Curse of Arachnaman (3 page)

The front door didn't open properly. It
still
doesn't. It used to, but the top hinge somehow got messed up from moisture or rust or whatever, and the door itself tilted in its frame, so that pushing it open always required a little bit of brute strength. It also goes without saying that it didn't open quietly. In situations like this, that would be something close to a tragedy.

I opened the door and held my breath, wincing when it moved with that familiar “eerk!” sound. There was no sign of life anywhere up and down the hallway, but I could hear voices in the living room. Crap. I opened the door some more but took care to keep the gap at a minimum—just enough for me to squeeze myself through. I slipped inside and closed the door, pressing myself against it as I braced myself. I thought of using the door like some kind of trampoline by pushing against it and then set a high enough speed for my desperate run.

"Okay, ready, set...go!"

I pushed and threw myself forward, only to be yanked back with a cry because the crooked door had caught the end of my jacket when I shut it. I fell back against the door then landed on my ass with a loud
Whump!
Bright stars exploded behind my eyelids.

"Eric? Is that you?” Liz called out from the living room. “Hey, come on in! We've got a visitor! Guess who?"

Dracula, that was who. The undead. The damned.

I sat on the floor, my jacket anchored to the door, while I reached above me and fumbled for the doorknob in a panic, the stars slowly fading before me. I stared at the living room door, praying that no one would emerge. Unfortunately, when it rains, it fucking pours.

Scanlon appeared, greasy head poking out of the door. He saw me and smiled, his white picket fence, freckled face glowing, his perfect teeth sparkling as brightly as his Richie Cunningham-styled hair—or, rather, helmet. “Oh, there you are, you little scamp,” he said, stepping into the hallway. “Need help?"

Ohmigawd, yeah, I did! Where was Van Helsing when I needed him? I shrank against the door as he neared, the sight of his too-familiar outfit—crisply-ironed, short-sleeved oxford shirt tucked into crisply-ironed slacks with pleats down the front that were so defined, they could slice your legs into ribbons if you weren't careful—filling my immediate world. I felt faint. When he stopped in front of me and started fiddling with the door while cheerfully engaging me in conversation, my vision began to fade.

"You silly little goose,” he said, laughing, when I was finally free. “You should be more careful when you close the door behind you.” He stopped laughing to inhale sharply between his teeth, as though he were trying to suck up all the excess drool that had collected there. He always did that. It was, like, “Ha-ha-ha-ha! Slurp!” Really gross.

And...silly little goose. Who called anyone “silly little goose” in this day and age? I mumbled my thanks as I crawled away, trying to place some floor between him and me before I spontaneously combusted. My vision slowly restored itself. Then I felt a hand take hold of one of my arms. “Here. Let me help you up."

He gave me a sharp tug, and I stumbled to my feet.

"You okay, champ?"

Champ. Who called anyone “champ” in this day and age?

"Yeah, thanks."

"Be careful when you close the door next time, okay?” he said, laughing. He even mussed up my hair. “You funny bunny."

OMFG. I just flailed and went, “Gak!” then staggered away, my senses completely overcome by the too-strong essence of 1950s wholesomeness that always oozed out of him. I think he said something else, but I was too disoriented to pick up on what it was. I just headed first to the kitchen to get something to drink, restore my strength, and then scrounge around for garlic bulbs that I could string together. Mom always bought those things in bulk, anyway, so using about a hundred of them at a time wouldn't be a problem. I poured myself some apple juice, gathered several bulbs, and, using my shirt to haul my treasure up to my room, I hurried upstairs. Behind me, in the living room, Scanlon said something, and Liz burst out laughing. Maybe they were talking about the silly little goose who just had his jacket caught in the door, the little scamp. Whatever. I had a house to protect, a soul to save (mine!), and a collection of garlic to string together. Maybe, on a Saturday, I should swing by our parish church between masses and see if I could steal some holy water from the fount. I owned a pretty good collection of old-fashioned bottles with cork stoppers, and I could use one of them for my purpose.

I stayed in my room for the rest of the afternoon and spent pretty much all that time surfing and playing retro games. I'm totally addicted to Asteroids, and I asked Dad once if he used to play the game, when Atari came out with it centuries ago.

