Seven Devils

by M. Chris Benner

  “Good luck,” Travis wishes him, though Steve can no longer hear it.

  I open the passenger door, ducking out of the car and into the darkness of the alleyway. The night is warm and, once clear of the car, I stand to walk inconspicuously, turning out of the alley and down the street. A homeless man sleeps against the base of a boarded up, long abandoned store. There’s a shadowy figure beside a front stoop smoking a cigarette, his head turning to follow my casual pace. At the end of the block (where a Stop sign has sloppy black graffiti reading the ubiquitous DICK), I turn right to circle long-ways.

  The thing about North Philadelphia is that it used to be prosperous. My father used to take David and I around to show us how the architecture had been developed during the Industrial Revolution, when North Philly was “a working man’s town.” It had also been early to racially integrate into the neighborhoods (“except for the tinier streets”). The economy took a hit, the whites left, and the neighborhoods nosedived. Large areas of once-striking-now-condemned buildings had been bulldozed and replaced with tracts of public housing. Everywhere it was dirty and vulgar with graffiti. Our father had an affinity for North Philly, something that didn’t rub off on me.

  David and I interpreted these trips differently: David always saw himself – he felt trapped, like a person that couldn’t leave the shithole parts of North Philly; I always saw the city in front of me, saw the shittiest parts of North Philly as a destination where poor decisions would lead.

  In the time before reaching the end of the second block, Augustus gives me the go ahead and I make a call to the police, explaining that I had heard gunshots in the same alleyway as the law offices of Roberts and Dunham. (Augustus had specifically arranged for the number of the phone to register as a nearby pay phone on the dispatch computer.)

  Almost as soon as I hang up, there’s the sound of a monstrous explosion.

  Running at full-pace, I cross the street and turn right, covering half a block to the opposite end of the alleyway I had just exited, rounding the corner. Halfway down, it’s apparent that the front half of my new Dotson has been jammed directly into the front half of a sedan so badly that it’s mashed the two cars into one. Smoke cyclones under an orange light directly over the accident, and a man in a suit stands beside the rubble – I recognize him immediately as one of the men from building A. His sleeve is next to his mouth and it appears he’s talking to it.

  Before I can approach, he lifts the gun already drawn in his hand to accurately point it at my head, demanding, “Stop where you are!” I stop and put both hands over my head, calling out some fifteen feet from him and the mangled wreckage of the two cars, “I-I just heard the accident. Is-is everyone alright?”

  He ignores me and lowers the gun. Tires screech and an identical sedan enters the alley from the opposite direction. It pulls up behind the wreck and two other suited men step out, leaving the car running. One man examines the remains while the other two try opening the passenger door to the mangled sedan. The frame is too bent to open the door so they open the back one instead. One of the men disappears into the back seat and, with the help of the other two, heaves an unconscious fourth out onto the street. The three men drag the fourth to the other sedan, load him in the back seat, pile in after him, reverse, and drive away, leaving the driver in the wreck.

  “We have a serious problem,” I tell Travis and Augustus.

  “Oh God, please tell me he’s okay,” Travis whispers, mournfully.

  Both Travis and Augustus ask more questions from the Bluetooth but I ignore them, sprinting to the Dotson. The driver’s side window is busted out entirely and Steve appears to be unconscious on the wheel. I don’t touch him while checking for any serious damage he may have suffered, but he doesn’t even appear to be bleeding.

  “I’d still rather do this,” Steve groans, his eyes still closed, “then go into the sewer.”

  “Is he alright?” Travis practically pleads into my ear.

  “Yeah, he’s fine,” I say, “but that wasn’t the problem.”

  “What’s the problem?” Augustus asks.

  “There’s more than one of these places around here.”

  “Tell him I love him,” Travis says without having heard a word I said.

  “I’m not going to do that,” I tell him.

  FIRST THING IN THE MORNING

  David boards the train to New York alone.

  The ride is arduous but, as they slow to a stop in the station, he’s no more pleased being miserable in a city than he was being miserable on a train.

