Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls (15 page)

 
          
Now
Christian was smiling, letting the sharp tips of his teeth show; it was an icy
smile, masking his lust. Wallace, no matter how ineffective, was a danger, a
threat.

 
          
And
that meant Christian should kill him now and let him follow his daughter into
the river where their bones might drift together in the intimacy Wallace seemed
to
long for.

 
          
Still
smiling, gazing steadily into the depths of Wallace’s eyes, Christian stepped
forward and rested his hands on the old man’s stooped shoulders. Wallace stared
back as if hypnotized, but Christian could feel the man’s muscles pulled
painfully tight, tense to the point of trembling.

 
          
Christian
lowered his head and brushed his lips against Wallace’s throat. And suddenly he
found himself wishing that all the ancient human myths were true. He had seen
no others of his kind in fifteen years, since Molochai, Twig, and Zillah
appeared by some Mardi Gras magic and left again when the sun set on Ash
Wednesday. Christian wished he had the power that the legends ascribed to him.
He wished his victims could rise again and run with him, others of his kind to
share the smell of the streets past midnight, the long hot days with the shades
drawn, the taste of the sweet fresh blood. Even Wallace would do, even old
tired Wallace with the pain in his eyes. He put his mouth against Wallace’s
throat. The skin there was dry, loose; it smelled of age. He bit down and
tasted blood for the second time that night….

 
          
But
it was bitter, it was foul, and he spat it back against Wallace’s throat and
gagged.

 
          
Christian’s
nostrils flared. He had not detected it before, under the stinging mist of
whiskey and sorrow, but now it was obvious, strong, and rank. The smell of
sickness, deep rotting sickness that rioted through Wallace’s body, as wet and
brown as the smell of the river. Some virulent disease, probably a cancer. The
taste was corruption in his mouth.

 
          
If
that had been all, Christian could have fled or fought. He was very strong,
surely stronger than Wallace. But a second later the nausea hit him, worse than
the drunken sickness brought on by the Chartreuse, worse than the sharp
immediacy of that pain. It knocked him down, and he lay as still as he could,
languid with shock, trying not to move for fear of increasing the nausea. He
felt his stomach convulsing and he fought to keep the boy’s blood down. He did
not want to relinquish that.

 
          
Through
the haze of sickness he was aware of Wallace pulling something from behind his
back, something that had been tucked into the waistband of his trousers. The
object caught the moon and became a thing of pure light, a slim pistol shining
white and silver. He saw Wallace taking aim and closed his eyes. Then the night
exploded and pain slammed into Christian’s chest.

 
          
He
could not breathe. He felt the hot pellet of lead
tunnelling
into him, through him. He kept his eyes dosed so that he would not have to see
the triumph on Wallace’s face.

 
          
His
last thought before the pain and the sickness washed his mind away was one of
regret: Three hundred and eight-three years…such a very long time … he should
have been beautiful… not this sad, old, tired man…he should have been lovely.

 
          
Nothing
hurried through the circle of brilliance made by a streetlight and slipped into
the deserted darkness again. He pulled his raincoat around him (O sensuous
black silk, as erotic as the touch of someone else’s skin!) and hoisted his
heavy backpack on his shoulder.

 
          
His
passage was hidden by luxuriant hedges and the shadows they cast on verdant
lawns, by sleek cars parked at the curb. Even if his parents missed him now,
they’d never be able to find him. He had a sudden vision of them cruising the
dark streets in his mother’s Volvo, calling his name, waving a bottle of good
whiskey to lure him home.

 
          
He
was forcing himself to be absolutely silent, making a game of it so that he
would not have to think too hard about what he had left behind. His room and
all the things in it. Most of his tapes, most of his books, all his records and
old toys and the stars on his ceiling. He thought of the stars still glowing
there, lonely pinpoints of light above his empty bed, and he wondered if he
would ever again sleep beneath a ceiling of painted yellow stars. Tears pressed
against the backs of his eyes. He chewed his lower lip, hugged himself tight,
and waited for the wave of loneliness to subside. Not even two blocks away and
already homesick. This time tomorrow, alone on some Greyhound in the night, he
might be a real mess.

 
          
He
unzipped his backpack and felt around inside. He had brought only the bare
essentials: his collection of Dylan Thomas’s poems, his notebook, the note
stolen from his mother’s drawer that would tell his family who he was when he
found them, his Walkman, and as many tapes as he had been able to cram in. He
would honor the backpack well; it would never have to lug schoolbooks again.

 
          
His
fingers found the Walkman and the edge of a cassette tape. He didn’t care what
he listened to. He just wanted to hear something, something to carry him away,
to blot out his thoughts for a while. He knew he didn’t really have to watch
for his parents. They’d never miss him. He had heard them come in sometime
after ten, boozed up on expensive wine and stuffed with French food, arguing
about him. “You want him to follow any asinine whim that catches his fancy,”
Father had said, and Mother replied, “He has to find himself,” but she didn’t
sound as serene as usual. They’d gone into their bedroom and shut the door.
Nothing lay in bed and thought about going south where he could follow his
whims, asinine or not. Where no one would ever have to argue about him again.

 
          
He
put on the Lost Souls? Cassette. The music was soft and wailing, the singer’s
voice pulling him down south, down along the ways the trains travelled, down
through the green land.

 
          
Nothing
wondered whether these musicians might be his family, his long-lost brothers.
He thought again of the eerie-sounding town where they lived. Maybe he would go
there.