He lowered the newspaper and peered out at me. “Son, I was too busy surviving on ramen noodles, a part-time minimum-wage job, and suffering through college for a degree that turned out to be a useless waste of time and money. Besides, your mother and I were dating. Even after we got married, we had to wait a while before starting a family. Living off ramen noodles didn't exactly end after college, you know. If anything, my daily nutrition expanded itself to ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

'Nuff said, Dad.

Remind me to skip over the 50s decade when I get older. I think people get all bitter in their 50s and then kick back and turn cool again in their 60s. I guess, after living on this crummy earth for forty years, they really can't help but look back at their lives and wonder what the hell went wrong, just as they get closer to retirement age.

After playing, I opened my inbox to find this message from Althea:
Hey, Eric. What do you think of bingo?
I sighed and sent my response:
I don't. Life's better that way. Aren't you supposed to be saving humanity from the scum of the earth right now? Quit messing around and do your job.

Scanlon stayed for dinner, by the way. I guess spending all that time on the computer, lost in complete denial of his existence, didn't alter the course of reality. When Mom called for me to help out in the kitchen, I went all obedient son on her and hurried downstairs, only to be told that we had a guest for dinner, and that I was needed to make sure that we had enough food to serve.

In brief...

"Here you are,” Mom said, marching over to the table, where her purse and a writing tablet sat. She read what was on the tablet and then scribbled something on it before tearing off the top sheet. She handed it to me and then rummaged through her purse for her wallet. “Make sure to tell Mrs. Zhang that Scanlon can't take very spicy food. Remember the time we served him Kung Pao chicken? The poor dear came down with the worst diarrhea, I heard. Just...nasty."

"Mom, I might have to call child protection services or something if you continue with that story,” I spluttered, totally grossed out. Who in the world would want to subject young, impressionable minds to Scanlon's toilet experiences?

"Anything on that list that's spicy, make sure that she cooks a special batch for us without the red peppers and whatever else they use to, you know..."

"Cause people to blow fire out of both ends,” I said glumly, staring at the list.

"That would be a less subtle way of putting things, but yes. Here's the money. And don't dawdle like you usually do.” She narrowed her eyes at me as I pocketed the cash. “I know you tend to get pretty chatty with Mrs. Zhang, Eric, and while that's fine when we don't have guests over, it's completely unacceptable tonight. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay.” I sighed as I shuffled out of the kitchen.

Unfortunately, on my way out, I had to pass by the living room, where Scanlon, Liz, and Dad hung around, watching TV.

"Hey, Tiger! Where you goin'?” Scanlon called out.

"To hell and back, judging from tonight's schedule,” I muttered, but I pretended like I didn't hear him. It helped that I was nearly running for the door that time, so I had an excuse for snubbing Mr. Happy Days.

As much as I'd have preferred to chill with Mrs. Zhang, I didn't really have any other choice but to follow Mom's orders, so I gave her the list and told her Mom's instructions for spicy stuff.

"What, your guest too wussy for my spices?” she snorted. I shrugged and looked sheepish. “Humph. You Westerners. Don't know
real
Chinese food if it bit you in your white asses.” She marched off to the kitchen and barked out orders to her husband, who was also the chef.

The only comfort I had then was the little bowl of wonton soup she gave me, while I perched on one of the stools scattered inside her takeout place, waiting for my order to be cooked. She always gave me freebies like that when I had to wait for my order. She said those freebies were good for my weight problem. That is, they were supposed to add between twenty to fifty pounds after consumption.

Let me say that I was glad as hell that those hoped-for pounds never materialized after downing her soup.

Every so often people would come in, ogle her steam counter, and buy heaping containers of greasy but freshly cooked Chinese food. From where I sat, I also noted that pretty much everyone ordered the same stuff that my family tended to default to—beef with broccoli, chow mein, sweet and sour pork, and hot and sour soup. It was kind of a sad testament of how little we Westerners really knew or maybe wanted to know about Chinese cuisine. I made a mental note to write down a list of alternate dishes that Mrs. Zhang might want to serve. Or maybe “mistakenly” substitute for one of the more common and boring stuff. The upside would be a pleasant surprise for the customer, who might ask for more new things from her next time. Of course, the downside was the total mind-fuck factor, which would mean angry complaints and demands for refunds or a night-long odyssey in one's toilet.

