Expired

by Evie Rhodes

  Rashod fought, but he was unable to get the right foothold he needed to defuse Me. Frustrated by his futile attempts, he banged against the invisible walls. They shook and trembled but did not move an inch.

  Rashod felt Me turn away from his point of focus as another presence entered the room. Rashod peered through the layers. He spotted the uniformed security guard. Good, maybe he would put a stop to Me. But before the thought could get a purchase in his mind, Rashod already knew he was wrong.

  “Who the hell are you?” the security guard spoke menancingly to Me. “There isn’t supposed to be anyone on these premises at this time of night.”

  Me stared. “I am Me.”

  “Listen, fellow, don’t get smart with me. You have no business being in here.”

  Me’s bald head glistened under the hot lights.

  The security guard, upon his entrance, had flicked on the overhead lights. They were beaming on Me’s bald scalp. Me hated the feeling that was raining down on him from the lights, like hot lava being poured on his head.

  “I have business,” Me said.

  “What business?”

  Like a lightning strike, Me struck the security guard with one deft blow. His feet left the floor; his body went airborne. He crashed into the wall outside, beyond the small gallery. The security guard lay with his neck twisted at an odd angle. His chest was still.

  Me knelt down, feeling for a pulse, although he knew there wasn’t one. Me stood over him momentarily. He didn’t want his spirit—the man had no gift; he was just a plain old human, and Me did not want to taste his spirit on his lips.

  “Not for Me,” he said as he stared down at the prone, twisted body on the floor.

  “You punk!” Rashod shouted out loud enough for Me to hear. Me cringed at the sound of Rashod’s voice. The boy’s voice grated on his inner nerves. Me looked at his biceps, found Rashod’s place, and whacked him back and forth until Rashod’s head spun.

  But Rashod had discovered a secret. The only thing Me was seeing was his image where he usually resided. Rashod had managed to hide the substance of his spirit and project his image, which was really only a shell.

  He had moved back into a corner of the vacuum where Me couldn’t see him. When Me grunted in satisfaction after whacking Rashod, his satisfaction was brief, because Rashod loomed up in front of him. His stance was menacing. “Back off, you bastard!” Rashod told him.

  Me reached for Rashod, but before Me could grab him, he was back in his corner of the vacuum.

  Me let out an animal-like roar in his anger. He reached inside his pant leg and pulled out the large, shiny knife. He then proceeded to slash the walls of the Schomberg Center to smithereens. It was a totally human act, one he did not usually engage in, but he was seeking relief from his anger at Rashod.

  The last thing he did before he left was to cut off the head of the bust of Othello that was residing in the lobby of the Schomberg Center. Othello’s head crashed to the floor, breaking up into hundreds of tiny pieces.

  Me never noticed the tiny black charcoal scroll lying among the ruins of Othello’s head, but Rashod did. He scooped it up. Unknowingly, he now held the key to many things.

  40

  He was absolutely delirious with joy. He was bathing in plasma, blood plasma. His supply would be sufficient for a long time to come. The blood he was bathing in was of a recognized breed. It was high-pedigree. It felt thick, like gooey molasses against his skin.

  The bodies that had been emptied of these precious fluids most likely wouldn’t be discovered until morning. When they were found, a cry would go out throughout Harlem, such as hadn’t been heard since Rachel had cried for the slaughtering of her children during the time of the birth of Jesus Christ.

  There would be many Rachels in the morning. He loved it when he pulled the same scam throughout different times in history, and the current generation fell for it as well. He was on a high. In any case, Tracie Burlingame would no longer be a lone ranger. There would be plenty of weeping on the streets of Harlem when the sun came up.

  He lifted a plastic cup to his lips and took a long, hearty swallow. The blood dripped along the sides of his mouth. He swiped at it with his back hand and then leaned back in the tub, relaxing. He loved the pungent smell of it in his nostrils.

  “It’s all in a night’s work,” he spoke aloud. Soon he would need to talk to Me. But for now he was saturated.

