“Nice hair,” one said. “Did it come with the punk-rock starter kit?”
“Jesus, but you got a face like a bulldog’s ass,” another said.
“Oh, hey, it’s Carey! Thank God you got here. I was wondering who was going to fuck my ugly friend tonight.”
And on and on. Some just spat on me. One—a girl, I think—reached out and grabbed my dick and twisted painfully. I was lost. Sweating. All turned around. I couldn’t see beyond the blur of faces to get my bearings, and I couldn’t even pick out their features to tell them apart.
I was lost in a forest of assholes.
Then the curtain of bodies parted. It happened so abruptly that I caught my foot on the step up to Gus’s booth and went sprawling under the table. I rolled with the forward momentum, crawled over his feet, and slid up onto the leather bench like I’d meant to do the whole thing.
“What are we drinking?” I asked him, throwing an arm across the seat beside me.
He almost registered surprise.
“I am going to kill you,” Wash said to Gus, appearing out of the crowd a few inches from the table.
“Your friend said that already, man. You guys gotta get a new catchphrase.”
Gus smiled lazily and motioned for Wash to sit.
He did.
I don’t know why. If the bastard had just burned my woman from the inside out, I like to think I’d at least turn down his hospitality. Maybe Wash had a plan, or maybe he was hoping I had one, or maybe he didn’t want to risk pissing off the Unnoticeables this early in the game. Or maybe Wash was just dumb as a brick.
Jezza staggered over last, obviously more scared of facing the bouncer alone than pushing through a crowd of monsters with some backup. He looked back and forth between Gus, Wash, and me like a rabbit faced with a hawk, a snake, and a stewpot. He finally decided on a path of least fuckedness and motioned for Wash to shove over.
For a few seconds, it all felt weirdly normal. Me, Wash, and Jezza crammed into a smelly booth in the corner of a ratty club, marveling at the audacity of some asshole or another. Just a Saturday night. But if you looked out of the corner of your eye, you could see the entire bar was watching us intently, trying to look like they weren’t. Gus slid his dopehead smile back in its holster. His face went blank and his voice lost all humanity.
“Why do you follow, even when you know you are going to die?”
After ten seconds of awkward silence, I realized he was waiting for a response.
“You have our friend,” I said.
“I am going to kill you,” Wash said.
“We was bored,” Jezza said.
“It is interesting. You possess survival instincts. You practice risk aversion. You nurture phobias and cultivate fears, trying to stay alive. Survival is so important to human beings that entire cultures”—Gus gestured around at the room full of pseudopunks—“crop up, basing their identities solely on the bucking of traditional survivorship practices. And here you are. You are sitting with a predator. You are in a room full of predators. You realize you are prey. You know that, should we choose, we could tear you apart in an instant. You could not realistically expect to rescue your friend. Why did you come? Because you were expected to. Because you were asked.”
Another long silence. A teacher, patiently waiting for somebody in class to raise a hand.
“Well, maybe we just ain’t that smart,” I answered.
Gus’s face crinkled into a smile. He clapped his hands.
“You got balls, man. I love the balls on this guy!” he yelled to nobody in particular. “So all right, then. Let me tell you what happens next—”
Wash cut him off. Cut off the artery in his neck. Cut off part of his ear too.
With one fluid motion, Wash reached out, snatched Gus’s drink up, cracked it on the table, and then went digging around in his neck like he was looking for prizes. Gus coughed and gurgled. He tried to make words, but only blood came out. After he’d sawed halfway through the neck bones and got the glass stuck in Gus’s spine, Wash sat back down.
“Bloody fuckin’ … shitting … hell!” Jezza sputtered.
I clapped Wash on the shoulder.
“Well done,” I said.
“No! Not well done at all!” Jezza screeched. “We’re bloody trapped! They’re going to shred us to bits!”
Wash scanned the crowd impassively.
“I think that they would have already done that,” he observed, “if they were going to do that.”
“I … I think Wash just said something smart,” I said.
