Slag Attack (3 page)

   “
What’ll we do with him?” A woman’s voice. Shrill and old.

   
Shell turns his head to the right and surveys the room. It’s completely wrecked. Large bookcases line the walls but all the books have been removed from the cases, strewn about the room, their pages ripped out. Furniture is overturned. Even the wallpaper hangs, ripped and shredded, from the walls. These must be more Pearl hunters. An old woman, presumably the one heard just a few moments ago, attempts to pull up the carpet. Her hair, sculpted into a tightly bound white perm, is unwavering. She wears a black bondage suit from the neck down, rendering her undoubtedly hideous body into a somewhat pleasing form.

   “
I guess we wake him up,” the man’s voice says.

   
Shell turns toward the voice. “I’m awake,” he says, spotting the man.

   
Shell pulls himself up into a sitting position on the couch. The man, portly and older, dressed for leisure, uprights an orange chair and sits down in it, facing Shell. The man has a white beard and wears what seems to be a permanent smile, his head thrown back on his shoulders, his eyes little more than slits. He has a nasty cut on his forehead.

   “
Care for a smoke?” the man asks.

   “
Where am I?” Shell asks, adjusting his eyepatch and smoothing his meager amount of hair.

   “
I’m sorry,” the old man says. “My name’s Dave Happalance and this is my wife, Ingrid. You’re in our home.”

   
Shell makes to get up. “I really appreciate your hospitality and I’d really love to stay and chat but I have some business to tend to.”

   
The man gestures for Shell to sit back down. A friendly gesture. Shell continues to stand. The man, Dave, with surprising agility, rises from his chair and pushes Shell back onto the couch. He smiles ridiculously the entire time.

   “
Ingrid. My pipe.” The man continues to stare at Shell. Actually, with his eyes such slits, it’s more like he just points his head at Shell. “I think you would find it beneficial to stay for a few minutes.”

   “
Do I have a choice?” Shell says. “If I stand up you’ll probably just push me back down.”

   “
Probably,” Dave says.

   
Ingrid brings Dave a pipe and a bag of something.

   “
You ever smoke these?” Dave asks, gesturing at the clear bag.

   “
I’m not sure what that is,” Shell says.

   
Dave packs his pipe and hands the bag over to Shell.

   
Shell eyes the bag suspiciously. “Are those slags?”

   “
Indeed,” Dave says. “They make a surprisingly good smoke.” He flicks a match and touches it to the bowl of his pipe. Shell immediately identifies the source of the stink.

   “
Isn’t that... bad for you?”

   “
Once dead there really isn’t a lot of harm they can bring you. I used to have these imported from other cities but now they’re all around. All I have to do is hop right out in the backyard and snag a jarful, put them in the oven for a few hours until they’re all brown and toasty and...
voila
! Slagweed! Sure you don’t want some?”

   
Dave holds the pipe out to him.

   “
I couldn’t,” Shell says. “I’ve been a little sick.”

   “
I hear that’s going around.”

   “
Is that why you checked me?”

   “
Checked you?”

   “
Yeah, as I was waking up, I heard someone say, ‘He’s all clean.’”

   
Dave holds the pipe out to Ingrid who takes a long pull.

   “
Oh, we weren’t checking you for slags. We were checking to make sure you weren’t hiding Pearl.”

   “
How could I be hiding an eight-year-old child?”

   
Ingrid took another pull from the pipe, bracing herself on Dave’s chair.

   “
She’s not eight. She’s the Queen of Town! How could she be eight?”

   “
It’s just something I heard.”

   “
No. She’s always been around. However, she is very very small.”

   “
Diminutive,” Ingrid says, bending down and licking Dave on the cheek.

   “
Diminutive?” Shell says.

   
Dave holds his thumb and middle finger about six inches apart.

   “
That small?” Shell says, amazed. “It’s hard to believe she’s lasted this long.”

   “
Well, she has all kinds of powers. She’s not like normal people. Not at all like you or me.”

   “
Of course not.”

   “
By the way,” Dave says. “I’d like to apologize for clubbing you in the head back there. I guess I just got so overwrought with the reward that momentarily, at least, I would have done anything for it. You have to understand my logic. Pearl goes missing. A stranger shows up. I thought maybe you had something to do with it.”

   
Shell wants to react strongly to the man who clubbed him in the head but knows that if he gives this man the merciless beating he deserves he won’t be able to get any information from him.

   “
So, do either of you have any ideas where she might be?”

   
Dave takes a large pull from the pipe, a fresh stink blossoms in the room and his face lights up. “Oh, sure, but I wouldn’t tell you. Not with the reward out there. See, I don’t really care whether or not Pearl is found. I think the city was probably better off before her.”

   “
I thought you said she’d always been the Queen.”

   “
I think I said she’d always been here. I don’t think I said she’d always been Queen. Shit, I’m so high I don’t know what I’m saying.”

   “
So who was the Queen before Pearl?”

   “
I think I said she’s always been the Queen.”

   “
How can she have always been the Queen if she’s only eight?”

   “
I
never
said she was only eight. She’s very old. Ancient, even. But she’s never grown up. She’ll always be eight. And a very
small
eight, at that.”

   “
What does the Queen of a mid-size city do?”

   “
If you ask me, she doesn’t—
didn’t
—do a whole lot.”

   “
No?”

   “
No. The whole position was trumped up and overrated. Maybe she realized how useless she really was and decided to move on.”

   “
Wouldn’t that be strange for someone who has always been here?”

