June 16, 9:27 am
Howard knew instantly, as they left the devastation at the Sinclair station, that he had a serious problem on his hands.
Keith was almost catatonic and was only being kept on his feet because Pil had one arm looped around him and was hugging him tightly against the right side of his body. But even though Keith looked numb and unresponsive, Howard was more worried about Pil.
The big man's spirit had been broken by the death of his wife, and Howard thought he actually looked somehow much smaller, even frail. He still towered over them both, but that tower seemed now more like a crumbling monument.
They left the conflagration in a run, but they hadn't gotten more than a block before Pil slowed to a shuffling, almost zombie-like gait. Howard knew that if he didn't get them all off the street soon, it was likely that Pil would just sit down on the curb and refuse to move, leaving them vulnerable to whatever predator ghost wandered by.
The refuge they found was an unlikely one. It was an Einstein Brother's bagel shop on the corner of South Temple and E street. It had been looted and all the windows were busted out, but the structure was still relatively intact. And most importantly, there was a long counter inside, behind which they could get out of sight.
To his relief, neither Pil nor Keith argued as he guided them into the building, and then helped them ease down behind the counter.
Instantly, both men allowed the tears that had been blocked behind the shock to emerge. Keith buried his face under Pil's massive chin and wrapped his arms around the big man's chest, looking as if he wanted to literally crawl into the big man's body and disappear. Pil, for his part, squeezed Keith to him so tightly that Howard worried he might crack the smaller man's ribs. But at least (to his relief) they both sobbed silently.
Howard himself felt lost and embarrassed, as if he shouldn't be part of this scene at all. The two men were so overcome by their shared grief that just being in the same room felt like a violation of their intimacy. Howard had barely known Michelle, but as he pictured her, and remembered the way she had instantly and instinctively trusted him that night on the porch, he felt as if one of the few friends he had in the world had been taken away.
But despite his grief, he wanted to shake the two men. To tell them (and himself, as well) that they needed to pull it together if they hoped to survive this. But Keith was whimpering now, and he realized it wasn't only from the grief. Keith's arms were both burned, but his left one had born the worst of the fire. It was red and raw, and long stretches of skin had either burned away completely, or were nothing but bubbled masses of blisters, blood, and charred bits of fabric from his shirt.
Both Howard and Keith were shirtless now, but Keith looked particularly vulnerable because of it. The chubby man's hairless torso was round and soft, and Howard imagined that he seldom went without his shirt. He looked as if he wanted to fold his arms around his chest to hide the roundness of it, but his arms were so burned that to cross them would have been absolute agony, so he held them aloft, with his hands supported on Pil's shoulders.
Slowly, Pil's head tipped back, leaning heavily against the back of the counter. His eyes looked empty and hollow, as if there was nobody at home in the big man's soul. Eventually Pil looked down and saw Keith's arms, and he wordlessly began to shake, as if he was at a loss for what to do. Keith was shaking now as well, and might be going into shock. In a cabinet under the counter Howard found an old apron and tried to cover Keith's burns, but the touch of the cloth was too much for him, and he cried out.
Maybe that's a good sign, Howard thought. The man is still together enough to respond to pain.
Pil finally looked up from Keith and his eyes focused. He seemed to be replaying what had happened in his mind.
"The ghost," he croaked. "The one who... It wasn't Justin?"
Howard tried to speak calmly and gently, not wanting to trigger any more emotional pain in either of them.
"No. It wasn't Justin."
"You said it was a little girl?" Pil continued.
"Yeah. It was a little girl in a pioneer dress, like from a couple hundred years ago, maybe. I've seen her before. She's the one that helped Justin break out of the jail. I don't know much about her. But Justin called her Princess. I think she's... I think she's insane."
He expected Pil or Keith to ask more questions, but they didn't. Keith was more alert now, and he was gazing numbly at his burns.
"Maybe it is just a coincidence," Howard said, realizing he was chattering nervously. "That it was her, I mean. But I can't stop thinking that she was targeting us specifically. She knew I could see her. Before she ran, she looked at me, and said we were 'naughty boys.' But then she saw the tire iron and ran. I think she knows what it can do."
Keith was looking at Howard now, and it seemed that his mind had actually cleared better than Pil's despite (or perhaps because of) the obvious pain that he was in. Slowly, he extricated himself from the big man's grip, and the heavy, tattooed arms that had been holding him fell limply to the man's sides.