  He stretched. He had no idea which gift he would use, or when. He certainly had his choice of them now. During the course of the night, he had gathered unto himself artists, musicians, poets, journalists, athletes, authors—hell, he even acquired a young concert pianist, as well as several brilliant minds that would have grown in the elite worlds of medicine, science, and technology, making new discoveries and casting African-Americans in a new light.

  Would have.

  Oh, they were just mere seedlings, not developed of their future potential, and that was the point. He had snuffed them out before any of that crap could begin. But there would be great suffering, because all had been aware and had seen the potential of their gifts for the future.

  And he had managed to throw a nice curveball to the police by having that sap who was sniffing after Tracie Burlingame murder her sons. The police were fully concentrated on those murders. Then he had switched gears, duplicating the murders at a much deeper level. Fantastic. He was almost in awe of himself, such was the cleverness of his plan. But then, he had created clever.

  Hadn’t he?

  He sighed. Anyway, once the little seedlings he had killed matured, they would have wanted to grow and manifest, planting their brilliant, gifted seeds in the generations to come. Hell, no.

  Yeah. On this night he’d left a mark to remember. He climbed out of the tub, not bothering to dry himself off, and walked into the living room, which was covered with sneakers, one of each pair. Pure joy shot through his body.

  He got on his knees and crawled over to the sneaker collection. He sniffed the lingering scent left behind by the boy it used to belong to. A bunch of damn fools these kids were. They actually worshipped these damned rubber shoes, and because they did, unknowingly they had turned sneakers into an idol.

  It had been so easy. All he’d had to do was have the heads of America’s hungering corporations put them in a suitcase, light them from the bottom, tag on the word “air,” pump them up with some star athletes, and suddenly there was an entire generation panting for them, robbing for them, and killing for them. And the corporations? Well, they were drowning in the glitz of the almighty dollar, worshipping him, too. Two birds with one stone, so to speak.

  These kids were so shallow, he would have felt remorse at the easy pickings if he were capable of it. But he wasn’t.

  You could find the poorest kid in Harlem wearing a pair of one-hundred-dollar to one-hundred-fifty-dollar sneakers. Their bellies might rumble with hunger; their pockets might be empty; but shining on their feet were a brand new pair of the latest sneakers.

  And he loved it because when they worshipped sneakers or other such material things, they worshipped him. Him and his many faces. This generation was the worst type of idolaters. They were the worst that had been seen in centuries. Every time they knelt before the coveted rubber beings, they knelt at his table.

  And, their God was mad. No. Mad was too light a term. He was fuming at their ignorance and lack of respect. Apparently, none of them had read the Book of Jeremiah. He laughed. If only they knew. It was a good thing for him that they didn’t.

  He was the idol of idols in all his many forms. He preened at the actual brilliance of his idea with mere sneakers. In one smooth stroke, he had reached out and cast his net on those little seedlings, and now, through their yearnings, he had captured them.

  Them and their gifts that would have been.

  It was too bad he would have to trash this body soon. It had proved to be very useful since as far back as before the thumb-sucking stage, when it had reached out and t
ouched the red, slippery substance.

  The child had fragmented and splintered into many emotional pieces upon touching the substance and witnessing the violence of death. That was when he had stepped in to rear the child, raise him in his own right. But soon he would trash him and be done with him.

  Who the hell cared anyway?

  He sat back as if on his haunches, though in reality he was sitting on human legs, still admiring the sneakers and the brilliant brand of destruction they represented. He could hear their spirits, still crying out after having been body-snatched from the little rubber demons.

  Tomorrow. Alas, tomorrow Alexandra Kennedy would be busy with the new shipment of sneakers that had been dispatched to her office that night. She’d be busy with that and with matching up all those boys’ bodies to all those missing sneakers. What a chore. The thought bored him.

  He headed back to the tub. “It’s all in a night’s work,” he sang.

