Among the Living (20 page)

“Did he bite you?” The girl backs away.

“He tried, but I don’t think it broke the skin. What’s wrong?” Alice meets the girl’s eyes. They are filled with terror.

“I think that’s how it spreads, the thing. I think if one of them bites you, then you die and come back as one of them.” The girl trembles, her hands clutched to her chest. She glances behind herself as if she is ready to bolt.

“Don’t be silly, there is no such thing. See, I’m fine,” Alice pulls up her shirtsleeve. There is a ring of bite marks, but it’s just a red-rimmed series of bruises that aren’t even bleeding. “Now just wait here, and I’ll grab the keys. We can go see your mom first if you want, to make sure she is okay.” Alice is babbling, thinking at twice her normal speed, her words barely matching her thoughts. If she keeps vomiting words, maybe she won’t have to think about Ken on the ground.

Ken moans, and one hand moves beneath him. It is the broken one, now protruding at an angle from beneath his body. Alice doesn’t understand how he can be functional; the arm must hurt like hell.

“Okay, I just want to get out of here,” the girl says in a small voice. Alice wants to take the girl and hug her.

She runs to the front door on leaden limbs, hands shaking as they close around the frame, and launches herself into the familiar house. The hallway shows signs of the battle. There are drops of blood in a steady pattern on the carpet, on the wall. How will they ever get it clean? She will have to come back later with a bucket of cold water and try to get the blood off the walls.

She runs to the kitchen and stops to snatch up the contents of her purse. She stuffs them into her bag and then her eyes light upon the shape of her son lying on the dining room floor, and a cry of agony goes out. She crawls up the stairs and stares into the empty eyes, gray lined and filled with blood. They don’t look anything like the boy she raised, the trusting eyes he had as a youth. The mock-serious stare he could give her when she told a bad joke.

Gone, all gone. The house they built will be empty, Ken and her son dead. She was fooling herself about coming back to clean up; she never wants to set foot in this house of horror again. She stares at the still form and notices the gun on the floor. It looks as if Ken used it to end their son’s life, but how could he do it? How? It’s murder! Oh God, they are both dead!

She grabs the automatic and studies the cold steel, the dull barrel, and the black frame that seems built for someone with much larger hands. She drags herself to the bottom stair and looks at the gaping hole as if she has found salvation. She studies the chunk of metal that is the hammer, how it is cocked and ready to fire. Then she points the gun at her forehead, finger resting on trigger and contemplates oblivion.

“What’s in the bag, Bob?”

“Lil’ friend of mine I like to call ‘Peace.’ ‘Cause when people see it, they want to be left in peace.”

He unzips the bag and takes out a giant revolver. The barrel is nearly eight inches long and shines like fire in the light of her old lamps. It’s getting dark out, but she doesn’t want to turn on the bright overhead lights just yet; she is enjoying Bob’s company and the intimate ambiance of her otherwise dull living room. He hefts the thing, sights down the barrel at the picture of a drunken clown on her wall. It is truly the most hideous thing she has ever owned, and yet she refuses to get rid of it.

“Shit, that thing is huge.”

“This is a .357 magnum, and it will blow your head clean off … almost as well as the .44 that Dirty Harry carries,” he says, trying to emphasize his words with squinted eyes and a raspy voice.

“Bob, if you seriously need to take a crap, go to your apartment.” She laughs at his face. It looks like he is dealing with a case of constipation.

“Clint Eastwood playing a cop who shoots first and asks questions later.”

“Oh. Yeah! No, not familiar.”

“I’ll bring a video over sometime.”

“I hope it isn’t one of your client’s videos.” She smiles and it feels good. Maybe it’s just the wine. Like usual when Bob is around her, she feels warm but confused. She would like to open up to him more, but she is also terrified at the thought. She can never let him know what lies buried within; she can never let him into her space.

