The Unnoticeables (23 page)

Another door, closed—
is the same thing happening in all these rooms?
—and finally the hallway. There was a woman standing about ten feet away to my left, regarding me with unsettling enthusiasm, a big red-carpet smile hot-glued to her face. A man in a paisley vest stood beside her. Across from them, a chubby guy with thick horn-rim glasses. A dude with a thin, ironic mustache. A girl with bright purple collagen lips. There were dozens of them, lining either side of the hall. They were all pushed up against the walls, intentionally leaving a space for me to walk … right between them.

Red Carpet raised her glass, by way of a toast. One by one, the others joined her.

There were only two of the bastards in the room behind me, I could—

No. I knew I would never go back into that room. I couldn't confirm those half-seen details in my mind. Not if I wanted to stay sane. Forward was my only option.

I took a step, trying not to meet the countless eyes tracking my every movement. I passed within an inch of Red Carpet. She was perfectly, unnaturally still. Horn-Rim Glasses was like a fat wax figurine of Buddy Holly. Paisley Vest was frozen, too. Twenty feet into the procession, I realized what was so unnerving about it: They weren't just still. Their hands were not wavering as they held their glasses mockingly in the air. Their eyes did not blink. Their chests did not rise and fall.

They weren't breathing.

I concentrated on making my legs move. Maybe if I didn't acknowledge the situation, it would stop existing. Willful denial isn't exactly a brilliant defense mechanism, I know, but—

I saw a familiar face, and I couldn't help it. I locked eyes with the stunt choreographer. The one I had worked with, briefly, in—what was the name of that movie?
Double Vision
?
Double Indemnity
?

The second I caught his gaze, the choreographer gave me an exaggerated wink, then reached over and tore a small piece of my sleeve away. I wanted to flinch, but it was over too fast. He moved in the space between blinks. I felt a brief tug on my opposite side and saw a patch from the knee of my pants missing. A thick-faced guy smiled at me, holding up a swatch of black fabric. He looked familiar.

He was on that teen show that was big a few years ago.
Cherry Lane
?

Cherry Lane twitched. When he moved it was like reality skipped frames: His neck bent ninety degrees and then snapped back in an instant. He seemed to lose control of half of his face. One eyeball rolled and spasmed. The right side of his mouth gnashed its teeth, while the other stayed fixed in a friendly, approachable smile. I jumped and recoiled but didn't make it far. Somebody was behind me. I felt a sharp pinch on my ass, and then another strip of fabric was gone. I turned around to find a thin girl with spiky pink hair grinning at me. She held a scrap of torn cloth between her fingers. She waggled it at me playfully, then put it in her mouth and swallowed it.

Somebody laughed, and then hands were all over me. They swarmed like piranha; nipping, tearing, pinching, and scratching. Minor wounds. Little pains that were over before they started. I was becoming naked by inches. I struck out with my elbow and caught a girl that I recognized from daytime TV squarely in the boob. She didn't register the blow. I planted a foot in the groin of an aging hipster, still dressed like he was in a grunge band. No response. I accidentally stabbed a finger through a beautiful Asian woman's eyeball, just trying to shove her away. It sunk in a full inch, loosing a gush of ocular fluid. She hungrily devoured the strap of my sports bra while the discharge ran down her cheek.

I fled.

And to my surprise, they let me. I bolted down the rest of the hallway and encountered no resistance. The crowd parted as I came near, still snatching and clutching, taking little pieces of me as I passed.

I tripped and fell out of the claustrophobic hall into the huge, relatively empty living room. I spun around to kick at the press of people I assumed would be chasing me, but they seemed to have lost interest. Dozens of Empty Ones were filing out of the corridor, not even glancing in my direction as they took their places around the perimeter of the room. I used the moment to take stock, and found myself left with half a pant leg, something like a ragged halter top, and no shoes. I was bleeding from a hundred tiny cuts. Angry red welts were already forming on my exposed skin.

“Hey,
chica
!” a voice bubbled behind me.

