Brian Keene - Urban Gothic

Leo stepped toward his friend, fists curled. Anger coursed through him. He couldn’t believe that Markus was being so disrespectful. Sure, Markus always had an attitude. He’d walked through life with a chip on his shoulder for as long as Leo had known him. And yeah, until tonight, Mr. Watkins had been a grumpy old fart. But regardless of any of that, Mr. Watkins didn’t deserve this shit. He was just trying to help. After all, they had knocked on his door. If it hadn’t been for them, he’d probably be asleep by now.

“Yo, I told you to show him some respect. The hell is wrong with you?”

“Screw you both.”

“Come on,” Jamal pleaded with Leo and Markus.

“Both of you just need to chill out.”

Markus refused to back down. “The fuck you gonna do, Leo? You want some of this?”

“You want to fight? Well, come on.”

Dookie, Jamal, and Chris backed away.

“Come on,” Leo challenged again.

“Don’t think I won’t. I’ve had it with your bullshit.”

“The fuck are you talking about, Markus?”

“You ain’t the boss of me. You ain’t our leader. You ain’t shit. Talking about change and doing the right thing and helping people out—when has anybody ever helped us out? Nothing ever changes for us. All you’re doing is dreaming, Leo. You’re a damn fool.”

Leo was momentarily stunned by Markus’s invective. He struggled not to show it. He couldn’t display any weakness or doubts right now, or the others would begin to have misgivings, too.

“If you don’t like it, Markus, then get the fuck out of here. We don’t need your sorry ass.”

“I ain’t going nowhere. You damn sure don’t run this street. I’ll stay if I want.”

Leo’s fists clenched and unclenched. “Suit yourself. But if you’re staying, then you’ll damn sure quit talking shit and apologize to Mr. Watkins.”

“Fuck that. What’s this old man ever done for me, except look at me funny when I’m out too late? You remember a couple of years ago on Halloween, when somebody broke all the car windows on the block and egged the houses? Remember how he looked at us after that?”

Mr. Watkins stirred. Before he could speak, Leo interrupted.

“Did he accuse you, Markus? Huh? Did he accuse any of us?”

Markus smirked. “He didn’t have to. You could see it in his eyes.”

“You know what? Just get the fuck out of here. Go on home.”

“You can’t make me do shit, Leo. And you keep stepping to me like this, I’m gonna knock you the fuck down.”

“I hear you talking, but I don’t see you moving.”

“Fuck you, motherfucker.”

“No,” Leo said, poking his friend in the chest with his index finger. “Fuck you. That’s your ass, Markus.”

“Enough!” Mr. Watkins stuffed the pistol in his waistband, stepped between the teens, and placed a hand on each of their chests. “That’s enough. Knock this bullshit off. What the hell is wrong with you both? Do you think this is helping somehow?”

Leo tensed. “He started it. I was just sticking up for you.”

“I don’t need you to watch my back out here,” Mr. Watkins said, nodding at the house. “I need you to watch in there. We need to watch out for each other.” He paused, then turned to Markus. His hand was still on the young man’s chest. “I know why you’re doing this.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you’re scared.”

“Fuck you, old man. I ain’t scared of shit.”

“Yes, you are,” Mr. Watkins said, ignoring Markus’s curled fists. “You’re terrified.”

Leo had to give him credit. Mr. Watkins had balls. He could tell by Jamal, Chris, and Dookie’s expressions that they were impressed as well. Markus’s eyes flashed to the handgun in Mr. Watkins’s waistband. Leo held his breath, ready to spring if Markus went for the weapon.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mr. Watkins warned. Then his voice became soothing again. “I know you’re scared because I’m scared, too. We all are. Hell, we’d have to be some crazy motherfuckers not to be scared, walking into this place. But this? This ain’t helping. Okay?”

Markus paused, glancing at each of his friends. Then he looked down at his feet.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “You’re right.”

“Apologize to the man,” Leo said.

“He doesn’t need to,” Mr. Watkins said. “There’s no reason to apologize for feeling the same thing that the rest of us are feeling. But I’ll tell you what you can do, Markus.”

“What’s that?”

“Run on back up the street to my house. Tell Lawanda to go down in the basement and get my crowbar and my sledgehammer. Then bring them back here.”

“You’re gonna smash the door down?” Chris asked.

“Won’t they hear us?”

Mr. Watkins shrugged. “If there is anybody else inside that house other than them kids, then you can bet your ass that they already know we’re here. Especially with all the hollering and carrying on. We’ve lost the element of surprise. Now we’re just going to bum rush them.”

As Markus trotted up the street, Mr. Watkins pulled out his pistol and faced the front door.

Grinning, Leo playfully punched the older man in the shoulder.

“Damn, Mr. Watkins. I had no idea you were so hardcore. Original fucking gangsta!”

Mr. Watkins didn’t smile. He paused, lighting another cigarette. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and seemed sad.

“I’m no gangster, Leo. What I am is a pissed-off, middle-aged black man whose gut sticks out over his pecker now and who can’t get any from his wife except on holidays and gets hollered at for smoking in the house and hates his shitty job and is tired of watching this neighborhood turn to shit, because this neighborhood is all he has left in this world. And there ain’t nothing on Earth more hardcore than that.”

They waited, and when Markus returned, they moved with grim purpose. Without a word, Mr. Watkins handed the gun to Leo and the crowbar to Chris. Grunting, he wielded the sledgehammer. It’s bright yellow, fiberglass handle seemed to glow in the darkness.

Mr. Watkins tossed his cigarette butt out into the street and stepped forward.

“Okay, boys. Let’s go knock on the door again.”

They clomped up the porch, no longer bothering to conceal their presence. Then Mr. Watkins raised the sledgehammer and swung, putting all his weight into it. The door shuddered in its frame. Wood splintered with a loud crack.

“Listen,” Dookie gasped.

From inside the house, they all heard the sound of fleeing footsteps.

“You think it’s those white kids?” Leo asked, nervously fumbling with the gun.

“Only one way to find out,” Mr. Watkins said, and swung the sledgehammer again.

SEVENTEEN

Heather clutched the sharpened butter knife in one hand and the sputtering lamp in the other. Both items jittered from her uncontrollable trembling. Although she’d willed herself to stop, the shaking continued. Worse, even though she could see her breath in front of her, appearing as white puffs of cloud each time she exhaled, Heather was bathed in sweat. Neither condition was conducive to escaping. She didn’t know if it was shock or fear or the temperature or a combination of all three, but it was maddening and aggravating. It was hard enough listening for sounds of pursuit behind her without having to do it over the chattering of her own teeth. The only part of her not shaking was her feet. They were completely numb. She’d tried pinching the soles, but she felt nothing other than a vague twinge. She could still walk, but she had no sensation in them.

Since leaving the strange grotto behind, the ground beneath Heather had been rising steadily as she progressed through the small tunnel. She’d lost track of time and had no way of knowing how long she’d been crawling. The darkness and her own fatigue weighed heavily on her, and it was getting harder to concentrate. Her mind kept returning to the bizarre collection of photographs and drawings, trying to mine some meaning from them—some explanation for the evening’s horrifying events. She grew increasingly frustrated trying to figure it out. Nothing about this situation made sense. It all just seemed so random. So unexplainable. How could such a race of beings exist undetected beneath a city the size of Philadelphia for so long? And what were they? Mutants, obviously, but from where? And from whom? They didn’t seem to have any single racial characteristic or genetic background. How long had they been here? How many people had they killed?