 
          
What
the hell, he decided, and lit a cigarette. Its red firefly glow would pick him
out of the darkness if anyone was looking for him. But no one was. He knew
that. Even if his parents missed him, they would figure he’d sneaked out to
party with his friends.

 
          
We’ll
cancel his allowance for a week, they’d say, and then they’d roll over and
sleep their dreamless sleep. When he didn’t come home the next day, they would
call the police and set up a halfhearted search for him, but perhaps they would
be secretly relieved. Now they could live their comfortable lives with no
strange son to look at them and silently judge them. Now they need no longer
wonder what they had raised, why their child had disappointed them so, whether
they might have been happier if he had not been left on their doorstep that
cold morning. Now he was on the road. He would smoke Lucky Strikes and wander,
and he would find his home. He was on his way already.

 
          
Skittle’s
was almost empty when Nothing walked in. The cuffs of his jeans were wet with
night-dew. The fresh cut on his wrist throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He
saw Jack in a corner booth with four other kids, two boys and two girls. One of
the boys was Laine. The table was littered with empty wax cups and half-eaten
pizza; the ashtray choked with butts.

 
          
Nothing
looked at Jack. “Can you still drive me to Columbia?”

 
          
“I
said I would, dude. Since when do I go back on my word? I need the five dollars
if you have it.” Nothing handed him a bill, and Jack tucked it into his pack of
Marlboros.

 
          
“I
have to be at the bus station by one,” Nothing said pointedly. “The bus leaves
then.”

 
          
Jack
heaved a great sigh. “Okay. Okay. Let’s peel out.” He stood up, the chains on
his boots jangling.

 
          
The
others stood too, Laine slipped out of the booth and pressed up close to
Nothing. His breath, sweet with cloves, tickled Nothing’s ear. “Where are you
gonna
go?”

 
          
“I
don’t know. South.”

 
          
“How
come you didn’t tell me?”

 
          
“I
didn’t know until tonight.”

 
          
Laine
took Nothing’s hand between both of his, twined his fingers into Nothing’s.

 
          
“You
should’ve called me. I would have gone with you. I hate it here too.”

 
          
Nothing
looked at Laine. Laine’s lips were smeared with black lipstick; his feathery
white-blond hair hid his eyes. Nothing wanted to brush the hair away, but he
couldn’t. He slid his hand out of Laine’s and shoved it into the pocket of his
jeans. “I thought you were going out with Julie,” he said.

 
          
Laine
shrugged, an unconcerned, eloquent gesture. “We broke up. She’s such a damn
poser.”

       
“She’s all right,” said Nothing. “She
gave me her Lost Souls? Tape.”

 
          
“Yeah,
well, she never listened to it anyway. She doesn’t listen to anything but
English fashion bands.” Laine sneered. Nothing wondered whether Julie had
dumped Laine this afternoon, or possibly even earlier tonight. The wounds
seemed fresh.

 
          
If
Laine wanted Nothing to lick them, though, he was out of luck. Laine wasn’t
getting an invitation to go south with him. No way. Nothing was leaving all
this behind tonight— the school, the parents, and this goddamn pizza joint
where the kids sat and smoked and talked about how great their lives would be
if only they lived anywhere but here.

 
          
Jack
and the others were heading for the parking lot. Laine grabbed Nothing’s hand
and pulled him along. “You don’t want to get left, do you? You’re getting the
hell out of here!”

 
          
Laine’s
voice was exalted, envious.

 
          
The
ride to Columbia seemed to take no lime at all. Guardrails, underpasses, dead
orange sodium lights flashed past at a great speed. Skinny Puppy played on Jack’s
tape deck, so loud that the notes were mangled beyond recognition. Someone
passed around a flask of cheap vodka, and Jack drank most of it in one long
gurgling swallow—like the Irishman chauffeur in a story Nothing had read, Jack
could not drive unless he was blind drunk.

 
          
Nothing
was squeezed in the backseat between Laine and a diminutive purple-haired girl
who called herself Sioux. Sioux pulled a little knife from her boot and passed
it over to Laine.

 
          
“See
what Veronica traded me for that Cramps poster? It’s fucking sharp!”

 
          
Laine
fingered the tip of the knife and yelped as the blade pierced his skin.

 
          
“Seriously!
That hurt.”

 
          
A
spot of blood glistened on Laine’s fingertip, wet and black in the orange light
of the highway. Nothing bent and took Laine’s finger into his mouth and licked
the blood away. Laine lay back smiling. Nothing touched his tongue to the spot,
questing for more, but Laine slid his other hand under Nothing’s chin, tilted
Nothing’s face up, and kissed him deeply, wetly, hugging him close.

 
          
“I’ll
miss you,” said Laine into Nothing’s mouth, and pushed Nothing against the back
of the seat and kissed him again.

 
          
Then
Sioux leaned over and licked Nothing’s throat, and Laine’s hands were in his
hair and Sioux’s hands were on his thighs, sliding up under his shirt. Nothing
closed his eyes and smiled into the darkness. His friends had disappointed him
in every other way, but they certainly knew how to give a good send-off.

 
          
The
others waited at the bus station with him until Jack put a nickel in the gum
machine and kicked it over when no gum came out. Then the old man who sold
tickets made them all leave, and Nothing sat alone in the dark waiting room,
looking at the frosted glass of the ticket window, the dingy scrolled ceiling
high above, the shiny pink bald spot on the back of the old man’s head and the
way his ivory-colored hair straggled over the buckle of his dirty visor.