Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls (30 page)

 
          
He
grabbed the bat, hefted it, and stepped out into the hall.

 
          
Right
into the path of Zillah.

 
          
“Who
the fuck are you?” he had time to get out, and then the crazy green-eyed
apparition was lunging at him, all bared teeth and hooked claw-hands, so Steve
pulled the Slugger back and swung it straight into the fucker’s face. The
crunch of bone and cartilage reverberated through the wood into Steve’s hands.
It wasn’t a bad feeling.

 
          
Green-eyes
staggered back and hit the wall hard, but didn’t go down even with the fountain
of blood pouring between his cupped hands. His mouth and nose were erupting
blood; Steve had felt the bat take several teeth out. Two taller, bulkier
figures were coming down the hall.

 
          
Steve
was afraid somebody might be in Ghost’s room too; he had to get in there first.
He grabbed the bleeding figure by its long hair and one shoulder and with all
his strength shoved it down the hall toward the approaching strangers. It
crashed into them, spraying blood, and all three staggered and nearly went
down.

 
          
Steve
ran into Ghost’s room, slammed the door behind him, and locked it.

 
          
As
Nothing approached the bed, Ghost went limp and collapsed back into the tangle
of bedclothes. Reality did another slow giddy roll as Nothing stood looking
down at the fair dreaming face, gone tranquil now. This was Ghost, the lost
soul of all lost souls.

 
          
This
was his secret brother—some part of Nothing’s mind still clung dimly to that
wish, though he knew now that it was not true. There was a deep scarlet rose in
the lapel of Ghost’s rumpled army jacket, full blown and fragrant.

 
          
Then
he noticed the stain at the corner of Ghost’s mouth. Not much blood, not much
at all. Just a drop. Ghost must have bitten his lip or his tongue. Nothing bent
without thinking to lick the blood away, and Ghost’s eyes flew open and stared
straight up into Nothing’s.

 
          
“Born
in blood,” Ghost whispered. “Born in blood and pain—”

 
          
Then
the door burst open and slammed shut again, and strong hands seized the back of
Nothing’s raincoat and yanked him up. All at once he was flying toward the
wall. His forehead caught the edge of something sharp. Tiny colored stars
exploded through blackness. Blue, red, silver. All the stars from Ghost’s
ceiling were showering down on him. He closed his eyes and let them land on his
eyelids, tingling.

 
          
Steve’s
adrenaline rose another notch at the sight of the strange kid bending over
Ghost’s bed. But he couldn’t bring himself to bash the kid’s skull in, not from
behind. Instead he grabbed the kid by the back of his coat and threw him across
the room.

 
          
He
did not know that he was screaming Ghost’s name, but later his throat would be
sore.

 
          
He
turned, weighing the bat in both hands, keeping it between him and the kid,
keeping himself between the kid and the bed. “What did he do to you?” he asked
Ghost, who was looking dazed, not quite awake.

 
          
“I
didn’t do anything,” the kid said. “I wouldn’t hurt him, honest. Or you either,
Steve.”

 
          
“How
do you know my name?”

 
          
“I
like your music and—”

 
          
“Yeah?
This how you usually show your appreciation for art? Breaking into people’s
houses?”

 
          
The
kid looked so sad and shamefaced that Steve almost felt sorry for him. Not
quite, though. The kid didn’t seem dangerous, didn’t seem to have any fight in
him, and he was locked in here with Steve and the baseball bat. This kid might
be the only weapon he had against those three creeps in the hall if Steve
handled it right.

 
          
“Ghost.
Wake up, Ghost, WAKE UP, YOU DUMB-FUCK.” Ghost would be worse than useless in
your typical barroom brawl, but in mortal danger Steve suspected he could hold
his own if he was fully awake.

 
          
Ghost
blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the last shreds of nightmare.
Steve edged closer to the kid, who was still sprawled on the floor staring
miserably up at him. He had enormous street-orphan eyes and that phony dyed
black hair that so many kids wore and Steve hated.

 
          
“What’s
your name, kid?”

 
          
“Nothing.
I—”

 
          
“Nothing?”
said Ghost. “Did you send a—”

 
          
Something
crashed against the door. It shuddered in its frame. The kid looked toward the
source of the sudden noise. Steve reached down, hauled him up by his coat
collar, and pinned his arms behind his back. It must have hurt, but he didn’t
cry out; he was a tough little kid. Steve didn’t really want to hurt him. But
he would if he had to.

 
          
He
got a good grip on the baseball bat and pulled Nothing back toward the bed.

 
          
The
object crashed against the door again—they must be using the big piece of
quartz that sat in the hall; nothing else could make that much noise–and Steve
saw the doorknob splinter loose from its moorings. Another crash and the door
swung halfway open.

 
          
From
the comer of his eye Steve saw Ghost scrambling up in bed, pressing his back
against the headboard.

 
          
The
two larger figures appeared in the doorway, supporting the smaller one between
them. The entire lower half of the small one’s face was a mask of bruise and
blood. His hands dangled at his sides, bloodied, the fingers clenching and
unclenching.

 
          
When
he opened his mouth to speak, Steve saw with grim satisfaction that he had taken
out most of the bastard’s front teeth.

