Read Online The Empty Ones by Robert Brockway - Free Book Online

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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œRandall!” 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.
    â€œRandall!” 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.
    â€œMary went down there?” Randall asked.
    â€œMeryll,” 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