  With his bag around his shoulder, he steps onto the platform of the muggy station. There’s a strange poetry to the sight of a throbbing crowd that makes absolutely no sound. Maneuvering through the people, he takes a few steps before sensing a commotion behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, David finds a tall, freckled man with a crop of ginger hair and beady eyes hastily shoving himself through the members of a family. Oblivious to the family’s angry glare, he reaches David and holds his hand out in welcome.

  This is Shepard, his publishing agent.

  David shakes his thin hand, watching Shepard’s pink lips as they move fast. There’s a moment where Shepard waits for a response; not getting one, his slim lips speedily dance once more. People pass as the platform steadily empties. Shepard uses his hands to point at the train, the sky, scratch his chin, and make a gesture to suggest he’s describing someone short.

  Instead of trying to explain, David just reaches a hand in his pocket and gives Shepard the folded up paper.

  Shepard unfolds it and begins reading. David looks around, glad the crowd has gone. When he looks back, Shepard’s face is perplexed. He hands the note back and David is surprised to find the hotel stationary at the top of the page. He sticks his hand in his opposite pocket and finds another folded piece of paper, pulling it out to find that it’s the correct one.

  Shepard hands back the doctor’s note with a grimace and a pat on the back.

  His lips no longer dance, and together they leave the station.

  THE DOCTOR’S NOTE

  I apologize for this informal way of presenting you with bad news but, as you cannot hear me, I want to express this in full. The incident on the plane has shed light on a much greater threat. Family medical records show that your mother was diagnosed with a congenital auditory deficiency known as Bachman-Fischer Syndrome. This, too, is likely the cause for the vast long-term deterioration that I have found in both of your ear canals. Though your right ear will temporarily recover from the rupture in the next few days, your left ear has suffered permanent damage and will never again function as it once had. There is a need for further testing so that we may ascertain what preventative measures can be taken; however, the likelihood of a partial-to-full loss of hearing is very high at this time.

  PRANKS EVERYONE SHOULD TRY

  Chris stands in the aisle for home furnishings. The store is moderately busy, pedestrians slung over shopping carts as they wander rows of the miscellaneous; the electronics, the groceries, the kid’s bicycles, the outdoor plants, and the rest.

  “Excuse me,” Chris approaches a store attendant that had been rearranging lamps.

  The attendant looks up. He’s a teenager, probably still in high school.

  “What can a do for ya?” he asks with a look of moderate annoyance, as if he’s too busy.

  “Yeah, well uh, there’s a few things I need that I can’t seem to find.”

  “Go ‘head.”

  “It’s my wife, she sends me on…” and Chris trails off, looking serious while the attendant waits patiently for him to pull a little pink notepad from his back pocket. “Okay, first thing I need is…” and he flips the notepad to the first page, “…flammable babies. D’you have any…I found normal babies but I think they belong to a customer—”

  “That a toy?” the attendant asks, leaning over to check the writing on the notepad.

  “I—I don’t know. Let’s see what’s next, um…” flip
s the notebook page, “…peanut butter with rocks. It’s crunchy because—because it’s rocks, you know. You’re supposed to think it’s just really crunchy peanut butter.”

  The attendant looks at him and Chris can’t tell if he’s thinking about it or judging if Chris is full of shit.

  “I ain’t never heard’a no crunchy peanut butter with rocks in it.”

  “You know, my wife’s from Hollywood. Probably some Hollywood food or something. How ‘bout…” flips the page and stifles a laugh, “…she’s crazy. Do you have any wrestling moves? I haven’t seen any wrestling moves since I’ve been here.”

  “Wrestling, uh, that’s in sporting goods.”

  “Okay, so I can find the moves there?” Chris asks and the attendant nods, and Chris flips to the next page. “What about dinosaur blood?”

