Brian Keene: Urban Gothic

Coughing, Kerri breathed through her mouth and looked around, nervously studying their surroundings. She’d heard the term urban blight before, but had never really understood it until now. Most of the streetlights weren’t working, and the few that were operational cast a sickly yellow pall across the neighborhood. Combined with the moonlight, it made for an eerie scene.

They were surrounded by decrepit row homes, none of which looked hospitable. In the gloom, the squat houses seemed like monoliths, endless black walls with deteriorating features. Dim lights burned behind dirty curtains or through broken windows—some of which were covered with clear plastic or stuffed with soiled rags. Many of the buildings were missing roof tiles, and the outside walls had gaps where bricks or boards had crumbled away. Some were covered with graffiti—gang tags and names she didn’t understand. None of the homes had yards, unless you counted the broken sidewalks, split by the roots of long-dead trees and cracked by blistering summers and frigid winters. Cockroaches and ants scuttled on the sunken concrete amidst crack vials, cigarette butts and glittering shards of broken glass. Ruptured garbage bags sat on the curbs, spewing their rotten contents into the street.

The sidewalks and stoops were deserted, except for a surly-looking gang of youths lurking on the street corner about a block away. Kerri’s gaze lingered on them for a moment, before moving on. The only businesses on the street were a pawn shop, a liquor store, and a newsstand. All three were closed for the night, shuttered with heavy steel security gates. Many of the businesses also had graffiti painted on them. So did some of the junk cars sitting along the curb. A few of the vehicles looked abandoned—shattered windshields, missing tires replaced with cement blocks, bodies rusted out and dented, bumpers hanging off or bashed in.

She turned in the opposite direction and looked farther down the street. It seemed to terminate in a dead end. Beyond the row homes was a large swath of debris covered pavement, as if all the buildings in that section had been knocked down. The moonlight was stronger there, and the headlights of passing cars illuminated the scene. Chunks of concrete and twisted metal girders jutted from the devastation. Beyond that was a single house, much larger than the rest of the row homes. Kerri thought it must be at least a hundred years old, judging by the architecture. Maybe one of the original buildings in this neighborhood, standing there long before the slums had been erected. She supposed at one time it had been very pretty. Now it was a desolate ruin—in even worse condition than the other row homes. It seemed to squat at the end of the street, looming over the block. Beyond it was a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds and brambles. Behind that was a tall, rusted chain-link fence. Kerri stared at the house. She shivered despite the heat. She had the uncanny impression that the abandoned building was somehow watching them.

Tyler cursed, rapping his knuckles against the car, and Kerri’s attention returned to her friends. As she did, she noticed that the street had emptied of traffic. They were suddenly all alone.

“Maybe we should call Steph’s parents,” Brett suggested. “It’s pretty late, and we’re in a bad neighborhood.”

Tyler glanced up at him, opened his mouth to respond, and then stared over Brett’s shoulder. Kerri saw his face twitch. Then she and the others turned around to see what had attracted his attention.

The group of black men she’d noticed a moment before was slowly approaching. The boys appeared to be about the same age as they were. Most of the youths were dressed in either athletic jerseys or white tank tops. Their pants, held up only by tightly cinched belts and the tongues of their high-topped sneakers, sagged almost to their kneecaps, exposing their boxer shorts. Gold rings and necklaces completed the ensemble. A few of them wore backwards ball caps on their heads. The one in the lead wore a black do-rag on his head. Gold hoops glittered from each of his ears. He reminded Kerri of a pirate.

“Oh shit,” Brett whispered. “What the hell do they want?”

Stephanie whimpered. “We’re going to get mugged.”

Brett nodded. “This is bad. This is really fucking bad.”

“Calm the hell down,” Javier said. “You guys automatically assume that just because they’re black, they’re gonna mug us?”

“Look at them,” Brett insisted. “They sure as hell don’t look like they’re here to sell us Girl Scout cookies.”

Javier glared at him, speechless.

The group shuffled closer. All of them walked with a sort of lazy, loping gait. Kerri’s nervousness increased. She wanted to agree with Javier, but then she considered their situation and their surroundings. Panic overwhelmed her. She reached for Tyler’s hand, but he was stiff as stone.

“Shit,” Brett moaned. “Fucking do something, you guys!”

Javier shoved him. “Dude, chill out. You’re acting like an asshole.”

When the group was about ten feet away, they stopped. The leader stepped forward and glared at them suspiciously.

Slowly, his friends stepped alongside him.

“The fuck y’all doing around here? You lost?”

His voice was deep and surly. He stood tensed, as if ready to spring at them.

Stephanie and Heather clasped hands and took a simultaneous step backward. Brett slipped in behind them. Javier stepped out from behind the car and faced the group. Tyler slowly slammed the hood, then joined him. Kerri stayed where she was. Her feet felt rooted to the spot. Her heart pounded beneath her breast.

Another of the black youths spoke up. “Man asked you a question.”

“We don’t want any trouble,” Tyler said.

Kerri cringed at the plaintive, pleading tone in his voice.

“Well, if you don’t want no trouble,” the leader said, grinning, “then you’re in the wrong place.”

His friends chuckled among themselves in response. He held up a hand and they immediately fell silent.

“Come into this neighborhood after dark,” he continued, “then you must be looking for trouble. Or dope. Or be lost. So which one is it?”

“Neither,” Javier challenged. “We had a little car trouble. That’s all. Just called for a tow truck and they’re on the way.” He paused. “Should be here any minute now.”

The leader elbowed the gangly kid next to him. “You hear that shit, Markus? He said a tow truck is on the way.”

Markus smiled and nodded. “I heard that, Leo. What you think?”

The leader—Leo—stared at Javier as he responded. “I think this esse be bullshitting us, y’all. Ain’t no tow trucks come down here after dark. Not to this street.”

Javier and Tyler glanced at each other. Kerri saw Tyler’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. She turned to Stephanie, who was slowly pulling her cell phone out of her purse.

“Now for real,” Leo said. “What y’all doing down here? You looking to score?”

“M-maybe,” Tyler said. “What you got?”

Leo stepped closer. “The question is, what you got? How much money you carrying?”

Oh shit , Kerri thought. Here it comes. Next, they’ll pull out a knife or a gun.

“W-we came from the M-monsters of H-hip Hop,” Brett stammered, hidden behind the girls. “We’re j-just trying to g-get home.”

The group broke into raucous laughter. Kerri couldn’t tell if it was over the all-too-apparent fear in Brett’s voice, or the fact that a bunch of white, obviously suburbanite kids had been at a hardcore rap concert.

Leo glanced at the car, then at each of them. Kerri felt his eyes lingering on her. She shuddered. Then his gaze flicked back to the car again.