   “
There are so many things you’re not aware of. Sometimes we all have to go out and find ourselves. You ever get lost? You ever feel like your
soul
got lost? If you ask me, that’s the real plague. No one knows who they are anymore. How did you lose your eye?”

   “
How do you know I’m not just wearing this as some sort of crazy disguise?”

   “
I checked. It’s grisly.”

   “
I don’t talk about it.”

   “
You’re bringing me down.”

   “
Me too,” Ingrid echoes before taking another massive pull from the pipe. She woozily leans over and begins licking Dave on the neck. He giggles. The cut on his forehead cracks open and unleashes a narrow trickle of blood.

   “
Actually,” he says. “I was going to ask if
you
had any ideas where she might be...” His giggles become louder. More uncontrolled.

   “
I’m just a stranger passing through town,” Shell says. “And I’m sorry but I really have to be going now.”

   
The Happalances are lost to whatever sick game they’re playing. Shell shakily stands up and exits through the front door, pausing only to vomit on their porch.

8.

He looks up to see a luminescent child on a dirt bike pointing a Glock at him. Shell throws up his arms, like that’s going to stop anything, just as the kid fires. It’s completely dark out now and the shot is a fireball erupting from the gun. It all happens too fast for Shell to even dive out of the way. He hears a screech to his right and looks down. Half a mature slag wriggles in Shell’s puke. His first thought is that he hopes the slag didn’t come from him. His second thought is that maybe Hollow City has had a slag problem longer than they care to admit. Mature slags are rare. The size of an adult male forearm with teeth. If bitten by a mature slag, the victim has fewer than three hours to live.

   
The slightly glowing kid on the dirt bike has quite possibly saved his life.

   “
Come on, patchy. Hop on. I ain’t got all night.”

   
Shell hurries for the dirt bike. The kid looks like a gang member. Red bandanna around his head. Sleeveless denim jacket over an equally sleeveless heavy metal t-shirt. Stonewashed jeans. Puffy gym shoes worn untied.

   
Shell hops on the dirt bike and looks back at the Happalances. Dave, now shirtless, rushes onto the porch and encloses his meaty hands around the slag. He licks his lips. There’s a crazed look in his eyes, now open and round and huge. Behind him, Ingrid smacks his back with a riding crop.

   
Shell turns back to the kid on the bike. “Where are we going?”

   “
The store, fuckmunch. I gotta get some supplies. And booze. It’s not a good night to be out. Can you handle a weapon?”

   “
Sure,” Shell says.

   
The kid hands the Glock back to him. Shell holds it in his right hand. He’s always been rather fond of the Glock, its angular Austrian lethality. It was designed to stop people. The owner of a Glock is not fucking around.

   
The kid pops the clutch and they speed down Main Street, zooming past a SWAT team unloading from a truck.

   “
Everything’s coming to an end, douche,” the kid says.

   “
What do you mean?”

   “
Hollow City. It’s falling.”

   “
That sounds pretty outdated. I don’t even think that can happen anymore.”

   “
What do you know, gramps?”

   “
Do you think you could stop calling me names?”

   “
I have to. It’s what I’m all about. I don’t kiss no one’s ass. ‘Sides, I could just throw you off my fuckin bike.”

   “
I’m not asking you to kiss my ass. I just think the name calling is uncalled for.”

   “
Clever, asswipe.”

   “
I am holding the gun.”

   “
Don’t you fuckin threaten me!” the kid shouts. A mist of spittle covers Shell’s face. “I’ll fuckin slit your throat and leave you in a goddamn ditch! You don’t know what’s goin on.”

   “
Maybe you could tell me.”

   “
I’m not tellin you shit.”

   “
Fine.”

   
They ride for a while, the only sound the high-pitched whine of the dirt bike. They leave the city proper and enter a series of back roads, corn and soybeans growing all around them.

   
Shell works with what he has. He is here to find Pearl. She is, or used to be, the Queen of Town. She’s small. She might be eight. She might be ancient. She might be ancient but mildly retarded. Everyone is looking for her either because they love her as their queen or because there is a sizable reward for finding her. Allegedly, the last person to see her was someone named Mike. Why would The Rotting Man send him to find her? And when he finds her, he is supposed to take her back to The Rotting Man. Or is he? The Rotting Man never really said. He’s usually more specific about these things. He’ll have to call The Rotting Man if he finds her. The prospects of Shell’s finding her, he thinks, are amazingly small. He only finds about half the people he searches for and, most of the time, it’s not like this. This feels like a race. With everyone looking for her, he’ll have to be the
first
to find her. And he doesn’t know this town nearly as well as people who have lived here their entire lives. Which could be to his advantage...

   
The dirt bike plows into a pothole and Shell’s concentration is shattered as it wobbles violently back and forth. The boy expertly straightens out and they are once again cruising smoothly along.

   “
What’s your name?” Shell asks.

   “
Used to be Mike but I changed it to Kid Rider.”

   
Shell suppresses a laugh. That’s an awful name. But his previous name... that could be something.

   “
Why the change?”

   “
I escaped from the House of Mikes. And don’t fuckin condensate to me.”

   “
The House of Mikes?” This is the most promising thing Shell has heard all evening. It even takes his mind off Kid Rider’s atrocious use of words.

   “
That’s what I said, buttmunch. See, Hollow City had too many Mikes so they put em all in a house on the outside of town. They was all given a number and a chance to live around themselves. It was supposed to help us establish an identity but it was terrible. The lower numbers pulled rank because they were there first. I was Mike 31. A hardluck fuckin number. Thirteen backwards. Like ass rape. I’ll show you the tattoo when we get to the store. I definitely didn’t get no breaks. That place was a fuckin prison.”