  And a very good night for him it was. It was almost time to put the ultimate plan into effect and pay a visit to Ms. Tracie Burlingame . . . the host mother.

  41

  It had rained blood in Harlem. Black, male, adolescent blood. Young blood. Virgin blood. Imperial blood. African-American blood.

  It had been drained along with the gifts that had been swallowed for an undetermined amount of time. Me had swept through after his master and swallowed the gifts and the spirits whole. It had been quite a night in Harlem. The frolicking of beasts had occurred at the expense of a people who had already paid a huge price.

  The rising of the morning sun would bring a wail of pain from Harlem that would reach heaven. Unbeknownst to them, their cries would not fall on deaf ears.

  The drops of blood were splattered against a landscape of a generation untold. And yet there was not a drop to be found on the streets. There certainly wasn’t a drop to be found in the bodies that had been strewn about Harlem. But no deed goes unrecorded.

  Tracie Burlingame didn’t know yet that there were many who had joined her in her grief. All she knew was that she was bone weary tired, and she needed to face Dre and Michael. But they weren’t home yet; the house was empty. She also needed to make burial arrangements for her son.

  When that was done, she was going to pay a visit to Anita Lily Mae Young. She could still hear the old woman’s words: “Don’t you be coming back here to me, girl, I mean it.”

  To Anita Lily Mae Young was exactly where she would go. This woman had seen something, and maybe she could help lead her to finding out who was killing her sons. Tracie intended to find out, that was for sure.

  She dropped on the couch in all her bone-weary tiredness. She kicked off her shoes. Unconsciously she went to put her feet up on the table, until she realized it wasn’t there anymore. She had smashed it with the fireplace poker.

  She tucked her aching feet underneath her instead. She pulled a cushion under her head. Instantly she fell asleep.

  She stayed that way until she felt someone standing over her, hovering, the shadow falling over her facial features. Tracie knew she must get up. She struggled to pull herself from the deep, dreamless sleep back to consciousness.

  “Tracie,” Souljah Boy said. “Take my hand.” She did. “Come with me.”

  Tracie looked at Souljah Boy, wondering what he was doing here. She didn’t see Dre. Usually he hung out with Dre. They’d been tight since they were kids. But Dre wasn’t in sight.

  As they walked, Tracie turned to look at Souljah Boy.

  She was visually struck by his appearance. There was a light shining from him. He was illuminated from the inside out.

  “Souljah Boy, what . . . ?” Tracie began to ask, but Souljah Boy cut her off.

  “Shush,” he said.

  Together they walked to the front door of the brownstone. Souljah Boy opened the door. He stepped through, still holding Tracie’s hand. Tracie gasped. This wasn’t her street. They were standing on the edge of a cliff.

  Souljah Boy pointed. “Look.”

  Tracie looked down and saw a black, gaping hole. It was sucking in little black babies. There were so many of them. It was like a huge black vacuum, just sucking them in.

  Someone stood at the edge of the hole. Tracie saw the person shoving something. Finally she realized they were shoving what looked like a manhole cover over the black hole. She heard a loud clang; the hole was covered. She couldn’t see the babies anymore. They were gone.

  Before Tracie could catch her breath or even begin to question Souljah Boy, many little black babies began to fall through the atmosphere. Just as in her dream, some force was grabbing them and wrapping them in a white, silky swaddling. Right there on her doorstep in the middle of Harlem.

  She turned to Souljah Boy.

  “Have faith. Do not be afraid of your losses, Tracie,” he said. “In time all things will be rectified.”

  Before she could respond, Souljah Boy was gone. Tracie looked up to find her son Michael staring down at her on the couch.

  “Michael?” she asked. “How did you get here?”

  “I live here, remember?” Michael said.

  “Yeah, I know that, but I mean . . .” Tracie’s voice trailed off. She looked around the living room. “Never mind.” She struggled to sit up on the couch. “I’ve got something bad to tell you.”

  “I already know, Ma. Rashod is dead. We need to talk.”

