They kill, p.11
They Kill, page 11
She’d already been working for a couple hours by the time the brunette woman with the funky Egyptian-themed bag walked in. She thought she was older than her by a few years, but she was cute, and she was pleased when she sat at one of her stations. Maybe the day was starting to look up.
But she soon discovered the woman was preoccupied, and she ignored Wendy’s attempts at small talk. Another rejection, she thought, but she forced herself to continue smiling as she took the woman’s order and brought her food. Before long, an older man joined the woman, but all he wanted was coffee. At first Wendy wondered if the guy was the woman’s boyfriend or something. She kept an eye on them while she served other customers, and after a bit she decided that not only weren’t they lovers, they weren’t even friends. Their body language indicated how uncomfortable they were in each other’s presence.
Eventually the man left, and Wendy returned to the table to ask the woman if she’d like any dessert, but she was even less responsive than she had been before. She paid her bill and left, and Wendy felt depressed once more.
I can’t act, and I can’t get cute women to talk to me.
She was bussing the woman’s table when the café door flung open, and a guy in a black polo shirt and jeans entered. At first Wendy thought the man was injured. A lump of swollen, sore flesh protruded from the side of his head where his ear should’ve been, and there was a piece of electronic equipment kind of like a mini satellite dish stuck in the mass, as if someone had jammed it there. The sight of it caused Wendy’s stomach to lurch. But then she saw the man’s eyes – his silver eyes that had no iris or pupil – and she felt a watery sensation of fear in addition to her nausea.
Everyone in the café fell silent and turned to look at the man. Wendy stood frozen, bent over the table, holding the bowl containing the remains of the woman’s Caesar salad. The man with the disfigured ear and metallic eyes took a quick look around the café, body motionless as his head swiveled from right to left then back again. His gaze fixed on Wendy, and he walked straight toward her.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
He stopped in front of Wendy and thrust his head forward until their noses almost touched. Wendy thought of the way two dogs would get in each other’s faces when they were angry, practically nose to nose as they growled and barked. She felt heat emanating from the man’s body, as if he were running a fever, and Wendy wasn’t certain, but she thought she could detect a soft thrumming sound, as if a large piece of electrical equipment were running nearby.
“The woman who was sitting here.” The man pointed to the empty seat as if to clarify his statement. “What happened to her?”
Initially, Wendy was too frightened by this strange man to answer him, but her actor’s mind took over, and she found herself giving him a crooked smile. She put the salad bowl back down on the table, straightened, and met the stranger’s silver-eyed gaze without flinching.
“Who wants to know?” she said, her voice a laconic drawl.
The stranger blinked several times, as if he were having trouble believing what he’d heard.
“Are you shitting me?” The man’s brow furrowed in anger, and tiny bolts of electricity flashed across his eyes. Inside, Wendy cringed in fear, but outwardly her expression remained unchanged.
“No, I’m not,” Wendy said, voice calm but firm. “I can’t just give out information on customers to anyone who asks. It’s unprofessional.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Wendy noticed the guy working the bakery counter bring his phone to his face, then turn his back in order to conceal what he was doing. She hoped he was calling the police. She had no idea how much longer she could keep up her act.
Wendy had never seen anyone actually grind their teeth in frustration before, but that’s exactly what the man did now. His teeth were the same silver color as his eyes, and as they ground together sparks shot forth. Wendy might’ve thought the sparks to be an illusion of some kind, but they struck her on the face and neck, causing pinpricks of hot pain.
“I’m only going to ask this one more time, bitch.” The silver-eyed man’s voice was low and dangerous now. “Where. Did. She. Go?”
Wendy’s façade – which hadn’t been all that strong to begin with – was on the verge of collapse. She wanted to say something cool and cutting, the kind of line that a movie hero would say to a bad guy to bring him down a couple pegs and let him know what kind of woman he was dealing with. But nothing came to mind, so Wendy reluctantly, and with no small measure of disappointment in herself, fell back on the truth.
This time when she spoke, her voice was toneless and weak, without a hint of bravado. “She paid her bill and left a couple minutes before you came in.”
The silver-eyed man looked at her for several moments, and Wendy tried and failed to read the emotion in those inhuman eyes. But finally the man smiled, displaying his silver teeth.
“There, was that so hard?”
For an instant, Wendy felt a wave of relief. Maybe now that she’d answered the man’s question, he’d leave without hurting anyone – especially her.
But then the man spoke again. “I’m already at full charge, but you know what they say. You can never have too much of a good thing.”
The man opened his mouth and something shot forth. At first she thought it was his tongue, but it was a plug of some kind with sharp prongs and a thin metal cable played out behind it. The plug struck her forehead with such force that the prongs sliced through the skin and dug into the bone beneath. The pain was worse than anything Wendy had imagined possible. She felt a draining sensation then, as if she were a giant bottle of water that had sprung a leak. She felt her thoughts become thinner, smaller, and she heard people screaming, but the sound came from so very far away.
She had time for a final thought before the last vestiges of her consciousness disappeared forever.
All the world’s a stage….
