Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls (48 page)

 
          
Not
until he was half a block from the room did Nothing notice the man following
slowly behind him. The man walked bent slightly at the waist, one arm clamped
across his stomach as if it hurt him to move. He was only a shape in the fading
light, neither large nor small, featureless.

 
          
Nothing
slowed his steps. The man slowed too. Nothing walked faster. So did the man,
doubling up even more.

 
          
Instead
of stopping at the boarded-up bar, Nothing turned right. He would lead the man
into the alley that ran beneath Christian’s window. The alley was fenced off at
the other end and blocked by a heap of garbage—he might be trapping himself.
But he could face the man there, find out what he wanted and deal with him
however necessary. He didn’t look like much of a threat.

 
          
Nothing
heard the man follow him into the alley, shoes crunching over broken glass. He
stopped and swung around, his hands on his hips and his sneakers planted firmly
on the pavement, trying to look dangerous.

 
          
The
man stopped a few feet away, badly hunched now. His breathing sounded harsh and
painful. His face was a wavering pale blotch on the dusk. Below it, a silver
cross on a chain gleamed. He stared at Nothing for a long moment, his lips
working silently, his eyes disbelieving. Then he took two unsteady steps
forward.

 
          
“Jessy
…” he whispered.

 
          
Nothing
felt his heart cannon against his ribs, bounce crazily off his breastbone.
Hush, he willed it, hush, heart, no one can hurt me. Zillah is close by, and I
have no fear.

 
          
The
man came closer. With dry fingertips he touched Nothing’s face. Nothing
thought, He’s old. He is much older than I thought. And he looks so sick. He
cannot hurt me. He caught the man’s hand in his and pulled it easily away from
his face. The fingers were like bones wrapped in parchment.

 
          
“Jessy,”
the man said again, more evenly this time.

 
          
Nothing
tried to make his voice calm. It came out husky, as if he’d smoked a whole pack
of
Luckies
that day. “That’s not my name,” he said.

 
          
“You
are so like her—” The old man pulled himself upright. His face contorted.

 
          
Nothing
imagined tissue pulling loose inside him, bleeding bad blood. He gripped the
man’s arm, trying to give what support he could. The man breathed deeply and
was able to continue. “My daughter died many years ago. But you are so very
like her …”

 
          
It’s
Wallace, Nothing realized wildly. The sick old man who nearly killed Christian
and drove him away from here. He is my grandfather. He shot Christian in the
chest … but he is my grandfather. His heart caromed again. Should he tell
Wallace his name, or should he lie?

 
          
Something
in him rebelled at denying his name. It was truly his now, and he would claim
it. “My name is Nothing,” he said.

 
          
“Who
are you?” The man grabbed Nothing’s shoulders and gave him a feeble shake.

 
          
“Who
are you, child?”

 
          
Nothing
half-wanted to fall into Wallace’s arms and sob out the whole confusing story.

 
          
After
all, this man was his grandfather. He had almost killed Christian, but he
hadn’t known the truth then. He thought Christian had lured Jessy to her death.
Nothing could explain the truth.

 
          
But
then he realized he couldn’t. Even if Nothing was Wallace’s only grandson, even
if Nothing looked so much like his dear dead Jessy. Because if Wallace heard
the whole story, he would know who had really killed his daughter.

 
          
Zillah.
Zillah had caused
Jessy’s
death, hadn’t he? He didn’t
mean to, it was my fault—I tore her apart inside before I was ever born,
Nothing thought hysterically. But Wallace would not blame him. Wallace would
love him because he was
Jessy’s
offspring, because he
looked like Jessy and was just the age she had been when Wallace had lost her.

 
          
And
Wallace would want to take him away from Zillah, away from his family.

 
          
Besides,
Wallace was in pain. Suffering.

 
          
Maybe
Nothing could do one small mercy for his grandfather.

 
          
“My
mother’s name was Jessy,” he said.

 
          
Doubt
flickered in Wallace’s eyes, brighter than the pain and weariness. If Nothing
wanted Wallace to trust him, he had to think of some kind of proof. At once it
came to him.

 
          
“She
disappeared fifteen years ago, at Mardi Gras,” he told Wallace. ‘That was when
she met my father.”

 
          
Not
until the words were out, hanging in the cool still air of the dusk, did
Nothing realize his mistake.

 
          
“Then
you are one of the unholy creatures too,” Wallace whispered. “The city has
become riddled with them.” With a convulsive motion he tore the crucifix from
his neck and thrust it at Nothing, trying to drive him toward the end of the
alley. “Repent while you are still young—in the name of the Father, the Son,
and the Holy Ghost, tear the bloodlust from your heart—”

 
          
Nothing
could not bring himself to laugh. He caught Wallace’s hand and took the cross
away. “I’m sorry, Grandfather,” he said. “That doesn’t work on all of us.”

 
          
“Then
it’s lucky that the Lord told me to carry other protection,” said Wallace.

 
          
In
one jerky movement he whipped a small pistol from the waistband of his trousers
and aimed it at Nothing’s forehead.

 
          
“Bless
you, my grandson,” he said. “When you look upon the face of God, you will thank
me.”

