Read Online The Empty Ones by Robert Brockway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Brockway
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I corrected him. Again. âAnd, yeah, probably.â
I was locked onto one of the Unnoticeablesâ shoes. Hot pink with blue laces, like a little girlâs. It was giving me a migraine just to keep them in focus. I inched my gaze up, keeping all my focus on just this one small part of the crowd. I made it to the knees, knobby and thin. The hem of a black pencil skirt. White blouse with tiny intertwining flowers. My eyes crawled all the way up to her face, and got just an impressionâplain, mousy, maybe part-Indian or somethingâbefore my peripheral vision got caught on a little piece of the faceless crowd around her, and the whole thing washed out like the tide coming in on a sand castle.
âI think we have to go after her anyway,â I said.
I turned to Randall. And he was gone.
âNo shit,â he yelled from somewhere in the dark. âWhat are you waiting for, a red carpet?â
God dammit, Randall. Making me look like a pussy in front of the girl.
It would be pretty generous to call what I did next ârunning.â I mostly just fell in a forward direction and did my level best not to eat shit on the train tracks. The tunnel was black. Black like velvet. Textures in there somewhere. Things moving. Then, light. Faint, intermittent flashes. Little sparks, drifting on cold, damp air. Then one stopped in its arc, pulsed, and went supernova. There was a sound like a jet engine exploding in a day care, and I went from night-blind to staring at the sun.
The tar men were catching fire.
Another spark. Then nothing. Another and another, nothing and nothing. Then, finally, that old tea kettle scream, followed by a flash and a wave of warm air pressure. In the spastic light, I saw Meryll crouching beside the rails. Those nasty brass knuckles of hers on each hand. She held one fist blindly in front of her, trying to ward off something she couldnât see. The other was scraping along one of the rails, a hail of tiny sparks trailing after it. Most of them died out instantlyâthe dark ate them. Some survived for a crazy second or two, spiraling madly into the black before fading away. But if a spark got lucky, it perched itself on a solid, glistening patch of shadow, and it got to go out like a rock star: burning, screeching, putting its foot through the bass drum, shoving the guitar through the amps, hurling the mic stand out into the crowd, and just generally putting on a hell of a good show.
The burning tar man gave off a flickering light, turning reality into stop-motion. I could see it coming. Meryll could take down a few more of them, but there were hundreds of the damn things down here. It was standing room only for tar men. Their brass gears turned slowly in their faces, like they were thinking.
Spark. Steam whistle. Strobe.
A scene: Meryll with her teeth bared.
Black.
A scene: a glistening arm reaching for a young girlâs neck.
Black.
A scene: dark, greasy fingers embedded in soft pink flesh.
Black.
A scene: melted skin running down a pale neck, pooling in the space between collarbones.
Black.
âMeryll!â I tried to hobble toward where Iâd last seen her.
I wasnât sure what I was going to do when I got there, but I could at least ruin somebodyâs shirt with my liquidized flesh. I heard a thump, some swearing, another thump, and then a million-watt spotlight exploded to my left.
âTrain!â I screamed, and threw myself to the ground.
âGet up, jackass!â Randall hollered. âGrab the girl, and letâs go!â
No train. The million-watt spotlight was a waxy yellow bulb suspended from the ceiling of the maintenance stairwell, which Randall had just kicked open the door to. In the weak and wobbling light, I could see Meryll crouching there, a tar man standing over her, its fingers sinking into her throat. I got a good hobbling start, slid to my knees beside her in the gravel, and reached into my hip pocket.
I would only
I was locked onto one of the Unnoticeablesâ shoes. Hot pink with blue laces, like a little girlâs. It was giving me a migraine just to keep them in focus. I inched my gaze up, keeping all my focus on just this one small part of the crowd. I made it to the knees, knobby and thin. The hem of a black pencil skirt. White blouse with tiny intertwining flowers. My eyes crawled all the way up to her face, and got just an impressionâplain, mousy, maybe part-Indian or somethingâbefore my peripheral vision got caught on a little piece of the faceless crowd around her, and the whole thing washed out like the tide coming in on a sand castle.
âI think we have to go after her anyway,â I said.
I turned to Randall. And he was gone.
âNo shit,â he yelled from somewhere in the dark. âWhat are you waiting for, a red carpet?â
God dammit, Randall. Making me look like a pussy in front of the girl.
It would be pretty generous to call what I did next ârunning.â I mostly just fell in a forward direction and did my level best not to eat shit on the train tracks. The tunnel was black. Black like velvet. Textures in there somewhere. Things moving. Then, light. Faint, intermittent flashes. Little sparks, drifting on cold, damp air. Then one stopped in its arc, pulsed, and went supernova. There was a sound like a jet engine exploding in a day care, and I went from night-blind to staring at the sun.
The tar men were catching fire.
Another spark. Then nothing. Another and another, nothing and nothing. Then, finally, that old tea kettle scream, followed by a flash and a wave of warm air pressure. In the spastic light, I saw Meryll crouching beside the rails. Those nasty brass knuckles of hers on each hand. She held one fist blindly in front of her, trying to ward off something she couldnât see. The other was scraping along one of the rails, a hail of tiny sparks trailing after it. Most of them died out instantlyâthe dark ate them. Some survived for a crazy second or two, spiraling madly into the black before fading away. But if a spark got lucky, it perched itself on a solid, glistening patch of shadow, and it got to go out like a rock star: burning, screeching, putting its foot through the bass drum, shoving the guitar through the amps, hurling the mic stand out into the crowd, and just generally putting on a hell of a good show.
The burning tar man gave off a flickering light, turning reality into stop-motion. I could see it coming. Meryll could take down a few more of them, but there were hundreds of the damn things down here. It was standing room only for tar men. Their brass gears turned slowly in their faces, like they were thinking.
Spark. Steam whistle. Strobe.
A scene: Meryll with her teeth bared.
Black.
A scene: a glistening arm reaching for a young girlâs neck.
Black.
A scene: dark, greasy fingers embedded in soft pink flesh.
Black.
A scene: melted skin running down a pale neck, pooling in the space between collarbones.
Black.
âMeryll!â I tried to hobble toward where Iâd last seen her.
I wasnât sure what I was going to do when I got there, but I could at least ruin somebodyâs shirt with my liquidized flesh. I heard a thump, some swearing, another thump, and then a million-watt spotlight exploded to my left.
âTrain!â I screamed, and threw myself to the ground.
âGet up, jackass!â Randall hollered. âGrab the girl, and letâs go!â
No train. The million-watt spotlight was a waxy yellow bulb suspended from the ceiling of the maintenance stairwell, which Randall had just kicked open the door to. In the weak and wobbling light, I could see Meryll crouching there, a tar man standing over her, its fingers sinking into her throat. I got a good hobbling start, slid to my knees beside her in the gravel, and reached into my hip pocket.
I would only
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