The Empty Ones (7 page)

We were stuck underground in a dismal concrete cave rapidly filling with water, surrounded on all sides by pissed-off punk rockers itching for a fight, and at least some of them were Unnoticeables. And we had to wade right through it all to get to the train.

Well, only one thing to do, really.

“Let's start a riot,” I said to Randall's back.

He turned around to look at me, feigning shock for the benefit of the girl.

You goddamned phony. Wait until the punches start flying and you just fuckin' try not to have some fun.

“Hell of a show, right?” I practically screamed it, at a slab of beef wrapped in a leather jacket with a picture of the queen on the back. Her eyes were blacked out and somebody had drawn a crude dick slapping against her mouth.

“Fuckin' right,” he answered. And that was all I needed to know: English accent.

“There's nothing like good old-fashioned American rock and roll,” I said, feeling a twinge of mania building in my chest.

You are my favorite vice, adrenaline. Well, behind beer. And whiskey. And sex. But definitely ahead of cigarettes. Okay, maybe slightly behind cigarettes—but only slightly.

“Some of it's pretty good, yeah,” the slab of meat agreed, hesitantly.

“I mean, what's it got?” I turned to Randall, snapping my fingers, looking for help with the word. “What am I thinking of, that American rock has and British doesn't?”

He glanced over to Meryll, who shook her head. My heart sank. I was going to have to do this one my own.

I was turning back when I heard him chime in: “Authenticity,” Randall said.

I smiled with every inch of my face. “Thaaaat's it. It's got fuckin'
authenticity
.”

The slab of meat was making a face like he was trying to hold in farts with his mouth.

“Not like this British bullshit,” I said, louder and louder, “all wrapped in politics, tryin' to pretend they're about something they ain't. It's pretty … what's the word?” I snapped my fingers again, not looking back.

“Pretentious,” Randall supplied happily. I could hear Meryll sigh.

Ooh, we had an audience now. All eyes watching, even the ones too far away to hear the conversation. They could just feel it crackling in the air. Confrontation. Sweet lady fistfight dancing around in her low-cut shirt. Everybody just watching, hypnotized, wondering when something was gonna pop out.

“You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, mate,” slab of meat said, and tried to turn away.

What the hell, man? Nobody that big and ugly gets to be a pacifist.

“You motherfuckers should get down on your knees and give us Americans a nice, wet, sloppy blow job of gratitude for inventing punk in the first place. Gave you lovely boys an excuse to play dress up for a while.”

Slab of meat swiveled around slowly. I could see him trying to process what he was hearing—
Surely nobody is this stupid? Couldn't he see he has a whole train station of pissed-off drunken English punks in front of me? I'll never live it down if I don't kick his ass now.
By the time he'd wobbled all the way about to lock eyes with me, I could see the resignation in him. He'd run the scenarios, and there was no way he was getting out of this without punching me in the face.

My hip throbbed. My shoulder ached. I really hoped I could at least keep my feet.

Motherfucker hit me like a rocket ship.

I have no idea what happened next, exactly. I picture myself flying cartoonishly through the air, body stiff as a board, hitting the ground and sliding to a stop, my head pushing up a little mound of dirt that covers my body, then a little gravestone and a pretty white flower popping up above the spot where I finally settle.

You're never knocked out for long. Movies get that shit wrong. It's a second or two if it's anything, but by the time I opened my eyes, the train station had already gone full Vietnam.

Randall had slab of meat in a leg lock, and was pounding on his thick white dome with both fists. I couldn't see Meryll, but there was a section of crowd substantially more screamy than the rest, so I assumed she was there. A busty blonde arced up out of that spot like a bottle rocket and slammed into the concrete next to me. Her leather jacket was open to the waist, and she wasn't wearing anything underneath. I could vouch for that, because she rolled straight out of it when she landed, and just sat there, tits-a-heaving, a big red welt already covering half of her face.

Holy shit, Meryll, you slapped that girl topless.

I jumped to my feet, intending to get a bit of momentum for a nice, hearty two-footed dropkick.

Gotta make an entrance.