"Howard, what do we do now?" Keith asked, his eyes focused intently on his face. Howard thought it was interesting that Keith was asking him that question, rather than Pil.
"We do what we said. We get out of here. And we need to get you some help for your arms."
"But how can we leave now? Without a car?"
Howard sighed heavily. "I guess we'll have to get another. Maybe we can hot-wire one or something. Do you know how to do that?"
Keith smirked, but even that increased his pain. "Howard, I'm a librarian. That's not in my skill set, I'm afraid."
"Big Bird," Pil said. Howard jumped a little. He didn't think the big man was even aware of their conversation.
"Excuse me?"
"Our car. It's a big SUV. Michelle and I... we always called it Big Bird. It's parked in front of our house. It's only a few blocks from here. Just down the street from Keith and Richard's house."
"Do you have your keys?" Keith asked.
Pil felt his pocket. "Yeah. Right here. But Michelle said that it had even less gas than Richard's car. I don't know how far it will get us."
At the mention of Michelle's name, a wave of grief passed over Keith's face, and then immediately over Pil's face as well. They looked at each other, and then Pil pulled Keith's head down onto his shoulder, as if neither of them could bear to gaze for long at the pain in the other's eyes.
"The gas doesn't matter," Howard said quickly, trying to keep the conversation from getting mired back in their grief. "We get in it and go. We'll worry about the gas situation if and when we need to. No stopping this time. For anything, or anybody."
Howard felt suddenly relieved. Although both of the two men still looked dazed, he was no longer afraid that Keith was going into shock, or that Pil was going to sink into catatonia. It looked like they were both able to walk, and that they had pushed down their grief far enough that, at least for now, they could function. Survival made enormous demands on the human psyche, and he felt lucky to have found two men who might just be up to that demand. Pil was holding Keith's right, undamaged hand, and Howard realized that any strength they were finding at this moment, they were finding in each other.
Glancing up from behind the counter, Howard surveyed the street outside to see if the way looked clear.
We can go straight up E Street, he thought. Best to avoid South Temple.
Looking out the broken window, Howard could still see the smoke curling up from the gas station, just a couple blocks away, and now blowing toward them in rank, dark waves. He was afraid that he'd see that little girl again, but right now, he didn't see anybody, living or dead. The way looked clear.
Just as he was about to get the two men on their feet, that changed.
A matronly woman in a pink house dress appeared, shuffling down the street in her floppy slippers, and carrying a cat by a handful of fur. The cat was alive, and it wasn't happy. In fact, it was spitting and clawing at her, and had embedded both its teeth and all four claws into the woman's pale, freckled forearm. Blood was streaming down onto the cat and dripping into the street as it hissed and spit and tried desperately to get free of the woman's grasp.
Howard watched in horror as the woman stopped just outside the broken window of the bagel shop. She was muttering something low and angry under her breath, but she didn't seem to be feeling any pain from the growling animal she held. But as Howard watched, she used her free hand to peel the creature off her forearm (although the animal took a considerable amount of flesh with it). Then, holding the animal by the back legs, she swung it over her head in an arc, and down onto the sidewalk. Although Howard was sure the first blow had killed the poor creature, she continued to beat the corpse against the sidewalk for a full minute.
She only stopped when a bullet crashed through the back of her housedress, spraying blood onto an abandoned car, and throwing her bodily into the street.
Howard ducked back behind the counter and heard Pil and Keith take in a breath and hold it as well. He peeked above the counter in time to see what looked like a small group of six armed men march down the street. They looked like a group of militiamen, or just weekend gun hobbyists. They were all carrying assault rifles and were dressed in a mix of off-the-rack camouflage pants and t-shirts with various right wing slogans. The only one Howard recognized was a photo of a flag superimposed over the burning World Trade Center, and the caption, "These Colors Don't Run."
"Great," Howard muttered under his breath, and slid further behind the counter, gesturing for the other two men to stay silent. "I think I prefer the possessed."
None of the gun nuts stopped to look at the dying woman in the street, but just stepped over her writhing form and kept walking.
As the men moved away and the woman convulsed, Howard saw the ghost of a heavy-set man, dressed in turn-of-the-century finery, step clear of her dying body, adjust his tie and top hat, and begin to walk away. It appeared he was following the posse who had killed his host, doubtless planning some bloody revenge.