“A Clint Eastwood video, silly. I kinda like you, so why would I subject you to one of those videos?” He opens his eyes wide and rolls the word ‘those’ with a full dose of sarcasm attached.

“And in your, um, professional opinion, what would be a good video to show me?” She echoes his sarcasm.

“Oh, you know, something with horses and people dressed up in furry costumes who like to meet in parks and fuck like giant bunnies.” He starts laughing, and for some reason the sound is infectious, so she joins in.

“Second time you’ve brought up furries, you sick fuck. I think you’re the one with the weird fetish.” She holds her stomach and tries not to spill the wine because she is laughing so hard.

The beer first, now the wine—it is all going to her head. She collapses back into the couch, trying not to spill the glass. Wine splashes out anyway and rolls down her robe, which is apparently spillproof. Well, it will just have to wait for a washing, because there is no way she is running around in her t-shirt again. Weird fetishes aside, she doesn’t want to deal with the looks.

“Okay, so the gun, what’s the deal?”

“Nothing, I just like to have one around. I grew up around them. Dad and Granddad always had guns around. It’s a surprise me and my brothers didn’t blow our heads off. Grandpa even had an old World War II Luger he kept in a drawer.”

“Isn’t that something you hawk up?”

“Hah, no, it’s an old-style automatic that the Nazis carried. Supposedly he got it off a dead German when he was a paratrooper. He jumped into Italy a couple of times.”

“You don’t have to explain to me. I’m not some liberal crackpot who thinks guns are a threat. Hell, if you want to have a rocket launcher, more power to you, just don’t use the goddamn thing on me.”

“Gee, a voice of reason. Have you thought about running for office?”

“Nah, I’m too gay for that.”

“Hey, gay is in.”

“Really? Do you have a man in your life, then?” Her eyebrows arch up in sarcasm.

“I don’t even have a woman in my life. I have bad luck with girls. They tend to wake up one morning and realize I am a thirty-two-year-old slacker who collects money from old men for porn companies.”

“Hey, it’s a job.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” He hands her the gun, and she takes it with no hesitation. In fact, she takes the big heavy silver thing and holds it in one hand like she has handled one a number of times. She points it around the room, aiming it at the few paintings on the wall of her sparse apartment.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes as she holds it by the grip, her other hand on the silver barrel. She studies the side, pushes on the little button to release the chamber. It is empty, the six holes staring back at her like hungry little mouths.

“Smith and Wesson make that particular model. I’ve only fired it a few times up at the range in Montlake Terrace. It yanks up like a bitch when it fires, but the big heavy barrel keeps it down better than a shorter barrel. At least, that’s what I think based on my twelfth-grade understanding of physics.”

“I can see how it would help,” she says as she caresses the barrel like a lover. She spins the chamber and then slaps it shut and whips the gun up to aim at the wall. “Bang,” she whispers. She imagines she is aiming at one of the disgusting sweaty men she meets.

“Anyway, with all the craziness going on, I thought I would show you the gun and—if you didn’t freak out—show you how to load and handle it.”

“Ah gee, Bob, if I wasn’t hot for chicks, I would consider that downright romantic. ‘Hey babe, wanna play with my big pistol?’” she intones in a deep voice that is nothing like his.

He chuckles and takes the gun back. He pulls out a box of shells, folds back the paper lid and slides the box out. It is obviously heavy with its load of long shells. He takes one out and hands it to her.

“These have a lot of stopping power. They are just the standard load, and to tell you the truth, I don’t know the first thing about bullets. I just asked for the right ones for this piece, and that’s what they gave me. I have fired off at least a hundred of these things, and they will supposedly stop a man at fifty paces. Not only stop him, but turn his guts wrong side out.”

“Gross.” She studies the bullet. It is nearly as long as her pinky finger. Except it isn’t gross; she wants to see what it would look like.

“In case you ever have to use it, and I hope you don’t, just load it, close the barrel, shoot. You can pull the trigger to fire it, but it’s a bitch to squeeze, so cock it first if you are in trouble.”