But my body had other ideas. My hip flared, the world swam, and I fell straight on my face. I tried to rally my balance, but no luck. I settled for a slow crawl instead, and started biting knees. It was not going to be a dignified night.

I sunk my teeth into some stovepipe jeans that tasted like fried chicken and motor oil. There was a yelp and a swat from above, so I moved on to the next. Loose black trousers. Recently washed. They tasted a little like detergent, but were otherwise a pleasure to bite into. I felt blood well into my mouth, and spat it out right onto the trousers' bright white loafers.

“Aw, my damn shoes!” somebody moaned.

I moved on. Bit into a couple more greasy blue jeans; bit into a bandana with the Jolly Roger flag on it; bit into a nice bare kneecap under a dark purple skirt (but not before stealing a quick look). I caught a couple of knees to the head and got hit with a few decent smacks, but everybody's mind was mostly on the greater riot. I went largely unnoticed, and chewed my way across the platform until I hit an empty space. I crawled out into the clearing on all fours, and saw a dozen swollen punks trying to leave plenty of space between Meryll's fists and their faces. She was squaring off in a vaguely kung-fu stance, but you could tell it was more an impersonation of Bruce Lee flicks than any actual training. Still, she'd provided plenty of evidence of ass kicking, and nobody seemed in much more need of convincing.

“I'm sorry,” said a voice like gravy thickened with sawdust. “Stop! Please stop!”

It was the slab of meat. Peering through the gaps in the crowd, I could see Randall still had him in that leg lock, and was drumming on his face with open hands now. Randall had his eyes closed, lost in the rhythm.

“Randall!” Meryll hollered. “Get over here. We gotta go before the Faceless get their shit together!”

No response. He was tweaking the slab of meat's cheeks now, laughing as the ugly man blubbered and squealed.

“Randall!” I tried. “Come on, man. Your pussy's getting cold.”

He heard that.

He let the slab of meat go, and the guy seemed to think of reprisal for a second. Randall pointed sternly at the stairs, and the slab of meat slunk away like a chastised puppy.

Meryll was already making her way through the motley crew of beaten, bloody punks. They parted like the Red Sea. I crawled after her, trying to look like I just happened to be sauntering in the same direction … on all fours.

Who, me? Nah, I'm a fuckin'
man
. I ain't following some chick in the desperate hope she'll keep me safe. Just crawling over here to check out the newspapers. Grab the sports page. You see the game last night?

Nobody was buying it.

I wasn't really buying it either. With each shuffle my hip let out a dull, nauseating throb. I was getting dizzy, which was either from an acute lack of beer (ain't a good idea to stop drinking once you've gotten a nice running start at it), or maybe a mild concussion.

Do concussions come in “mild”?

Shit, even my thoughts are crawling. I zeroed in on Meryll's ass, giving myself a point of focus.

Just follow the ass. It will lead you to safety.

The ass was my everything. The world around it was turning fuzzy and red, but that didn't matter. The ass was all. The ass was me, and I was the ass. Its cheeks wobbled a bit with each footfall. Each step sent one buttock into the fabric of the miniskirt, highlighting its contours. The ass was confident. The ass was sure. The ass knew where it was going. The ass stopped, jiggled a bit, and then disappeared altogether. I was left alone in an assless world.

So this is what it feels like to lose your faith.

I blinked. I swallowed hard and looked around me. Meryll was gone.

Randall bumped into me from behind. Nearly sent me sprawling into the shadowy ditch directly in front of my filthy hands that I was just now noticing.

“Mary went down there?” Randall asked.

“Meryll,” I corrected him.
The rat bastard.
“And I guess so. You first.”

Me and Randall stood at the edge of the subway platform, unwilling or unable to move.

Do they even call them trains here? These Brits all have weird cutesy terms for normal shit. They probably call them “wonkers” or “moveys” or “side-lifts.” I bet this is a “movey-cliff.”

Concussion was seeming more and more likely.

We peered down the tracks in either direction, into the absolute darkness there.

Last year I threw a beer can at a living monster of tar because it cockblocked me, then jumped into a sewer to fight an immortal Iggy Pop wannabe. Just last week Randall trapped an Unnoticeable in a Dumpster and pushed it down a hill just because he thought it would be funny (it was).

