I head to the bathroom, where Tricia is sitting on the toilet and wiping herself, that goddamned succubus of a baby still attached to her tit.
“Just a second, you shit.”
“Such a wonderful and deep vocabulary.” I wonder why Daryl sticks with her, then realize they are simply stuck with each other, stuck here in this motley apartment, dying a little more with every passing Now.
She pulls her frayed powder blue panties and skirt up and shuffles past me, pushing hard to be on her way to nowhere.
Me, I have plans.
Time to open the next doorway.
I hold the syringe up to my eyes. I smell ether, not stagnant like out there in the dying room, but with a tint of freshness. It is a natural occurrence when shooting up good shit. A welcome familiarity amid the already strange. Oddly enough, a wisp of smoke plumes from the tip of the needle. Perhaps not, perhaps it is my eyes playing tricks on me. It somehow makes me think the syringe had been set mere seconds ago (and anxious for my participation), but I saw it on the sofa for the duration of my unexpected visit to Daryl and Tricia’s apartment. Home, Sweet Hell.
The thin hint of smoke takes shape as a praying mantis, a female dining on the male after copulation. I look away and the image still plays out on my corneas. I can hear the crunch of her kill as if she was chewing her way into my skull.
Doesn’t matter. I notice something moving within the brown liquid. Something alive, but it also doesn’t matter. I am already on my way and ready to continue. To find the next doorway, and an exit from this reeking bathroom in an apartment not fit for cockroaches.
I jam the needle into my neck and immediately feel my throat constrict, as if I’d missed the artery and had injected the liquid directly into the windpipe. Clogging the passageway as the liquid hardens into concrete. I gag, drop to the floor. My eyes settle on the open mouth of the toilet that Tricia has not flushed. Something swims in there as well, bobs up and stares at me. Leers at me…
Chapter 9 Chernobyl
Something was amiss. Rudolf Chernobyl’s bloodhound skills wavered in an unexpected way. The signal from Marlon Teagarden’s tooth, the piece of torn shirt sniffed to send the bloodhound on the hunt, had fluctuated.
After he had snorted the tooth, much as he had done with items before—a frayed edge of clothing, a hair in a comb, a scissor-snipped pinkie finger crushed to sticky powder (he ate that one, actually; different process, same results)—he was able to pull up a screen in his head, his own internal GPS, and note where Teagarden was presently located. An image, black and white yet quite distinct. He was able to take it all in, appropriate the necessary information in relation to Teagarden’s surroundings, home in and be on his way.
It had never faltered before, until now. He’d flown to Oakland, California, across the bay from where he had had Alice Seniyro picked up in San Francisco—info acquired via his employer—the GPS delineating a path toward one of the darkest pockets of futility in that already dim place. Concentration narrowed the range and settled on Marlon Teagarden being in an apartment in a building that sagged as if defeated. The neighborhood seethed with disrepair, with lives beyond mending. It was filled with scraped-hollow husks of human beings who didn’t think they were in need of mending, shadow people with tiny minds and tinier ambitions.
He did not like this place.
Parking along the curb, where oil stains and garbage and even shells from bullets, recently fired, littered the street, he stepped out and straightened his pristine white suit, finger-combed his lightning streaked hair into spikes, and started on his way toward the apartment complex.
Bloodshot eyes peered from behind motley curtains. They prowled the spaces in between. Rap music blared from every hidden corner, every window, as if it was the word of God. To these degenerates, it probably was. Rudolf did not belong here, not that it mattered to him. But to some of them, all of them, it did.
A huge man, skin the color of an avocado pit and bigger than Rudolf—no small feat—skulked out from behind a van propped up on bricks, the tires gone, the wheel wells rusted. His hair was in rainbow beaded cornrows. His wide-set eyes locked into the perpetual half-lidded guise of the eternally guilty. Of those who lived by fists above famine and drugs galore, sizzling in brain pans and in every burned bent spoon.