Jezza started to protest, but I pointed behind him. He turned slowly, expecting a blow to come crashing down on him at any second. The whole bar had frozen in place. Still life with gutter trash. Every single face was pointed our way. All eyes watching, and not a sound. Not even from the band, who I noticed now was just as unnoticeable. They stood, holding their instruments slack, heads cocked like inquisitive puppies. Just waiting.
“It is good that you did that,” a flat voice said from across the table.
We all jumped. Don’t ever tell anybody, but I even peed a little.
Gus was holding the shard of glass that had been inside of his neck a moment ago up to the light. He regarded it with distracted interest, like a scientist watching moths mate. He dropped the glass to the floor, and it shattered. I could see inside of his neck. I could see the meat latching onto itself. Knitting back together.
“Now,” Gus grinned, “we can get this party started.”
Wash said: “Oh.”
I said: “Fuck me.”
Jezza said: “Kerble.”
No idea what that meant. I expect his brain just up and broke for a second.
Gus reached across the table. He moved like cold molasses, his expression frozen in calculated idiocy. He grabbed Wash by the collar and slammed his face down into the table so hard it nearly flipped over. I hopped to my feet, standing on the bench, and planted a sneaker in Gus’s face. It was like kicking a brick wall. He didn’t move an inch, but I fell backward from the force of it, right onto Jezza’s face.
Gus grabbed for Wash again, who was still too stunned to move. He just blinked at me, an expression more of curiosity than pain, like he was just really intrigued by the mystery of his own bashed-in head. I huddled up against Jezza, put both feet on Wash’s side, and shoved him out of the booth before Gus could get a grip on him. I rolled myself under the table right after, and hit the beer-soaked concrete with both elbows. It sent lightning bolts of pain up the long bones in my arms.
“What do I do? What do I do?!” Jezza screeched from somewhere above. His voice cracked and wobbled.
“Run, dipshit.”
I army-crawled backward from beneath the booth. Gus wasn’t concerned about Wash or me anymore: Now he was focused on Jezza, who was slapping at Gus’s face rapidly, like he could dog-paddle through the guy’s head. I put my hands beneath the lip of the table and heaved. It tipped up between the two of them, giving me just enough of a window to grab Jezza by the sleeve and yank him into the crowd with me. I couldn’t see Wash. I hoped he was making his way back to the door and not just wandering around somewhere in a concussed daze. If he could just keep his bearings, he should be okay. The pseudopunks all seemed to be on pause. They weren’t even looking at us, just staring back at Gus’s booth, immobile. Waiting for something. We’d gotten maybe twenty feet, when Gus said:
“Who turned off the fucking music, man?”
And the band launched into the worst version of “30 Seconds over Tokyo” I have ever heard.
Gus laughed, wild and braying.
“You can’t dance without music!”
The Unnoticeables surged into life. The one nearest me put his entire hand into my mouth and started to yank on my tongue. I bit down hard and the hand withdrew. A solid kick to my shin came next, then a punch in the guts. I doubled over, and somebody behind me took the opportunity to force their pointed fingers halfway up my ass, straight through my je
ans. I yelped like a fifties housewife spotting a mouse, and instinctively flailed my legs. I connected with something fleshy, and the pressure eased. I straightened up and threw a wild haymaker. Another connection. I couldn’t even distinguish the faces to aim for a specific one. It was like fist-fighting a fogbank. I dished out elbows, knees, and wild headbutts in every direction. I was so intent on beating the shit out of everything in the world that it took me a few minutes to realize I wasn’t the only one fighting. I assumed the Unnoticeables were trying to kill me, Wash, and Jezza—but they weren’t targeting us. They were just fighting. They tore at each other’s skin with their nails, bit off ears, gouged at crotches. The ones that had attacked me just happened to be close enough to do it. I dropped below the riot’s line of sight and crawled on my hands and knees.
I heard an oddly pitched moan beside me and looked over right into a half-naked girl’s face. She was maybe six inches away from me and being fucked from behind by another Unnoticeable. The girl opened her eyes, saw me, and tried to bite for my nose. But her partner wouldn’t release the death grip on her hips, even though two more Unnoticeables were busy kicking his face in. The girl snapped at me over and over again like a dog on a leash. I backed away and looked for an exit point, only to find the scene repeating: The Unnoticeables were fighting and screwing in equal measure, some at the same time. I spotted Jezza trying to crawl around two men giving each other the most violent hand jobs in history. He caught my eye and desperately crawled in my direction, Wash following after him.