  “—wood to build an ark?—”

  “—children’s laughter?—”

  “—waterproof fire?—”

  “—my wildest fears?—”

  Either from the oddity of the questions, the fact that he doesn’t know where any of it is if it is in fact there, or that there can be heard a faint snickering from nearby; whatever it is, the attendance gives up, telling him to ask someone else before returning to stocking the shelves. Chris rounds the corner into the next aisle, gently grabs Lizzy’s hand, and walks her farther away, into the baby aisle, where the attendant can’t hear them.

  “That’s not fair, we could hear you laughing,” Chris scolds her, only half-serious.

  “This is like the most fun game ever. Why’d you ever stop playing?” Lizzy says, still giggling excitedly.

  “Only lived here ‘bout two years. I moved away and, so far, the only people ballsy enough to play this game were here in ‘Bama.”

  Chris has the notebook in his hand. He rips out the pages already used and begins writing on blank ones.

  “What’s ‘Bama’?”

  “Alabama.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what? Why only two years?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chris doesn’t answer right away, focusing on the paper.

  “What are you doing?” Lizzy asks nervously.

  “I’m making you a list,” he says, flipping the page.

  “What? I can’t do that,” she answers sharply.

  “Yeah you can, it’s not fair if I’m the only one.” He continues writing and flipping the pages. “And…I lived in Alabama from fifteen to…eighteen. And then I enlisted in the military. Before that, I usually traveled North. Until I moved…” he looks up at her, closing the notebook, “…to Florida.

  “Here you go,” he hands her the notebook, “just remember – pin it on someone else. Give them reasons to let you keep talking. Highest score is eight. Good luck.”

  Lizzy looks momentarily terrified.

  “Pickle…” Chris gets close to her, “…you got a fierce bravery inside you, kiddo. I know you do. I saw it when we were at that one place doing that one thing we can’t talk about.”

  Lizzy nods, her face still distorted a little.

  “You really don’t wanna do this?” Chris asks, now worried they shouldn’t be doing this, “…you totally don’t have to, Pickle.”

  “Syke!” she says, her face smiling. “It’s just acting, I love acting.”

  He chuckles at her declaration of love for acting – it’s something he always had in him; acting was just a way to make people believe you, which was helpful. From a young age, he had been “acting”, making people believe him when he needed.

  When she turns away, Chris sees the faint dread return to her face.

  He spends an extra moment staring at the baby things, curiously. There’s a wooden crib nearby and it catches his attention, keeping hold. His brow furrows, and he moves to follow Lizzy, briefly looking at the floor, his wheels rolling.

  With a glance back, Chris turns a corner.

  LIZZY’S ATTEMPT

  Lizzy travels around until she finds a friendly, plump, middle-aged female attendant. Chris can’t see the woman but he’s just around the corner, listening.

  “Can you help me?” she asks, getting the woman’s interest from off a nearby shelf.

  “Oh yes dear. Are you lost?”

  “No, I’m just having trouble finding some of the things on this list. My daddy…is making me shop for him…because…” she stops to think of a reason, “…he is an asshole. That’s why he’s making me shop for him.”

  “Oh my Lord, what?” the attendant says, horrified.

  “It’s okay,” Lizzy pulls out the notepad to begin reading.

  “Do you have any genuine monster claws?” she asks, reading from the note.

  “You can read?” the woman asks, more surprised that a ten year old can read than the question.

  “—how about Chihuahua diapers?—”

  “—butter cement?—”

  “—a real magic wand?—”

  “—giraffe tears?—”

  “—Jello molds that look like my face?—”

  The attendant didn’t respond through most of Lizzy’s odd request after odd request, her face clenching as she becomes more and more appalled until finally—

  “Where’s your father?” the female attendant asks, aghast.

  “He’s…drunk. And sleeping. In the car.”

  “Oh Jesus—” Chris says, leaping around the corner.

  The attendant screams at the extra horror of a stubbly-faced, long-haired man jumping from out of nowhere. People look over as the attendant’s yelp stops instantly. Chris takes Lizzy’s hand.

  “I’m her uncle—thank god you found her,” and then down to Lizzy, “—you haven’t been playing mean games on this poor woman, have you?” The attendant looks from Chris to Lizzy – who’s got a devilish smile across her face – and doesn’t comprehend what’s happening.