 
          
Nothing
was never sure how long he stood there staring down the round black barrel of
the gun, wondering whether he would see the flash of fire or hear the explosion
before the bullet smashed into his face. The brain or the heart, Christian had
told him.

 
          
He
had time to think of all he had found, all he was about to lose, all the miles
he would not travel.

 
          
A
mist seemed to surround Wallace’s head, suffusing his face with dim light.

 
          
Nothing
saw Wallace’s finger tightening on the trigger: actually saw that.

 
          
Then
something was plummeting toward them. Nothing saw the large dark shape hit
Wallace dead-on, saw Wallace’s body jerk forward and his arm fly up. The shot
went wild.

 
          
Brick
splintered far overhead.

 
          
Zillah
crouched atop Wallace’s prone form. He must have launched himself from the
second-story window, but he was not even breathing hard. The other man’s body
had stopped his fall.

 
          
Wallace
lay on the pavement in the shards of glass. He groped weakly for the pistol.

 
          
Zillah
stamped on Wallace’s hand, and Nothing heard a sound like strands of raw
spaghetti breaking. Wallace screamed once, a shrill, despairing sound. Then he
began to mumble softly.

 
          
Nothing
realized he was praying. Did he still think his God was going to pull him out
of this one?

 
          
“Some
fine messes you get yourself into,” said Zillah. “What if I hadn’t seen you
from up there?” His eyes gleamed; his lips were purple with fury. ‘You little
fool”—the pointed tip of his shoe met Wallace’s cheekbone; black blood
sprayed–“do you think you’re too smart to die? Do you think I can always watch
out for you?”

 
          
Zillah
knelt above Wallace, pulled Wallace’s head up by a handful of bloodied gray
hair, and smashed Wallace’s face into the pavement. The sound made Nothing
think of eggs being dropped onto broken glass. Gore began to pool beneath
Wallace’s head. “I won’t lose you now, Nothing.” Zillah rolled Wallace over and
began to slap him across the face, over and over, glaring up at Nothing. “Don’t
you know”—slap—“I love you?” Slap. “I LOVE YOU.” Slap.

 
          
Zillah’s
long nails dug into the loose flesh of Wallace’s face. He wrenched Wallace’s
head back, exposing his throat. Incredibly, Wallace was still praying:” …the
flesh of the Son,” Nothing heard him mumble.

 
          
For
a moment Zillah seemed ready to sink his fingernails into the old man’s throat.
But he only ground Wallace’s face down again, then leaped off him and came for
Nothing. He grabbed Nothing by the front of his coat, nearly choking him. With
his other hand he cupped Nothing’s chin. The gesture was almost tender, except
that Zillah dug his long nails into the flesh of Nothing’s cheeks. Zillah was
hurting him on purpose. Nothing felt a clear, icy fury begin to rise within
him.

 
          
“Get
your hands off me,” he said.

 
          
Zillah’s
eyes flared brighter. “What?”

 
          
“I
said get them off me.” Nothing shoved Zillah’s hand away from his face and
twisted out of Zillah’s grasp. They faced each other in the darkening alley.
Nothing’s heart beat painfully fast, but he was pleased to realize he wasn’t
trembling. “I’m sorry I get myself into stupid messes, okay? I haven’t been
doing this very long. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong. Nobody except
Christian ever tells me anything.” With each word he grew angrier. “You don’t
treat me like your son—you treat me like I’m half sex slave and half lapdog. When
I’m good, you pat me on the head, and when I fuck up you yell at me and hurt
me. But you never explain anything to me. What kind of a father are you,
anyway? “Nothing gasped for breath. He could see only two bright green spots on
the darkness. “All I have to say is this,” he continued. “Don’t ever hurt me
again. I love you. I want to stay with you. But don’t you hurt me. I’m not
Molochai or Twig. I won’t take it. I’m sick of it.”

 
          
Zillah
stared at him. Slowly the blaze in his eyes died down; they became cool,
appraising. “Wait here,” he said.

 
          
Then
Zillah did an odd thing. He knelt beside Wallace again and yanked Wallace’s
trouser legs up past his ankles. When Zillah reached into the purple silk
lining of his jacket, Nothing knew what he was going to do. He wanted to look
away; instead, he watched helplessly as Zillah unfolded his pearl-handled razor
and carefully sliced through the back of each ankle.

 
          
He
drew the blade through the old man’s threadbare socks, through the thin skin,
through the big tendon as if it were butter. Nothing saw the razor falter as it
grated on bone. Wallace was now beyond sound; only a long shudder ran through
his body.

 
          
“Wait
here,” Zillah said again. Nothing half-expected him to skitter up the brick
wall and climb back through the window. But Zillah just walked to the mouth of
the alley, glanced over his shoulder at Nothing, and turned toward the
staircase that led up to the room.

 
          
Nothing
could not look at Wallace now. He stared at the ground, at the broken glass and
the pile of garbage. Something gleamed near his foot. The crucifix. Nothing
looked at it for a long moment, then picked it up and thrust it deep into his
pocket.

 
          
Zillah
wouldn’t like him keeping it. Too bad.

 
          
In
a few minutes Zillah came back down with Molochai and Twig. They had left
Christian sleeping, they said. They could tell him about Wallace later. It
would be a surprise.

 
          
Nothing
suspected they were just greedy.