To any other, a swift turn around and exit would follow. No need to find out what this huge man wanted. To Rudolf, this man represented what he hated in this world, much as Alice, sweet Alice had. Lost souls. Space fillers. Human waste. He wanted to take out the trash, but that was never his purpose while on the hunt.
What Rudolf truly wanted couldn’t be found in a place like this. He wanted more art, more beauty; more reason to be.
If his various employers required the trash taken out, though, he would gladly dispose of any and all who qualified.
Thankfully, the huge man, upon taking a closer look at Rudolf and being caught in Rudolf’s drill bit gaze, decided to step aside, step back to his gibbering minions.
The murmur of confusion poked holes in the Rap music.
That’s when the homing device, one of Rudolf’s many special gifts, blipped then went silent, the sound sucked into the nebulous ether.
A woman stepped down the stairs, a plump baby pressed to her bosom, the only sign of meat upon her toothpick frame. She saw Rudolf, clutched the baby closer, her face a scowl, and turned to head back from whence she came.
“Daryl, you need to get me some ciggies. I just seen the whitest fucking devil, and you need to get me some ciggies,” she said.
Her comment was met with a male voice bleating, “Get your own ciggies. Fuck the white devil, all devils. I’m tired of dealin’ wit’ devils.”
The rest of the conversation evaded his ears, lost in the incessant thumping soundtrack and monotone delivery that droned on all around him.
It did not matter.
He was close, or seemed close, to finding Marlon Teagarden, but now…now he was at a loss.
He grumbled as he made his way back to the rental car, a generic Dodge something-or-other. His confusion inspired clenched fists. Rudolf Chernobyl did not enjoy failure. He exploited it in others, bringing down the hammer on many along his blood-stained path. But he rarely experienced anything remotely associated with failure himself. It was not a pleasant experience. Not something he knew how to handle with grace.
A wiry strip of a man, whose skin seemed like it had been dipped in the dark pools of oil on the blacktop, sauntered out from behind another rusted shell of a vehicle. Rudolf gauged that all these dead vehicles served a purpose as hiding places, shelter from the storm of violence that pricked at his neck.
“Dat right. Yo white motherfuckin’ ass don’t belong heah.” His voice was filled with the same swagger as his gait. He cleared his throat, hacking with aplomb, before spitting a loogie near Rudolf’s shiny, white, wingtip shoe.
Rudolf tilted his head to the side, cracking a vertebra in his neck with gunshot resonance.
The man ducked and pulled a pistol from his waistband.
The huge man from before yelled, “Deke, leave him be,” which, though both Rudolf and Deke heard the warning, Deke ignored. His ignorance branched out as a tree hungry for sunlight.
“This be mah hood. Don’t need no trespassin’ motherfucker in they fancy duds be allowed t’leave they stink heah without payin’ up.”
Rudolf left the key dangling from the door and turned to face the man. Despite Deke holding a gun in jittery fingers, Rudolf did not hesitate to approach him. Though this man was much shorter and more daring—or more stupid—than the huge man from a couple minutes previous, his spine grew flagpole straight. He was ready for action. This was the life here, where Death loomed as a constant companion, nudging with glee.
“Unless you know where Marlon Teagarden is, I’ve no business with you. It’s in your best interest to”—he grabbed the gun with whip-fast reflexes, tilting it up to Deke’s now flushed face—“be polite enough to let me
know where Mr. Teagarden is, or where he was off to”—Rudolf squeezed the hand and gun as one. A flicker of pain dented the portrait of aloof impudence Deke wore—“or die, for my pleasure and my entertainment.” He grabbed the gun and pried it from the crumpled scorpion that was Deke’s hand as the man moaned in agony. Rudolf squeezed the gun as Deke balefully watched. The gun bent to his strength, sparks crackling, squished into an indecipherable clump of metal. Rudolf dropped it and Deke fell to the filth-littered cement.
Anger rode Rudolf hard. The skin over his whole body crinkled and pimples bloomed and popped on his cheeks. He took a deep breath and reined it in.
Leaning forward, Rudolf peered at Deke with eyes aglow. “So, do you happen to know where Marlon Teagarden is?”