Marco was standing atop a red leather ottoman. He was no longer naked, but dressed impeccably in one of those suits that always remind me of Miami. Sharp, thin lines. Dark jacket. Bright colored silk shirt, two buttons open at the chest. He was pointing his sitcom-sex-symbol smile at me, holding a glass of champagne above his head.

“Glad you could make it to the fiesta!
Fiesta
means ‘party' in
español
!” he shouted.

There was an answering groan from his feet. A ragged, bloody scarecrow was curled up on the floor beneath him. It was roughly in the shape of Carey.

“I'm done with this!” I shouted, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “I'm not playing anymore. Just give me Jackie and let us leave, or I'll…”

Call the cops? Kick your ass? Kill myself? Write a scathing review of your newest film on my blog? What possible threat could I make?

“I'll…” I had nothing. “Do fuck-all, I suppose.”

“Ha-ha! There it is! That's the spirit! I think she's finally ready!
Amigos y amigas
: We have broken the candidate!” Marco clapped, and the whole room joined in.

Raucous, enthusiastic applause. I guess I'd just won the coveted Seriously Fucked Award.

“You are ready,” he repeated, his voice dropping all pretense of humanity. It was like listening to the wind form words.

He beckoned me forward, and I flipped him off before I realized I was doing it.

“No.” Marco shook his head, then leapt off the ottoman and landed squarely on Carey's back. He barked and twisted in agony. “That is going backward. It is time to move forward. Come with me willingly, or we will stomp on your friend until his teeth shatter in his skull.”

I tried to come up with a response but could only make a sound like a squeaky hinge.

Marco lifted one finger and pointed it toward the door.

I stood and obeyed. As I walked, the Empty Ones broke off from their positions around the room and fell into step behind me. I tried not to look back.

Marco's phallic silver Mercedes was idling in the driveway with its doors open. I moved to the passenger side and got in. Somebody slammed the door behind me, nearly catching my fingers.

Looking out of the windshield toward the house, I saw something crawl onto the deck and roll off the edge into the bushes below.

A few seconds later, Marco eased into the driver's seat, closed the door, thumbed the ignition, and hit a button on the console. The theme from
Homeroom
blared out of the speakers.

Rolled out of bed

Feeling half dead

Can't seem to catch a break today

Just got to school

Tryin' to play it cool

But you can't think of nothin' to say

Marco fixed me with his plastic grin, and said: “This is my favorite song!”

He stomped on the pedal and we fishtailed out of the driveway. In the rearview mirror, a single weak headlight flickered into life. The Mercedes was sealed up so tightly, I almost missed the sound—like a squirrel caught in a hive of angry hornets—of Daisy's engine turning over.

*   *   *

We drove for hours, past night and into early morning.

Every time I turned my head, I found Marco staring at me. His face was aimed forward, pantomiming intense focus and attention to the road ahead, but his eyes were shifted completely sideways in his skull, wide and unblinking, locked onto my every movement.

I tried not to turn my head much.

At first, I made up my mind to ditch out of the car at the earliest opportunity. I have a very select, specialized set of skills that practically never come in handy in real life. I can't fix a toilet or a computer. I can't build a chair. I cannot, for the life of me, bake a decent cake. But if you need somebody to fall down a set of stairs without getting hurt, or roll out of a moving car at fifty miles an hour—shoot me a text. I'm your girl.

I had my fingers wrapped around the door handle and my left foot planted, preparing to spin myself out and away from the wheels, when I remembered the first night I met Marco. He had done something to his car. Modified it with that rapist kit that prevented my door opening from the inside. I thought about clocking him. I thought about grabbing the wheel and yanking it, hoping to escape in the chaos of the wreckage. But I kept flashing back to Marco's head in my bathroom—dangling from a shattered neck and still smiling.

I don't get hurt.