For some reason, what this ghost had done to the cat, using the old woman, appalled Howard as much as anything else he had seen since this all began. And on impulse, he darted silently from the bagel shop, into the street, and without a word drove the sharp end of the tire iron through the back of the departing ghost's neck.
The thing howled, shattered like glass, and was gone.
Thankfully, to the rest of the world, this little ballet had been totally silent, and had taken no more than ten seconds. None of the posse turned, and Howard slid back into the bagel shop like a thief.
To his surprise, Pil was on his knees and watching him over the counter. He had obviously seen what Howard had just done, but to him, it must have looked like he was stalking and then stabbing the empty air. He wanted to explain, but saw no point in it. And Pil didn't ask.
Finding knives in the shop's kitchen, he handed one to each of the two men.
"Here. If you need to protect yourself, maybe this will help. I know you won't be able to see who you're stabbing at, but I'll try to tell you where. If all else fails, just slash around you, and maybe you'll get lucky."
They both took the knives, and didn't ask any questions. Howard didn't need to prompt them to follow him as he left the bagel shop. None of the three looked at the body of the cat, or the old woman, as they fled up into the Avenues.
They didn't intend to stop at Keith's house, but when they arrived at the corner of 3rd Avenue and J Street, just two houses away, Howard stopped dead in the intersection, as if he had just run into a glass wall. He was in the lead at that moment, and the other two men almost ran into him, but stopped just in time.
Howard's fingers went white around his tire iron, and he took a fighting stance. He stood absolutely still, staring up the street.
Standing there, just a dozen yards away, was Justin Kimball.
To Howard's surprise, his nemesis didn't look angry, and he didn't look vengeful. If he looked anything, it was hungry. The look that the ghost gave him made Howard feel like he was a sheep, being eyed by a wolf.
Slowly, Justin took a step toward the trio, and then another. His hands opened and close convulsively, and his jaw was hanging open. His mouth looked dark, wet, and foul. Howard knew that Keith and Pil were standing behind him now and peppering him with questions. But he couldn't hear anything they were saying. At that moment, he saw only Justin, heard only the sound of the boy's footsteps on the hard pavement, and felt only the memory of what the boy had done to him. The aura of Justin's lust was becoming so strong that Howard felt as if he could smell it, like a rank stench that insulted the very air between them.
Strangely, Howard felt no fear. But every muscle in his body was flooded with hatred, rage, and an overwhelming desire for revenge. He was so tense that when Pil put a hand on his shoulder, he almost turned and smashed his weapon into the big man. But instead, he just whispered through clenched teeth.
"It's Justin. He's back."
The demon took another three steps and then stopped. His body as tense as a coiled serpent, ready to strike.
"Stay behind me," Howard rasped, lifting the tire iron over his shoulder with both hands and gripping it like a baseball bat. He took up a fighter's stance and moved slowly into a crouch that he hoped made him look as dangerous as possible.
The ravenous look on Justin's face changed, ever so slightly, as he focused on the weapon in Howard's hands, his eyes becoming harder, more piercing. And now Howard could feel the man tensing, his ghostly muscles bunching, pooling his energy for the strike.
"Stay away from us, you son of a bitch," Howard said, calmly and quietly. "I've put this tire iron through your fucking skull twice now, and I'm ready to do it again."
To show he meant business, Howard began walking slowly and deliberately, directly toward Justin. He truly felt no fear now. Just blind, devastating hatred.
Justin was the first to blink.
The tiny smile that he wore faded, and he backed away, up J Street. It was just two steps, but it was enough to show Howard that he now had the upper hand, and confirm to him that Justin was far more afraid of him than vice versa. And that slight tipping of the scales was all Howard needed.
This is the bastard who had raped me, he thought, who robbed me of my body, and then used me as a toy. As his sadistic plaything. As his weapon for killing. Well, it's time he sees what kind of a weapon I can be...
With a growl, Howard bolted toward Justin, and the ghost's jaw dropped, now in total terror. At first, it looked like the boy was going to break and run, but then suddenly his eyes focused and, to Howard's surprise, they weren't on him at all. They were down the street, over his shoulder. Howard raised the tire iron, ready to bring it down, but then he heard another voice. It was further away, but it shocked him into stillness.