“Do you really think this is necessary?”

“I don’t know, kitty cat, I just think it is better to be safe than sorry. So there ya go. You can now kill a bad guy six times if you have to.”

“Don’t call me kitty cat.”

“Sorry, kitty cat.”

She sighs and fights the urge to grin. Fights the urge to smack him one. Fights the urge to sit in his lap.

She hands the bullet back, and he slides it back into the box. Then he puts the gun and the bullets into the gun bag and zips it up.

“If it comes to having to fight, I think I’ll just stick with my swords.”

“Swords? I know you are into martial arts, but I didn’t know you were a ninja.”

“That’s me, Kate the ninja.” Then she pops up and goes into her room. She opens the sliding mirrored door of the closet and extracts a bundle that is wrapped in a colorful oriental print. It is blue with white circles and women dressed in kimonos on it. She returns to her chair a bit dizzy from the wine and beer, but she wants to show Bob that she has a big cock too.

She unwraps the cloth and lays the swords on her lap. Her robe has fallen open, but she doesn’t care because the sheaths are cool on her bare leg. She picks up the smaller one and pulls it out slowly so he can see the light reflect off the folded metal. While some swords are for show, perhaps to be placed on a mantle or a table, this one is not. This is a real weapon created by a swordsmith she found online. While hers will never be mistaken for genuine master swords, they are nearly as sharp and just as deadly. The edge has a wicked gleam that ripples like water.

“This is my wakizashi, and it is used in conjunction with this sword, my katana.” She indicates the longer scabbard on her lap. They both have simple pommels done up in black cloth. The string is wrapped over and over to form a strong grip. Even drenched in blood, the grip will prove firm and secure.

“Nice. Did you pick those up at the Asian store downtown?” The inane question doesn’t anger her. He just has no idea what they mean to her—and they mean a lot. She has studied the art of kenjutsu for quite a few years. It and her other martial arts have become her center, her religion. Without them, she would be lost. The other would take over, and Kate would cease to exist.

“No, I ordered them from a swordsmith online. It took six months, and I had to put a thousand dollars down just to get the order started. They are quite real, and I know how to use them.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. I have been training with the things for years. I also take an Indonesian martial art based on penjkat silat, so I can pretty much kick your ass in multiple languages.”

He stares at her for a few seconds in shock, then a full smile cracks his lips, and he laughs out loud. “My but you are full of surprises. Sort of at odds with your other interest,” he says, looking at a welt on her leg.

“That’s me, nothing but surprises. And yeah, I have no misconceptions about the irony. I guess you could say I am conflicted.”

He continues to grin at her like she is bat-shit insane. Then an image flashes into her mind of her coming up on the balls of her feet, whipping the longer blade out of its scabbard and slashing it across his throat. She would draw and slice in one smooth motion, something she has done a million times in iaido class.

She slams the sword back into its sheath and then wraps the weapons before he can ask any more questions. She sets them in the corner of the apartment as far away from where they are sitting as possible while still keeping them in the same room.

She returns to the couch, but Bob must have seen something pass through her eyes. He stands up and stretches while trying to look nonchalant.

“Well, I should get going.”

“Okay,” she replies lamely, wishing the words she has been thinking for the last minute would bubble past her lips and she would say them. The words that she can’t trust, yet wants to ask anyway. Please stay, Bob. Then they will go to her bedroom and he will make gentle love to her, something a man has not done in many years. He will fill the voids in her, the one that aches between her legs and the one that resides in her soul that is broken, unable to be mended.

“Night, Bob.” She walks him out, and when he opens the door, he turns to say goodnight, and she meets him with a soft kiss on the cheek. She has to stand on her tiptoes to place one right against his scratchy half-beard. The image of him crouching in front of her earlier goes through her mind, how she wanted to part her legs and pull his face between them. Then the image is her slashing his throat, and she is indeed ready for him to go.