That's what he told me. Even if I could wreck the car, I'd probably only hurt myself. I thought about subtly trying to contact the authorities—
you can text 911, right?
—but I'd left my phone back at my apartment in my haste to go after Marco. I thought about the Cobra I'd stashed in my waistband, but I guess one of the Empty Ones took it as a trophy back in the hallway. And even if they hadn't, it seemed laughable now.
Did this bitch just bring a stick to a monster fight?
I thought about waving at passing cars, in case they could see me. I thought about tapping out rapid Morse code on the window in case there was a helpful, keen-eared sailor standing by the side of the highway. I had wracked my brain for the first ten minutes of the drive, and every plan came back with a big fat red
REJECTED
stamp on it. And then I just tried to stop thinking. When I did, I thought about Carey:

Was that him, rolling off the deck? Was that him, starting up his bike to come after us? Or was that one of the Empty Ones, just getting the motorcycle off the street so nobody would come around asking questions? I tried to spot the single flickering light of Daisy's headlight in the rearview mirror, but I couldn't make it out. Was Carey too far back? Did the headlight give out? Was he even still there, or did he take off to call the cops? Would they even help? Was I going to die tonight? What difference did it make? What could I do about it?

It happened or it didn't.

Tepid apathy settled over me. Whatever came next, it was fate's problem.

*   *   *

I spent an indeterminate amount of time watching highway reflectors shoot past in a blinking line. I could see the clouds on the distant horizon starting to fade from black to blue. Sunrise soon. Probably my last, and I wouldn't even get to see it.

Eventually, we slowed and pulled up to the gate of a massive complex situated at the base of some looming black mountains. Marco gestured at the guardhouse, and the blockade slid away of its own accord. As we passed, I noticed that the fences bulged out oddly: They seemed to grow wider and flatten out toward the top. I didn't understand, until Marco's Mercedes eased into the compound, and his headlights revealed the truth: They weren't flat at all; the tip of each side of the fence was lined with thick, shining, six-inch-long steel blades running parallel to the ground. I'd never seen anything like it. It wasn't just defensive. It was sadistic.

After the vicious fence, I expected to be driven through a prison. Or maybe some great industrial complex populated by vast and incomprehensible machines chugging away with sinister purpose. Instead, I got a golf resort. Rolling hills with immaculately trimmed grass. Meticulously raked gravel paths. Tennis courts. A swimming pool.

Either the heart of evil wore a cardigan tied about its neck, or Marco had accidentally taken me to a Sandals by mistake.

We pulled up in front of a small brightly lit chapel with an old-fashioned stone facade. Its steeple sported a set of interlocking gears and a blinding, brilliant searchlight that raked the sky without pause. Marco came around to my door and held it open.

Such a gentleman.

I kicked him in the knee and went to use my momentum to shove past him, but he barely staggered from the blow. He had his hands on me before I even got to my feet. He swung me down hard and bashed my forehead into the dash. My vision swam and nausea seized my stomach.

Somebody was pushing me, saying something, and I could only nod and make foggy attempts at words.

By the time I could see straight, we were already inside the chapel. There hadn't been any others cars parked where I could see them as we pulled up, but the place was packed. Standing room only. I didn't recognize any of the faces, but I could tell by the white teeth and complete absence of wrinkles that these were all industry folks. And by the unseeing gaze and preternatural stillness, I knew they were all Empty Ones.

All eyes on me. Through me. Star of the show again.

But I had a supporting cast this time. Two lines of beaten, bloodied, and broken girls stood to either side of a low dais. A gargantuan machine dominated the platform. I couldn't even guess at its purpose. It just looked like a thousand meaninglessly interlocking gears, each plated in gold and studded with jewels. There was no drive that I could see. No point where the gears met and worked some kind of device to achieve a result. I wasn't even sure if it functioned. It might have been just decorative. But something about the huge silver lever jutting out of the floor next to the burnished-steel pulpit indicated otherwise.

Distant shuffling. A
thunk.
An unseen door opened and closed, and a chubby middle-aged man with thinning hair and the sleazy smirk of a back-road car salesman made his way out from behind the gears and settled in behind the pulpit.

The crowd broke into measured applause. They weren't clapping in sync, but they all applauded with the same cadence: three short claps, pause, one more clap, long pause. Repeat. They stopped simultaneously at some unseen cue and took their seats. All except Marco, who was still clutching my arm like a clingy father on his daughter's wedding day. We stood in the center of the aisle, waiting, while the balding man shuffled some papers.