Deke shook his head, gripping his mangled hand, and scooted away on his bony rump. “What da fuck are ya, man?” Deke said, eyes wide and clear, more sober than he’d probably been in years.
With savage fluidity, Rudolf smirked and dropped to all fours, no matter the expensive white suit. He reared back and started to bark, bouncing on his knees and palms, toward the shadows, the buildings. Bodies scattered, trampling others.
He howled as Deke joined the frantic fray. Ten seconds and all music, all braggadocio, all courage, withered to sun-blasted weeds. He stood, brushed off his knees, and scanned the premises, this gangrenous limb of society. He thought about taking a break from his search, since he had the time—what with his inner GPS gone awry—and amputating it by offing the barely human inhabitants one by one, and how much bliss he would get from just such an exercise…but he wasn’t a proponent of excising without reason. Death for death’s sake, though there were times…
He unlocked the car door and slid into the seat.
He started the ignition and placed his hands at the ten and two position.
He wailed into the suffocating confines.
The windshield cracked, an invisible spider weaving a web.
With nowhere to go, his mission already in jeopardy, he screeched out of that pit stop in Hell with the intent to simply drive…
Chapter 10 Blake
Blake sat in a cushioned chair, calm as an old dog on the back porch in summer, casually observing the taxiing planes—Delta and Alitalia and Jet Blue and many more—contemplating what exactly to say to Jane Teagarden. His fingers drummed out an erratic rhythm on the metal armrests, two clamped around an e-cig, that handled most of the percussion. As an act of procrastination, he wondered about the validity of e-cigs. Would they satisfy his nicotine needs? Would experts find out in a few short years some sort of newfangled cancer they would breed? What kind of disease would this technological step forward create? Using technology to appease the addictions of smokers seemed problematic. Yet, he needed the fix.
He placed the fake cigarette between his lips and pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his black trench coat, stared at it, glanced over at a girl of perhaps five in a flowery watercolor pink dress that seemed too mature for such a young child as she bounced merrily around her seated parents. Both parents were distracted by their own technological addictions—the father with a laptop, the mother on an iPhone or some such contraption—their responses set on automatic. The girl finally stopped bouncing and looked Blake’s way. Johnny Cash’s somber, aching cover of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” flickered through his thoughts. At the the margins of his mind images crept in—a little girl , in denim shorts and a chocolate ice cream stained shirt with a goofy cartoon character stamped on front, beaming its toothy grin at him (a dagger, an accusation), the little girl’s eyes bright, Claire’s eyes bright, before the turbulent waters swept her to a place so dark, so dark (his soul).
He smiled toward the little girl in the airport, not for her but for a past that clung to him, talons digging deep as always. As though terrified by the man in black, the little girl grabbed her mother’s skirt and started to cry.
Her parents consoled her in a half-hearted manner, still hypnotized by their technological addictions.
As Blake looked down at his cell phone, it rang.
Though their correspondence had been sparse, he was not surprised to see it was Jane Teagarden interrupting his contemplative mood to hedge her bets, get some information or pass on another obscure bread crumb to set him on his path to who knows where. Grandma’s house? No, that was Little Red Riding Hood. Hansel and Gretel, was the fairy tale with breadcrumbs, wasn’t it? He shook his head, brain clunking solid as a boxer’s fist in his cranium. No matter what the specifics were Jane Teagarden no doubt wanted an answer. She was probably hoping for something more than what Blake had for her.
“Hello, Mr. Blake,” she said. “I’m in need of an update.” Her voice sounded rough, as if she’d had a long night and too many drinks.
“I believe we’ve run into another dead end,” he said, even though he wasn’t certain of this.
Something about his tone must have tipped her off or perhaps her women’s intuition told her that there should really be something of substance this time. “I find this impossible.”
He laughed, no need to hide his chagrin, and said, “Impossible? What do you mean by that?”
“What kind of private eye are you, Mr. Blake? Those reports came to me via reliable sources—”
“Then, as I noted before, you should have had those reliable sources get you a photo of Marlon, something of substance. I’ve got nothing…nothing.”