* * *
Stuart jogged across the street toward his Camaro. He saw that a group of people had gathered around the body of the man in the shit-brown suit, but none of them looked his way. He heard sirens approaching, and he knew someone had called 911 about the waitress, the man in the shit-brown suit, or both.
He climbed into the Camaro and the engine roared to life, the car anticipating his need. The door shut on its own and the seat belt snaked across his chest and buckled him in. He felt the car in a way he’d never been able to before. He was connected to it, and it to him. They were part of each other now, the same way Krista was part of him. The seat was molded to his body, accepting him, holding him, caressing him.
“Do you wish me to locate Sierra?” Krista asked.
Stuart was tempted, but he’d just killed two people in the area, and the police would be all over the place soon. He wasn’t afraid of being caught, but he didn’t want the hassle of dealing with the cops if he didn’t have to.
“Not now, Krista. We can catch up to her later.”
Thanks to Krista’s tracking app, he could find Sierra any time he wished. But for now, he thought it would be a good idea to put some distance between himself and the approaching authorities. He put his hands on the steering wheel, and his mind and nervous system connected to the car as smoothly as if he were one machine attaching itself to another. He felt the steering wheel give under his fingers, and he watched as his hands fused with the leather and plastic. There was some pain, of course. A certain amount always accompanied change, but in the end it was worth it.
Stuart grinned. “Better living through technology,” he said.
The gearshift slid into drive by itself, and Stuart pulled into traffic and drove away.
* * *
As Sierra drove away from Temptations, she had a horrible realization. If Jeffrey did start to seek out familiar places, there was one he’d be drawn to more strongly than any other. She grabbed her phone and called her mother.
“Sierra, is that you?”
“Yes, Mom.”
For some reason, her mother didn’t seem to trust her phone’s display screen when it indicated who was calling, and she always checked to confirm the caller’s identity.
“Hello, sweetie. How are you today?”
Her mother sounded normal, but she placed a slight emphasis on the word today that spoke volumes. Sierra felt guilty for not having checked in with her parents earlier. She was hurting today, but it had to be so much worse for them. Jeffrey had been her brother, but he’d been their firstborn.
“I’m all right.”
A lie, and a damned big one, but there was no way she could tell her mother the truth. Assuming that Jeffrey hadn’t paid a visit to her and Dad. But now that she had her mother on the phone, she had no idea how to broach the subject.
“How are you and Dad? Has anything, uh, happened today?”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back. Real subtle, Sierra.
Her mother was silent for a moment, and Sierra imagined her trying to figure out what the hell her daughter had meant by this odd question.
“Well, your father and I didn’t sleep too well last night. And there were some tears this morning from both of us. But we’re doing a little better now.”
Sierra let out a sigh of relief. If Jeffrey had gone to her parents’ house, her mother would be freaking the fuck out right now. But she sounded normal. Sad, but normal.
“How are you doing?” her mother asked.
“Pretty much the same.”
Sierra had reached campus and she slowed as she approached the faculty parking lot. Riverbank had been built in the early Seventies, and the buildings looked like three-story blocks of dull concrete, which made it seem more like a prison than a place of education.
“Are you still planning on coming over for dinner tonight?”
To anyone else, her mother’s question would’ve sounded casual, but Sierra could detect the plea in her voice.
“Of course. I’ll be over after my afternoon class at ArtWorks.”
She had no idea if she’d be able to keep this promise. It all depended on whether or not she and Marc could find Jeffrey, and if they succeeded, what happened after that.
“Good. I’m making meat loaf.”
Sierra felt herself choke up. Their mother’s meat loaf – which Sierra had always found a little dry – had been Jeffrey’s favorite meal. It took an effort for Sierra to get words out.
“Sounds good.”
They were both silent for a moment, neither knowing what more to say, but neither wanting to end the call just yet.
Sierra pulled into the faculty lot, found a space, and parked.
“Do me a favor, Mom?”
“Of course, dear. Anything.”
“If something strange happens, call me right away. Okay?”
She could feel her mother trying to figure out what she meant by strange, but her mom promised she would. Sierra told her she loved her and asked her to give her love to Dad, and then she ended the call.
Her parents lived on the other side of town, and assuming Jeffrey remained on foot it would take him a couple hours to walk there. And he would only be able to manage that if his mind cleared enough for him to remember the route. With any luck, her parents would remain safe and blissfully unaware of their son’s resurrection while she and Marc tracked Jeffrey down. At least she hoped so.
She grabbed her bag, got out of her Beetle, and started walking toward the anonymous gray building where her noon class was held.
* * *
Grace stood before shelves filled with beautiful bottles of amber liquor, and unlike the last bottle she’d had, these all had labels. Woodford Reserve, Maker’s Mark, Buffalo Trace, Knob Creek, Blanton’s, Four Roses, Old Forester, Basil Hayden’s, Breckenridge, Low Gap, Widow Jane, Crown Royal….