"Keith! My God!"
It was Richard Pratt's voice. He was sure of it. He didn't tear his eyes off of Justin Kimball, but he now heard footsteps running up the street behind him, approaching quickly.
And at that moment, Justin finally turned and ran. Howard brought the tire iron down, but the creature was insanely fast, and he scrambled out of range. The metal rod threw up a spark as it hit the pavement, jarring Howard's arm all the way to the shoulder. Before he could lift it again, Justin was more than a dozen steps away, and fleeing in what looked like a panic. A very satisfying and desperate panic.
Howard whirled around and saw Richard and Billy running up J Street. Richard was still yelling Keith's name, and Billy was trying desperately to keep up.
When Howard turned back, Justin was gone. Probably between two of the nearby houses, or perhaps into one.
Turning around now, his tire iron at his side, Howard watched as Richard crashed hard into Keith, throwing his arms around his shirtless husband. But then he looked down, and saw Keith's burned arms, and fell back, wailing wordlessly. He folded his lover in his arms again, and the tears that fell from his face were tears of relief, mixed with an anguish and a fear that twisted his face into a mask of pain.
Of course, neither Keith nor Pil were aware of this. They were just staring at Howard blankly. They had not been able to see Justin, and they were equally unable to hear or see Richard and Billy now. To them, the three stood alone in the center of the deserted intersection of 3rd Avenue and J Street.
Slowly, Howard walked up to Keith, who looked into his eyes with confusion. He reached out tenderly, past Richard's quivering neck, and touched Keith gently on the cheek. He smiled at him.
"Keith, Richard is here," Howard said. "He's holding you now."
At first there was confusion on the chubby man's face. But then he closed his eyes, and Howard felt he could actually see them rolling back behind his eyelids. When he opened them again, he looked as if his face had been illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. A slow, sad smile crept across his features.
"Oh, God..." Keith said, and made a sound that was somewhere between tears and laughter. "I can feel him!"
Does he actually feel Richard's arms around him, or just imagine that he does? Howard wondered. But then he realized that it really didn't matter.
"Oh, Poppa Bear! I've missed you so much..."
Keith sank to his knees in the street, making a sound that was both laughter and crying at the same time. Richard could not do anything but follow him to the pavement, and the two clung closely to each other as the living and the dead alike surrounded them and watched in reverent awe. Richard covered Keith's head with gentle kisses and caressed his face. Keith's tears released in a torrent. He sank onto all fours in the intersection, and wailed in a grief that took Howard's breath from his lungs, and forced him to turn away in embarrassment.
Billy was looking at them. The three men certainly must look strange. He and Keith were both shirtless, Keith was burned, and all of them were covered with soot and dirt. In contrast, Billy and Richard looked the same as they had looked when he first saw them outside his cell.
The dead are always unchanged, but they too can suffer, he thought.
"My god, Howard, what happened?" Billy asked.
Howard sighed. "We were attacked. Back at the gas station. It was a little girl in a frilly, old-style pioneer dress. I've seen her before. She is with Justin. He calls her 'Princess.'"
Billy looked almost pale at the mention of the little girl. Dumbfounded, he said, almost to himself, "It's Mattie."
Richard looked up with a start, locking his eyes on Howard, but still cradling his crying lover. "How would Mattie know Justin? And why would Mattie be coming after you?"
"I have no idea, Richard," he snapped. "How in the hell would I know anything at all? About any of this? We're living in your fucked up world, not mine!"
Billy closed his eyes, and Howard wasn't sure why. When he opened his eyes, he said to them all, "I can sense her again. I haven't been able to since this began. But I can now. Maybe because she's... close. Very close." He pointed to the house just across from Keith and Richard's.
"There. I can feel her eyes on us."
Richard finally got up. Pil was still holding Keith's hand now and looking in confusion at Howard. But Keith himself had settled into a kind of euphoric glow. Howard wasn't even sure that he was still aware of the living.
"Howard, help Keith," Richard said. "Tell Pil we need to get off the street."
Howard helped both men to their feet, but it was Pil that guided Keith as they walked toward his house. Richard looked around nervously, like a guard dog, and Billy followed behind, looking as if he was unsure what was about to happen.
As they went into the house together, Howard could feel two sets of eyes watching their ragtag band of the living and the dead.