I couldn’t hear a thing over the flesh slapping, the moaning, and the furious screaming—not to mention the unfocused guitars and sloppy drumming of this bullshit house band completely butchering Rocket from the Tombs. So I just pointed to where I thought the door was, and shuffled off in that direction. It was slow going. The floors were slick with blood, gore, and other fluids I didn’t want to think about. And though most of the Unnoticeables were too busy tearing each other apart to bother with us, sometimes one would get knocked down, spot us, and come slithering over with murder in its eyes.
After busting a few dozen noses and gouging as many eyes, we finally made the door. I wriggled up against the wall and hauled it open, shoving against the press of bodies. I held it there while Wash crawled over me and outside. I motioned for Jezza to follow, but he only got one arm out before he started screaming.
Something was dragging him backward. He clutched at my jacket, but it was too wet with blood and sweat to get purchase. I grabbed for his hands, but I was just too fucking slow. Jezza disappeared in a forest of legs. I tried to go after him, but whenever I moved my arm, the door just started slamming shut on me. I couldn’t get the leverage to haul myself all the way back inside.
“What is it?” Wash yelled.
“They got Jezza. Help me get—”
Something big, pale, and fleshy covered my entire face and started to squeeze.
What the fuck? Did they have a giant squid at this punk-rock club?
I tried to pry it off of my face, and my fingers wrapped around a thick stalk at its base.
An arm. A hand.
The fucking bouncer.
His grip, impossibly, tightened. And then it started to twist. I was hauled up in the air and hurled to one side. He was dragging me somewhere.
Outside. He was dragging me outside.
I tried to scream, but the man’s flesh was sealed around my face like a plastic bag. I tried to kick, but it only seemed to make the bastard mad. I tried to bite but couldn’t get my teeth around his massive palm. I was desperate. I needed free of this suffocating, crushing darkness. I did the only thing left to me. I poked my tongue between my lips and I licked. I hoped the bouncer would be surprised enough to drop me. Or maybe just grossed out enough to recoil in disgust. But mostly, I hoped I wasn’t going to die licking another man’s sweaty palm.
Air.
I hit the ground butt-first, and pain shot up through my tailbone, but it didn’t matter. Oxygen was burning through my lungs like a beautiful wildfire. When the stars cleared from my vision, I saw that my clever tongue-based defense had not, in fact, freed me. I owed my life to a dented metal trash can and Wash, who was repeatedly and furiously bashing the bouncer’s face into tapioca with it.
As soon as I could stand, I ran to the door and threw my weight against it. It gave an inch, then slammed shut. I tried again and it didn’t budge in the slightest. Same for the next attempt. And the next. And the next. I had to get in there. I had to, because I could hear Jezza inside. I could hear him screaming.
And then I couldn’t hear him at all anymore.
I ended up on the ground somehow. I guess Wash must have tackled me at some point and dragged me away from the club. We were sitting in a parking lot across the street. I was propped up against Daisy. My shoulder throbbed. I was having trouble moving my arm. Wash was saying something to me, but I couldn’t make it out. His lips smacked around stupidly, and dumb noises poured out of him.
Then he hit me. Twice. And he started to make sense again.
“The sewer,” Wash said. “Remember? We can try the sewer.”
EIGHTEEN
2013. Los Angeles, California. Kaitlyn.
I stood with one hand on the doorknob. Shut down. My brain refused to latch on to the images I had just seen. It did not process the limbs bent at broken angles. The viscera that used to be a girl with a teardrop tattoo. The smell of blood and cum and cocaine in the air. My mind went looking for logical explanations:
This is Punk’d. This is Candid Camera. This is some kind of elaborate, high-budget prank somebody is pulling on me. I’m Michael Douglas in The Game. Somebody is The Game-ing me.
Jackie. Of course!