We do not have a firm concept of mortal danger, is what I'm saying here.

But neither one of us wanted to jump down onto those tracks. Me and Randall and Jezza and Wash and the goddamned parasites used to get hammered at the South Loop some nights, but we knew that station was shut down. If there was any possibility a train could have come through there, we would've found a different drinking spot. Because, growing up in New York, every one of us had heard the stories: Some hobo pissed on the rail and got himself electrocuted. Some stoned girl passed out down there and they had to identify her by the teeth they picked out of the wheels. A secretary slipped and fell right as the train was coming in. It split her in half, and then stopped right on top of her. They couldn't move it or her guts would spill out. They brought her family in to say good-bye first.

Who knows if that shit is true? But you hear it enough as a kid that it gets inside you.

Staring into the darkness there, I couldn't help but think a train was idling just out of sight, sitting with its lights off, waiting for me to jump down so it could cut my damn legs off.

“What are you boys scared of, ruffling your Sunday best? Let's fucking go, already,” Meryll said.

She was straddling the tracks and looking up at us with disapproval.

“Maybe we'll just keep kicking these guys' asses,” I suggested, helpfully.

Meryll scoffed.

“Carey, I think we should go,” Randall said. He hopped down onto the tracks and instantly looked like he was gonna be sick.

“What, really?”

“Look behind you,” he said, already backing away toward the westbound tunnel.

I knew it was standing-room-only at this station. I expected to see a few score of pissed-off punks waiting to give me a firm kick in the ass. I turned my head, though every inch hurt, and behind me I saw … nothing. A blank wall of disinterest. It felt like looking at fifty solid feet of DMV pamphlets. I couldn't have paid attention if I tried. There were dozens upon dozens of faces staring at me, and I couldn't make out a single one. They must have been pushing up past the normals this whole time, just behind us.

Meryll was not kidding.

The Unnoticeables were different here. Back home they accepted a good beating with grace and tended to scatter. Here, they went and got reinforcements.

I flung myself down onto the tracks headfirst. I hit my back on one of the rails, and the irrational fear grabbed me instantly.

You're paralyzed. Just gotta wait here for a train here to pop you like a goddamned sausage.

But no. Gun beats knife. Rock beats scissors. Adrenaline beats pain. I got up. I stumbled a little when I first put weight on my bad hip, but it held, and I started running. Straight into the darkness of the westbound tunnel—which I now saw, too late, was moving.

“Tar men!” I yelled.

Randall pulled up short just this side of where the lights went out. But Meryll was already in there. I hobbled up beside Randall, and noticed he wasn't staring at the wriggling dark. He was staring back over my shoulder.

The Unnoticeables had made it through the crowd, and were just standing there in a line, toes at the edge of the train platform. Dozens of them, still and silent. Shoulder to shoulder. A shifting mass of blank faces. I couldn't even tell you if they were watching us.

They were waiting. They knew it. There was nowhere left for us to go.

“A trap, then?” Randall spat. “Pretentious bullshit. What is this Sherlock Holmes crap? Who sets fucking
traps
?”

“I don't think it is,” I said.

I stared at the shadows that Meryll had vanished into. She hadn't shouted, hadn't sworn or screamed. I couldn't tell if that was a good sign, or a very bad one.

“What do you mean?” Randall said. “If this isn't a trap, then, what, there's just so many of these things down here that you can wander into any random train station and trip over a small army of the bastards?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Oh. Shit. I liked it better when it was a trap.”

“Me too.”

“You uh … you think Marie's dead?”

“Meryll,” I corrected him.
Again.
“And, yeah, probably.”

I was locked onto one of the Unnoticeables' shoes. Hot pink with blue laces, like a little girl's. It was giving me a migraine just to keep them in focus. I inched my gaze up, keeping all my focus on just this one small part of the crowd. I made it to the knees, knobby and thin. The hem of a black pencil skirt. White blouse with tiny intertwining flowers. My eyes crawled all the way up to her face, and got just an impression—plain, mousy, maybe part-Indian or something—before my peripheral vision got caught on a little piece of the faceless crowd around her, and the whole thing washed out like the tide coming in on a sand castle.