Christopher Buehlman - The Lesser Dead

Four hard knocks rattled the door. These were pretty good doors, but nothing a determined person couldn’t get through.

Think!

First, the head. Mikey’s little fangs had to go—I set the head on the counter, knocked the canines out with the butt of the knife, and stuck these in my pocket. My face was itching terribly where my torn cheek healed itself.

“OPEN UP OR WE’LL BREAK IT DOWN!”

Where were the Baker mom and dad? Bedroom? No. Bathroom. Stacked up the way the kids liked to do it. Completely drained, fish-belly white, brutalized necks and wrists, blood all down the front of Dad’s boxers where somebody got his femoral. From the stains on Mikey’s shirt, one had to guess that he had taken part as well, too scared to leave, not knowing how to hunt. By the time I came around he was so hungry he got brave. But who turned him, and why? An accident? Maybe. No time to think.

Three more hard knocks.

The Bakers’ holes would play funny at the coroner’s, and there was no time to burn them.

Shit shit shit.

There was nothing for it. I stabbed and cut the fuck out of both of them, doing my best to slash up the bite marks, stabbing them in random places, too, just to confuse things. She belched and he farted a big one while I did it; you know how stiffs are. This wasn’t the best way I could think of to spend an evening.

I stepped out into the living room and picked up the kid’s head, meaning to hide it, I don’t know where, just as the door went bang! and the biggest cop I ever saw, a huge Polish-looking guy with no neck, walked in behind his service .38.

“DROP THE KNIFE!” he said, and I did.

“Drop the fucking head! Do it now!”

I did.

Two more cops came in, also drawn and ready to shoot, one with the shotgun that had blown the door.

“Now drop your guns,” I said.

Two of them did, but the little Hispanic guy in the back was tougher; he only lowered his .38 a bit, then raised it. I was about to tell him to do it again when I felt my back push out a piece of the jar I fell on and I jerked. Hispanic guy shot. He was a good shot. It tore through my chest, clipped my heart, and put a hole right through my lung. He probably would have shot me again, but he saw I was unarmed.

“Lay down on the floor!” he said, moving closer and reaching for his cuffs, perplexed at the inaction of his friends. “You guys want to help me, or what?”

I fixed his eyes and went to give him a counterorder, but my lung wasn’t quite healed and I only managed to bend over and cough blood.

He slipped the cuff on one hand and turned me, kicked the back of my knee to make me kneel.

“Seriously, a little help?” he said, grabbing my wrist and darting his eye back at his drooling friends. I yanked my hand free, grabbed his gun hand, and jerked that up in the air as he shot again.

“Stop,” I wheezed, looking him in the eye again, really pouring it on. He relaxed, went slack-jawed.

“Holster your gun.”

He did.

I peeked out the window. Two cop cars, one cop down at the cars watching the front, talking into the radio. I had a minute.

“You three, listen. I want you to make it look like punks or satanists did this, got it? Get sponges, whatever, paint weird shit on the walls. Stop before your buddies get here. Block the door so they can’t get in for a minute.”

“What about you?” said the little Hispanic guy, sounding genuinely concerned about me.

I went and grabbed Gonzalo out of his cage. He crawled onto my shoulder.

“Me?” I said, rubbing the already closed gunshot wound on my chest. I made my hand small and shook off the cuff. “I’ll be just fine,” and I went out the window.

I climbed up to the roof, then climbed down once I got to the other side, the side away from the street. Two more cop cars and an ambulance were just pulling up.

I grabbed the bird’s feet so he wouldn’t fall off while I ran, and run I did.

Like the shadow of an airplane on the ground.

Before I went anywhere, I went to see Chloë. She always calmed me down, lifted my spirits. Poor, beat-up, runaway Chloë, was I the only person who understood her?

I knew I’d probably be waking Blond Jesus up, so I brought him a meatball sandwich, the smell of which turned my stomach a little, what with all that greasy tinfoil with cheese stuck to it. Everything reminded me of carnage now: the Hunchers’ brains down in Margaret’s apartment, the stuff that came out of the Baker kid. But Blond Jesus loved that goddamned meatball sandwich, ate it with big, grateful bites and chewed with his mouth open. He wanted to talk, but I wanted the company of the dead. After the pandemonium of telephones, gunshots, screams, squawks, and a kitchen being trashed, I needed somebody who knew how to shut up.

“Watch my bird,” I said, leaving Gonzalo there. “Make a stand for it or something, would ya? Nothing fancy. I’ll give you five bucks.”

“Sure thing,” he said, showing me a big, steamy mouthful of food, steaming up his own glasses.

I put my hand over my mouth and lit out of there. When I got to the pipe, I threw away my ruined shirt and pants and squeezed through in my skivvies. It felt kind of improper, but never mind. It wasn’t like that with Chloë, she was just a kid. I slipped through the hole and into Chloë’s cave. I was safe there. I let myself just say whatever I wanted. Or maybe I just thought it, I don’t even remember. It was something like praying, something like beatnik poetry I’d heard down in the Village. I just poured out words.

Our Chloë, who art in cavern, hollow be thy name. Thy cavern come, here I come, I played my drum for him, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum. Chloë, I’m feeling bad about the things I’ve done, the things I have to keep doing just to keep, what is it, living? I’m not saying I’ve got it rougher than you, your days were few, and very blue. I’m going to stop rhyming now because it sounds stupid. I just think about you, whoever beat your face in. How could they do that? Everything seems set up so you’ve got to hurt someone all the time, no matter what. I cut a guy’s head off today, a kid, I mean I really cut it off. He was a vampire, I probably did him a favor. Maybe somebody should do that to me, I don’t like myself very much right now. Probably you don’t like me either, bothering you all the time like I do, you probably wish I’d just go away, but I’m selfish and I think I need to talk to you more than you need me to leave you alone. But you don’t need that, do you? You don’t need anything anymore and never will again. People bring you things, like I bring you flowers sometimes, and would have tonight but I had to get a guy a sandwich for watching my bird so my hands were full, but you don’t care. You’re like, It’s nice that you brought me things, but I’m dead, I don’t need anything, I don’t want anything, I’m complete. Maybe that’s what you’re here for, as an example. Maybe you’re my god of small places . You teach me things. Through you I see maybe only the dead are perfect. Maybe only the dead are gentle.

Something moved on the other side of the wall.

“Hello?” I said.

No answer.

Fuck it, what was I afraid of after the night I’d had?

I went back to communing with Chloë.

Anyway, kid, I thought I should tell you that I’m thinking about leaving. The tunnels, but maybe even New York. Sorry if calling you kid offends you, I don’t mean any disrespect, you’re probably the same age as me. What I mean is, we both died at the same time, only you did it right. Not that I really want to die, at least I don’t think so. But I’ve got to get out of here. At least for a while. Not that I know what I’d do out in the boondocks, out in the wilds of Philadelphia or Hoboken, or Milwaukee. Can you imagine? Me out in Milwaukee with Lenny and Squiggy and the Big Ragu? Not that you watch TV, that’s Laverne and Shirley , it’s all right. But what do you think about all this? Stay or go? Let’s play a game. If I should go, just be really quiet.