  Tracie’s eyes filled with newly formed tears. “Where’s Dre?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet, but I’m sure he’ll be here, Ma. He’ll be here.”

  Tracie nodded past the lump in her throat. “Would you mind terribly if I just laid down in my room for a while? And then we’ll talk when I get up. I just need a little time.”

  Michael looked at Tracie. He reached out and pulled her to him, hugging her tightly. He smoothed her hair down. “Naw, Mommy, that’ll be fine.”

  Michael kissed her tear-stained cheek. He released her and headed for his room. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready. I ain’t going anywhere.”

  Tracie nodded her appreciation. Michael had always been the mature one out of all her children. Dre was the one with attitude. Rashod had been the one with anger. Randi had just been the baby. Her boys, her family, all she had in the world, and now two of them were gone.

  Her thoughts leaped to Souljah Boy. She could have sworn he was here. It had been so real. He had told her to have faith. Not to be afraid of her losses. This was the boy Tracie used to feed, yell at, and give a good beat-down to along with her own kids.

  She shook herself. At the thought of Souljah Boy, goose bumps had broken out on her arm. “Michael?”

  Michael stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”

  “Did you see Souljah Boy when you came in?”

  “Naw. Dre’s not here, so he wouldn’t be here. Why?”

  “Nothing. I was just wondering; that’s all.”

  Michael gave her a queer look, then continued on to his room. He had things of his own that he needed to sort out in his mind before he talked to Tracie anyway. He needed to decide how much she could handle. He would have to tread carefully with her.

  Tracie knew she must be bugging. Of course he wouldn’t have seen Souljah Boy. Nor would he have seen the steep cliff that was just outside their door, or the many black babies falling through the atmosphere. For some inexplicable reason she knew that.

  Tracie got up. She walked to the front door and pulled it open. There was no sign of Souljah Boy, the cliff, or falling black babies. There was only the street, as it had always been. She sighed and went to her room for some much needed rest.

  She couldn’t explain what she had seen, but one thing she knew for sure: she wasn’t going to run from it this time. It had happened. She wasn’t crazy. She knew she had seen what she’d seen.

  She had stood with Souljah Boy looking out over the cliff, just as sure as she had stood at her front door. Of that there was no doubt.

  “Have faith.” Tracie e
mbraced the spoken words as they enveloped her in their cloud. She knew she would need it. She could not rely on anyone. She hadn’t thought about what it meant to have faith, or what it meant to reach out to the spirit of the Lord, in so long.

  All she had relied on was herself. Her own power. Her own capabilities and her money, which she wielded like a sword in front of people. But none of that had prevented her sons from being murdered. Murdered. The word startled Tracie as it entered her mind like a foreign invasion.

  She hadn’t wanted to admit that to herself, but it was true. Her sons had been murdered, just as Raymond had been murdered long ago. She had fought against it, but now she would have to face it.

  Now she knew that she’d require more help than she could give herself. It dawned on her in a sudden realization that someone or something was trying to help her. That must be the reason she’d been having the weird dream.

  Or maybe it was just a nightmare. But for some reason she was starting not to think so. Souljah Boy had looked so different to her. Why? What was going on?

  Something was trying to reach her. Tracie shook herself. Maybe she was going off the deep end. Maybe she was under too much pressure.

  Suddenly, unbidden, she recalled a long-buried incident. There was a woman who used to take her to church when she was a kid. She used to spend the night at the woman’s house with her kids. Old Mrs. Peyton. Laura Peyton. She hadn’t thought about her in many years.

  On this particular night Tracie had leaned back in her chair. The chair slipped, and she fell back, busting her head open on an old radiator. Immediately, blood gushed from the wound.

  When Mrs. Peyton had called her mother to tell her what had happened, her mother had told her to take her immediately to Harlem Hospital.

  Instead, Mrs. Peyton had asked her, “Do you believe Jesus Christ can heal you?”

  With all the faith and innocence of a child, Tracie had answered, “Yes.”