 
          
“‘You
hurt my face,” said Green-eyes. Through the mush of blood and ruined tissue,
his voice was low and smooth, smoother than it should have been considering how
much he must be hurting. “I don’t like it when people hurt my face. We’re going
to tear you up.”

       
“Try it if you want your ugly face
smashed in worse,” Steve said. He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

 
          
To
pull this off, he could not show an iota of fear in the presence of these creeps,
even though they smelled as if they’d been eating
roadkill
for breakfast. Steve jerked his arm tight across the kid’s throat. He saw the
light-colored roots of the kid’s hair and the tender scalp beneath, and knew
that
be
could bring the Slugger down on it if he had
to.

 
          
Green-eyes
stared at him for a moment, considering. “Let him go,” he said. “If you do,
we’ll just settle our score with you. But if I have to take him away from you,
I’ll rip open your pretty friend and have his intestines for breakfast.”

 
          
“Yeah,
fucker. I’m real eager to make deals with a bag of pus like you.” Steve
throttled the kid a little harder and heard him choke, though he had not
struggled or cried out.

 
          
“Not
‘fucker,’” said Green-eyes. “Zillah. Remember the name. Remember it when you
feel my teeth sink into your heart.”

 
          
“Well,
if you’re
gonna
sink ‘
em
into my heart, you better go pick ‘
em
out of the hall
runner first.” Steve thought he felt the kid stifle a helpless laugh, of all
things.

 
          
He
eased up on the boy’s throat a little.

 
          
Zillah
glanced right and left at his cohorts. They were poised like springs, like big
cats on the prowl. “Molochai-Twig—take him down,” he said. “Save the boy if you
can.”

 
          
Steve
knew his shaky bargaining chip was gone. He thrust Nothing as far away from him
as he could and started swinging the bat as Molochai and Twig closed in.

 
          
One
came at him high, one low. He brought the bat down on a shaggy head and felt it
thunk
against a cushion of hair. The owner of the
hair staggered but recovered fast.

 
          
Then
one long pair of arms was wrapped around his legs and one slobbering feral face
was pushed up close to his, and he lost his balance and went back onto the bed
with both of them crushing him.

 
          
Sharp
nails raked across his chest, drawing beads of blood. Sharper teeth sank deep
into the meat of his hand, and he screamed and lost his grip on the bat. It
clattered to the floor and rolled under the bed. In an instant Zillah had
darted across the room and retrieved it.

 
          
A
snorting, snuffling head burrowed in between Steve’s neck and shoulder. The
filthy
dishevelled
hair tickled horribly. Steve
whipped his head around, tried to bring his chin down tight against his chest.
He felt hot drool on his neck. Teeth found his skin and nipped.

 
          
“Don’t
do him just yet,” said Zillah mildly, and the teeth went away. One creep had
Steve pinned on the bed, sitting on his chest and trapping his arms. Molochai
and Twig were heavy and bulky and amazingly strong, and Steve couldn’t catch
his breath with the full weight of whichever one it was on top of him. Ghost
hadn’t even had time to struggle before the other creep had pinned him. Steve
aimed a useless kick at Zillah, who stepped gracefully away.

 
          
Nothing
pushed himself away from the wall, flung his arms out in a pleading gesture.

 
          
“Don’t
hurt them.”

 
          
Zillah
snorted and hawked a bright pink gob of blood to the floor. “Why not?” he said,
dangerously quiet.

 
          
“Because
they know me. Ghost knows who I am. He said so.”

 
          
“
Yesss
?”’ Zillah’s smashed face convulsed in what might have
been a smile. “I know who you are too. You’re a pretty little boy who hasn’t
learned his place yet. You’re a pest who is going to have his throat ripped out
in about two minutes if he doesn’t SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Zillah rounded on
Nothing, jabbed him hard in the stomach with the baseball bat. The boy
staggered backward, the wind knocked out of him.

 
          
“I
want him to watch,” Zillah continued. He held the bat up, waved its broad end
in front of Steve’s face. “I don’t need this, you know. I could kill both of
you with one hand while I jerked off with the other. But since you used it on
me …”

 
          
Zillah
moved to the head of the bed, stood over Ghost’s prone form. By craning his
head back, Steve could just see him. Zillah shoved the bat into Ghost’s face,
and Steve’s mouth went dry. “Such a fine, straight, hard piece of wood. But so
plain. It needs brightening up, don’t you think?…with some pretty red GORE?…and
some silky blond HAIR?…and some MAGIC BBAAAINS?”

 
          
Zillah’s
voice rose to a shriek on the last word, and he raised the bat high above his
head.

 
          
Steve
brought his knees up hard, bucked and arced and thrashed. But the creep’s grip
on him did not slacken and the bat was falling, falling …

 
          
“NOOOOOO!”
A black blur was in the air, raincoat billowing like great wings,
arrowing
straight across the bed and slamming into Zillah.
The bat flew out of Zillah’s hands and sailed across the room. It connected
with the window and punched through the glass, and then the Slugger was gone,
no longer a factor in the equation.

 
          
Nothing’s
momentum carried him and Zillah straight into the opposite wall. Zillah took
most of the impact. He slid down the wall and lay against it, dazed, his head
bracketed by words in pencil and paint and crayon. There was a comma-shaped
smear of blood on the wall where Zillah’s head had hit. Minute cracks in the
plaster radiated from it.