There was no way she could choose, so she closed her eyes – sandpapery lids descending over hard, dry orbs – reached out, and fumbled until her fingers closed around the neck of a bottle. She pulled it off the shelf then opened her eyes. Angel’s Envy, $50.99. She brought the bottle close to get a better look at its contents. The Happy Hours liquor store was lit by fluorescent lights, but despite the garish illumination, the bourbon in the bottle seemed to glow with its own warm fire. She felt an unpleasant tightening in her mouth, and she realized her body was attempting to drool, but didn’t have the moisture to do so.
She’d come here to purchase a bottle with the ten dollars she’d found in her apartment, something cheap like Old Crow or Early Times. But now that she held the Angel’s Envy – which was considerably more than ten dollars – an overpowering thirst took hold of her. It went beyond the merely physical. It felt as if all of her – mind, body, and soul – was dry as the fucking Sahara and that she would crumble to dust and drift away on the wind if she didn’t get this glorious ambrosia into her belly now, and fuck how much it cost.
She broke the foil seal and tossed it aside. She eyed the cork with frustration, and was about to break off the neck of the bottle by smashing it against the edge of one of the shelves, when the index finger of her left hand twitched. This was followed by a burst of pain so intense it made her gasp and nearly caused her to drop the bottle. She looked at her hand and saw a small length of bone had pierced through her fingertip – no blood; she was too dry inside. As she watched, the bone twisted and curled, reshaping itself into—
—a corkscrew.
She attempted a smile, but her dry, tight lips – already cracked and split – didn’t have enough elasticity left to get the job done.
She held the bottle with her right and pressed the pointed tip of her – she supposed it was a bonescrew – to the cork. She wasn’t sure whether she should turn the hand with the bonescrew or turn the bottle to extricate the cork, but she didn’t need to do either. The bonescrew began twirling on its own, digging into the cork, sinking deeper with each revolution. When the top of her finger came in contact with the cork, she yanked and it came free with a satisfying pop. She’d never heard a more beautiful sound. The bonescrew spun in the opposite direction as it retracted into her finger, and when it had withdrawn completely, the cork dropped to the floor to join the discarded cap.
Her hand trembled as she brought the bottle to her mouth, as much from psychological as physical need, if not more. She tilted back her head, lifted the bottle, and drank.
She didn’t swallow so much as open her throat to create a clear channel to her stomach, and poured the bourbon into herself. In her haste to get the whiskey into her, some of it spilled onto her lips and chin, but it didn’t go to waste. Her thirsty body absorbed the bourbon directly into the skin. She finished the bottle in the time it would take her to draw in a breath and release it. It was gone so fast. Too fast.
Her tongue tingled, and a pleasant warmth spread through her midsection. Her headache – which she’d become so used to by now that she paid it little mind – receded. She drew the back of her hand across her mouth to wipe it, although it wasn’t necessary. Her parchment skin rasped as it moved across her leathery lips.
“That’s the stuff.”
A general sense of well-being came over her, and for one bright, shining moment, all was right with the world. She didn’t hate her ex, didn’t resent her children, wasn’t angry at Sierra, and most importantly of all, she didn’t hate herself. Unfortunately, this didn’t last. The warmth dissipated rapidly, along with its emotional counterpart. She felt thirstier, emptier than ever. It wasn’t fair! She just wanted to feel good, just for a little while. Was that too much to ask of the world?
Snarling, she hurled the bottle at the floor. It exploded into dozens of glass shards, which skittered across the tile like sharp-edged insects.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She turned before her clawlike fingers could encircle the neck of another bottle and saw a woman in her thirties standing in the aisle gawking at her. The woman was shaped like a pear and sported a bright green faux hawk. She wore a flannel shirt untucked, the sleeves rolled up to display the interlocking tattoos covering her forearms. An employee nametag was pinned to the left breast of her shirt, and it said Velda.
“What the fuck kind of name is that?” Grace demanded.
Velda didn’t answer. Her eyes were frightened-deer wide, and the color had drained from her face. Grace began to grow angry. So she was older than this woman by a decade or two. Or three. Just because she was old(ish), didn’t make her some kind of monster.
Velda found her voice then.
“P-please leave. I don’t care about the booze you drank. Just go. Please.”
The woman’s reaction disgusted Grace. She’d thought the younger generation was supposed to be so tolerant, so ‘woke’. But Velda was obviously an ageist of epic proportions. Grace started toward the bitch, intending to give her a piece of her mind. Velda took a step back as Grace approached and raised her hands as if to fend her off. For Christ’s sake, what the hell was wrong with her? Was she mentally ill or—
Grace’s thought was interrupted by a painful cramping in her gut, accompanied by an intense burning sensation. She felt hot liquid gush upward and sear the back of her throat, and she barely managed to open her mouth in time as a stream of brown liquid shot forth. It struck Velda in the face, and she gasped and choked as the substance ran into her eyes, up her nose, into her mouth. She slapped frantically at her face, attempting to wipe it clean, but all she succeeded in doing was smearing it around. As soon as the stream of liquid vomit ceased, Grace felt better. That’d teach her to guzzle an entire bottle at once.
Velda stopped smacking her face then. Her features went slack and her arms flopped to her sides.
