been replaced by his need for survival. And that was what she felt. He looked panicked. His eyes were wide and wild, darting here and there, talking rapidly to someone over the phone and mostly ignoring the girls at his feet. Why be concerned with us? We’re nothing. Less than human. We’re a…a…
She searched for the word Mrs. Holloway used in advanced economics. A commodity. We’re something to hold onto, an investment. Yes, they were something that accrued worth over time, something to barter with, but something that would depreciate over time if not handed off quickly. A hot commodity.
“Da, neplokho,” Oni was saying. He checked his watch. “Chas? Da. Do vstrechi.” He hung up, and looked down at her. “You stay calm now. We leave soon.” He put his cell phone in his side pocket. “I be back with keys.” He left the room and was gone for over a minute. During that time Kaley tried to send some feedback to Shan via her charm, since she could reach her to hug her or just be close to her. Kaley tried to send reassurances, but nothing was getting through. Shan was alternately whimpering and sobbing, and wouldn’t (or couldn’t?) look at her sister.
When Oni returned, he did indeed have the keys to the handcuffs. He knelt in front of Kaley and said, “You try to run, I kill her.” The same basic threat that the black guy had given her. “Nod.” Her head felt like it was filled with cement. She nodded so sluggishly, still hating herself for not listening to the charm like Nan had told her to do so many times before. I called her crazy once to her face, she recalled. And she remembered the hurt expression on Nan’s face. It hurt to recall that expression. Then she recalled Nan’s last words to her: “Oh, chil’…you got a lotta hurt comin’ yo way…good luck…”
Satisfied that his threat had been respected, Oni undid Kaley’s handcuffs, and then immediately snatched her up by her twisted hair and flung her to the floor. Her head still hurt from where he’d torn hair out when she tried to escape. Kaley had forgotten about that until now.
Shan was even easier to deal with. Oni made the same threat to her (“If you fucking fight me, or try run, I kill sister, da?”), and got a weak nod. Kaley watched as her sister’s bonds were undone and she was lifted off the floor. She was so limp she looked like she was a cripple. I know how she feels. Their shared experience—shared both in reality and via the charm—had made Kaley’s legs weak as water.
“Outside,” said Oni, a villain unlike any the White Ninja had ever had to face in his long and storied career.
The two sisters both struggled to their feet, helping each other up—Kaley helping Shannon mostly—swaying uneasily on their way to the door. She thought her little sister would have to wait to see a dead body—Kaley had only been to one funeral herself, and she had been so young she almost didn’t understand it at all—but it seemed that tonight might have more terrors in store for her. Spur of the moment, she reached out to hug her sister and cover her eyes, confident that Oni would stop her from doing it but trying it anyway. Lo and behold, Oni didn’t try to stop her. As they walked down the quiet hall, Kaley kept her hands cupped over Shannon’s eyes, both of them sniffling as they shuffled slowly, like how they had done years ago when trying not to get caught searching for presents on Christmas Eve. Even though the cuffs had been removed from their feet they both took such baby steps.
The first body was laying arms akimbo beside a kitchen table. Kaley hadn’t been ready for it at all. They simply rounded a corner, and there it was. It was one of the black men, the shorter one. He was on his back, two red holes at the center of his chest that were still spilling out his life’s blood. Kaley felt him. She felt him still dying. His chest wasn’t moving up and down anymore, and his eyes stared vacantly off to one side, trying to remember something. He wasn’t moving, and wasn’t breathing, but he wasn’t entirely dead yet. Somewhere deep within him, there was still his essence. She felt it.
A comb that had been placed decoratively in the dead man’s hair was now lying in the pool of blood spilling out the back of him. Kaley stared at the comb, fixated for a reason she couldn’t explain. She would remember that comb for a long, long time.
Shannon trembled in her arms beside her. Kaley tried to say, “Don’t look,” but all that came out was “Nuh huk.”
“Fucking move,” said Oni.
They shuffled through the kitchen, passing into another hallway where a bedroom door stood wide open. They moved past it. Kaley chanced a glance, saw a pair of legs on the bed, the torso hanging off the other side, and a blood spatter against the wall in a pattern that reminded Kaley of fireworks, the trails they left behind when their various arms fell back to earth just before they winked out.
“Fucking move,” Oni insisted.
Shannon sniffled.
They moved into the living room, where the real havoc had happened. Four men lay dead in various positions—one sitting in a chair, one on the floor with his arms up across a coffee table, one near the door (almost made it), and one crumpled in an odd, upside-down fetal position between a recliner and a TV stand. The closest one to Kaley was the one sitting in his chair—probably had been standing until blasted backwards. He rested comfortably now, looking ready to watch tonight’s football game. His right hand was hanging off the armrest. He had a gun on the floor beside that hand (almost made it). Two bullets had ended him, one to the chest and one that tore through his face, ripped off half his nose and exploded one eye socket. Blood and mucous leaked out of the socket like fake movie blood. Strangely, Kaley thought, Looks like White Ninja Meets Shaolin Crane got it right.
It was shock. Shock that was somewh
at tempered by the strange sense that most of these men weren’t entirely dead yet. There was still something inside them, something that lingered. It would someday terrify Kaley to consider that, once she died, she might linger inside her own body as well, and she might potentially feel everything the coroners and the morticians were doing to her—removing her intestines and replacing them with newspapers, the whole embalming process, et cetera—perhaps right through the burial and everything. Every piece of these people was alive. The smallest biological pieces were living, all the cells, all the bacteria inside the stomach, it still had a purpose. And, on some level, the brain was still working.
I don’t want to die like this, she thought, looking over at the man crumpled between the TV stand and the recliner. He was still inside there, his spirit or his soul or his thoughts or whatever still lingering. Not like this. When I die, I want to die!
A part of her worried that Shan felt it, too, that tenuous place between life and death. Her Nan had once told her something that was supposed to be helpful, although Kaley wasn’t sure what it meant: “To be living is to be dying, and to be dying is to be living.” It had made sense, yet was senseless, and it was all she could think of as she looked at the blood leaking out of the crumpled man’s ears and nostrils. The hole at the center of his head, surprisingly, wasn’t leaking at all. He’s dying…so he’s still living.
“Move,” Oni reminded her.
And so they did. They moved a bit more quickly now at his urging. The gun touched Kaley once at the back of the head, and twice at the back of Shannon’s. They moved around an easel that had fallen over and hustled out the front door into a dark, secluded neighborhood that she wasn’t sure she recognized. Two orange streetlights were all that lit the street, which was surrounded by briars, bushes and brambles. Where are we? Where did they take us?
“Move,” Oni said. “Over there.” He used his gun to gesture to a narrow patch of woods she didn’t recognize.
Psycho Save Us Page 9