“Your nothing sounds like something, Mr. Blake.”
Her mind-reading abilities had him at a loss. He took another drag on the e-cig, pulled it away, and glanced at his hand, looking for a possible response in the many lines there.
“Well…”
“I have no real news, Miss Teagarden. I had some curious experiences yesterday, but nothing…” Trailing off to a dead end; he was at a loss.
Jane paused for a long time.
Blake turned his head toward the couple and the young girl, who had been replaced by pod people of similar ilk. Another family disconnected by technology, though this time all three were victims of the exponentially corrosive disease. A young girl of perhaps twelve, in flower-rimmed bell-bottom jeans and pink shirt adorned with an Anime cartoon character was babysat by some handheld device that blipped and giggled electronically, like a conversation between R2D2 and C-3PO, and reflected colors off her glassy eyes. She looked like an Anima character, almost alive.
“I’m paying good money for anything. I’m paying good money for everything. If there’s anything, no matter how frivolous, I want to know.”
“Fine. I had a run in with one of the local scum, a real skuzz, that led me to believe there was a possibility Marlon was in the area. Though when I followed up, when I looked to follow-up on the possibility, there was…there was no sign of him.” Or, at least, he could not verify anything, which was the point. Which made him wonder why this all settled like a piece of dying coal in his already rattled brain, burning still.
“Details,” she said, speaking as he did: direct and to the point.
He watched a plane lift off. A bird, a gull of some sort, sprang into the sky from one of the portable stairs the airport cleaning crew used to get on and off the smaller planes. One took flight with such power, propulsion, such mechanical wizardry. The other took off naturally, a slight leap into grace.
There was no avoiding what he needed to say. “There was mention of a green limousine—”
“No!”
Jane Teagarden’s response let him know all he needed to know.
“What next?” he asked. The cards were laid out, but the game was unknown to him. Perhaps with their upbringing—he remembered mention of a vast, extravagant and eclectic library in an article he’d read about the family, no reason to think she wouldn’t know about Peter Solon and the green limousine—she might also have more insight into what he truly was getting into or, at least, what to do next.
“Mr. Blake,” she said, more an exhalation that worked like the plane and no
t the bird, no grace present. “We’ve no time to waste.”
“But we’ve got no leads as to where the green limousine or Marlon or any of this is headed.” He almost laughed, scraping the bottom of the lunacy barrel.
“You actually saw the green limousine?”
“Yes. Initially. Before I knew there might be a connection.”
“Hmmm…”
He heard this as he looked up and noticed a man in a hurriedly thrown together outfit carrying a suitcase, laptop case, cell phone and coffee. He looked Blake’s way and approached with what seemed like urgency, but ended up being simply clumsiness. Within sparring distance, the man dropped the cardboard coffee cup, spattering the black pants Blake always wore.
Blake pulled the phone from his face and grumbled as he moved his boot from the spill.
The man, severe haircut seeming to pervade his tone, said, “Sorry. S-Sorry, I’m in a hurry. Sorry,” and was gone just as Jane said, “The connection is between you and Marlon. But what can we do if he’s already on his way?”
Of course he was on his way, but to where?
The man stumbled away. He glanced back at Blake, bumped into a woman with a stroller, begged pardon, glanced back again, and was gone around a corner.
Blake reached in his pocket and pulled out a leftover napkin from a muffin he’d eaten earlier—a muffin and a Corona, breakfast of champions—reached down to his pant leg, and spotted a piece of paper next to his shoe. Written in barely legible but legible enough cursive script it read: Roswell.
“The green limousine is a sign one’s final destination is at hand,” Jane said.
“Yes, I know.”
“You know?” She sounded genuinely surprised.
“I know,” was all he offered her again.
“But we don’t know where it’s taking Marlon. I cannot impress upon you the urgency of your quest, Mr. Blake. I know there may seem no leads, but I need you not only to get your hands dirty, but to dig down into the muck and find Marlon before it’s too late.”
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