When my order was finally put together, I marched outside and walked in the direction of police sirens. No surprise there, given the overall sleaze quotient of the general area. A break-in? Sure! A carjacking? Oh, yeah! A murder? Pfft—why not? Sometimes I wonder how the Disney studios would interpret my city and especially neighborhoods like these. I figured that they'd make my trip to and from Mrs. Zhang look like a really edgy Little Red Riding Hood. You know, with the studio artists all toked out or something.

I didn't have to walk too far. Beck Street, which was kind of known as a haven for the criminally whackjob-y types, was also a favorite police hangout. It was also a part of my route home, and I couldn't avoid it even if I wanted to. Two streets down from Mrs. Zhang's takeout joint, I trotted over to the corner and found myself huddling with a handful of homeless dudes. I thought they were just residents loitering in a street corner, but I was
so
wrong.

"What's going on?” I asked, pointedly ignoring the strange looks my family's dinner was getting from my impromptu peeps. One started flapping a hand in front of his face, as though he were shooing off flies.

"Dunno,” someone grunted, and I instantly smelled a really potent mix of alcohol, cigarettes, and rotting teeth that nearly knocked me out. The hunched lump standing beside me pointed a gnarled finger down Beck Street. Well, he looked like a lump because he was, you know, hunched, and he wore ten layers of filthy coats. “Looks like a mugging or somethin'. Probably a rob'ry. Or a thief."

I inched away from them when I realized that their attention had completely shifted from someone else's crime spree to one that was possibly theirs. Yeah, like another mugging. This time, with non-spicy Chinese food for their target. I tried to look calm and a little more grim because I figured that I'd give off pretty intimidating vibes that way.

By the way, I also suck as a judge of my own vibe-giving. Instead of changing their minds about me, they inched their way closer, their eyes—those that I could see in the semi-lit area—fixed on the bag I carried, so that we kind of looked like we were practicing some weird group dance move in the shadows of a side street.

"Yeah, cool. Better get back there, you guys, or you'll get in the way of the cops. Know what I mean?” I said, raising my voice a little in case that helped make me look tough.

"'Ey, kid,” someone barked. I thought I saw a large hand appearing from the mass of dirty bodies that was slowly bearing down on me.

"Hey, watch out!” someone yelled.

They all threw themselves down on the ground in a chorus of half-drunken grunts, while I just turned tail and ran down the street, keeping Mrs. Zhang's food close to my body.

"I said, watch out!"

I threw a glance over my shoulder. A couple of shadowy figures were running up the street as well, just several feet behind me. They were also in the middle of the street the whole time, while I ran along the sidewalk. I suppose the icing on the cake was that they were shooting at something behind them—or, rather, something above and behind them.

"You're not getting us, freak!” one of them yelled. He shot a few more rounds into the night air. Then he snarled and threw his gun away. His partner kept shooting till he ran out of ammo as well.

I dove against the nearest wall and pressed myself there, holding my breath, as the two men picked up the pace and barreled down the street. Anyone who happened to be outside did the same thing I did, and Beck Street was lined with confused and frightened people pressing themselves against grimy walls of rundown tenement buildings.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Spirit Wire called out from somewhere. “Sticks and stones, dorkwads."

I glanced up and found her hovering about two stories up, her steampunk-ish costume faintly gleaming in the night lights. I couldn't see her face clearly, but her goggles seemed to glow. She paused for a moment and then went still, like she was concentrating really hard. The two thugs continued to run, and I thought that Spirit Wire was letting them go.

Then I heard a sudden explosion of glass. A window on the second story of a grungy apartment building across the street had shattered, and shards of glass flew everywhere. From inside the room, a bunch of long cables shot out, tentacle-like, waving and looking like bizarre slithering snakes as they flew right at the two thugs. I imagined that they were all normal cables with limited length, but from what I saw, Spirit Wire's powers stretched them out to whatever length she needed. It was seriously like watching a cartoon, with everything taking on elastic qualities. It was so weird—but cool as hell.