  “So sorry. Thanks for helping her,” and Chris leads Lizzy out of the store.

  As they get outside into the blinding sun, there’s a pause while Chris has an intense internal debate.

  Lizzy takes it as a bad sign.

  “I’m so sorry – please don’t be mad, I’ve never done that before. I was just doing what you said…”

  “Huh?” he looks down at her with a questioning glance. “Oh, pickle – you were amazing. Actually, you’er better than amazing considerin’ yer only ten. I’m just debating goin’ back in ‘cause we still need,” and he pulls out what appears to be a real list, “sleeping bags and…such.”

  He bites his lip, thinking harder.

  “Prolly shouldn’t head back in there, though.”

  He looks down at Lizzy. The prospect of re-entering the store causes a brief look of panic on her face. Her panicked look combined with hearing himself say it aloud makes him certain they need to head out as soon as possible.

  His next thought isn’t finished aloud.

  “I wonder if…”

  HUMAN CALCULATOR

  Steve and I spend most of the morning and afternoon in the lab alone. It’s smaller than we’re accustomed but we had to settle for whatever lab was available on short notice.

  Steve spent the early hours of the morning recuperating in bed. When I knocked and entered around 7:00 a.m., I found him lying between Travis’ legs with his head resting against his chest. Travis was leaned against the headboard and casually petting Steve’s hair, both awake and clothed but still causing that awkward stir in me that they did so often.

  I didn’t have to say anything and, as I turned to leave, could hear their faint kiss.

  They tried to spare Augustus and I from their affection but, on the days following serious threats, they didn’t care – and, truthfully, Augustus and I were fine with it, especially on the days when one of their lives had been threatened. Initially it had been surprising but now, after so many years, we really didn’t care.

  Travis is spending the day traversing the Philadelphia sewer system and complaining, in equal parts. His radio grows fuzzy and di
sconnects the deeper he goes in but, as soon as he gets reception, he rejoins for further complaining. It’s distracting so Steve and I eventually hang up and unplug our Bluetooth devices, leaving both our phones out on a nearby table, volume on full in case someone needs to contact us.

  Steve and I had gathered all his supplies in the morning hours. He had a list of things that were easy to get a hold of considering the things Steve usually requests – like the time I had to figure out how to get a 10 gallon canister of Lithinol from a secured facility and deliver it deep into a forest nearly 1,000 miles away. With a list full of different sized beakers, over-the-counter drugs, and a few hazardous, permit-required (thanks, Augustus) substances, we were finished in a few short hours. We always bring all new equipment so we can destroy the evidence when we leave, everything except for the Bunsen burners.

  “Okay, last number?” Steve asks.

  “49.77,” I answer, on the opposite side of the counter from him.

  He has me diluting ammonium, which he refers to as azanium and has caused us twice to become confused – something neither of us likes when we’re working. Apparently, it’s the same thing but I’m not the chemistry Ph.D.—I’m the physicist that didn’t finish his masters, the lab side-kick, the human calculator.

  “Let’s see…” Steve looks into a flask of red liquid sitting atop the Bunsen burner. He has a notebook next to him and writes something out, then slides the paper over to me. I look down at his scribble-writing and work out the individual details of his equation, re-writing each set of numbers—“What is that, antimony(III) chloride? SbCl3?”—and he nods, so I continue writing, re-working an error that he made—“Hey, you didn’t…”—only to realize that it’s an error I made based on his childish handwriting. Though we don’t like to be confused, we do thoroughly enjoy pointing out each other’s mistakes, as we seldom make any.

  I pass the sheet back with a circle around the number he’s looking for. He reads the number, reads the small amount of re-written work I put above it, re-reads the number, then opens his mouth to ask a question about the math but stops – he knows my math is always (always) correct but, as I don’t write out anything more than an equation (if that) he’ll sometimes ask the mathematic formula I used to substitute individual aspects of his equation.