She’s been busy lately. Kept talking about her spot in that improv troupe. I bet that was a cover story. I bet she got a part on one of those prank shows and convinced them to come after me. Right now she’s …
Behind me, there was a gentle commotion. Cloth rustling, glass clinking, muffled footfalls.
I turned slowly, thinking that if I just moved cautiously enough, I could slip away unnoticed. Maybe these freaks worked like the T. rex in Jurassic Park? I don’t know. I was probably in shock. Certainly not in a place for sound strategizing, so I just continued with my ill-advised orbit, keeping my neck stiff and my eyes straight ahead. The plain white wood of the bedroom door slid out of view, replaced by some tasteful slate-gray walls. Then a framed photo of Marco shaking hands with his stunt double.
God, you can really see the difference there, side by side. Only one has life in his eyes.
Another door, closed—is the same thing happening in all these rooms?—and finally the hallway. There was a woman standing about ten feet away to my left, regarding me with unsettling enthusiasm, a big red-carpet smile hot-glued to her face. A man in a paisley vest stood beside her. Across from them, a chubby guy with thick horn-rim glasses. A dude with a thin, ironic mustache. A girl with bright purple collagen lips. There were dozens of them, lining either side of the hall. They were all pushed up against the walls, intentionally leaving a space for me to walk … right between them.
Red Carpet raised her glass, by way of a toast. One by one, the others joined her.
There were only two of the bastards in the room behind me, I could—
No. I knew I would never go back into that room. I couldn’t confirm those half-seen details in my mind. Not if I wanted to stay sane. Forward was my only option.
I took a step, trying not to meet the countless eyes tracking my every movement. I passed within an inch of Red Carpet. She was perfectly, unnaturally still. Horn-Rim Glasses was like a fat wax figurine of Buddy Holly. Paisley Vest was frozen, too. Twenty feet into the procession, I realized what was so unnerving about it: They weren’t just still. Their hands were not wavering as they held their glasses mockingly in the air. Their eyes did not blink. Their chests did not rise and fall.
They weren’t breathing.
I concentrated
on making my legs move. Maybe if I didn’t acknowledge the situation, it would stop existing. Willful denial isn’t exactly a brilliant defense mechanism, I know, but—
I saw a familiar face, and I couldn’t help it. I locked eyes with the stunt choreographer. The one I had worked with, briefly, in—what was the name of that movie? Double Vision? Double Indemnity?
The second I caught his gaze, the choreographer gave me an exaggerated wink, then reached over and tore a small piece of my sleeve away. I wanted to flinch, but it was over too fast. He moved in the space between blinks. I felt a brief tug on my opposite side and saw a patch from the knee of my pants missing. A thick-faced guy smiled at me, holding up a swatch of black fabric. He looked familiar.
He was on that teen show that was big a few years ago. Cherry Lane?
Cherry Lane twitched. When he moved it was like reality skipped frames: His neck bent ninety degrees and then snapped back in an instant. He seemed to lose control of half of his face. One eyeball rolled and spasmed. The right side of his mouth gnashed its teeth, while the other stayed fixed in a friendly, approachable smile. I jumped and recoiled but didn’t make it far. Somebody was behind me. I felt a sharp pinch on my ass, and then another strip of fabric was gone. I turned around to find a thin girl with spiky pink hair grinning at me. She held a scrap of torn cloth between her fingers. She waggled it at me playfully, then put it in her mouth and swallowed it.
Somebody laughed, and then hands were all over me. They swarmed like piranha; nipping, tearing, pinching, and scratching. Minor wounds. Little pains that were over before they started. I was becoming naked by inches. I struck out with my elbow and caught a girl that I recognized from daytime TV squarely in the boob. She didn’t register the blow. I planted a foot in the groin of an aging hipster, still dressed like he was in a grunge band. No response. I accidentally stabbed a finger through a beautiful Asian woman’s eyeball, just trying to shove her away. It sunk in a full inch, loosing a gush of ocular fluid. She hungrily devoured the strap of my sports bra while the discharge ran down her cheek.
The Unnoticeables Page 17