The Dark Ones (8 page)

Despite his skepticism regarding all things supernatural, Clayton loved horror movies. Every now and then the so-called Dark Ones (a name that never failed to make him chuckle) would hang out at his place for an all-night marathon of splatter-cinema classics. They had a special taste for the cheapest and sleaziest gorefests from his vast collection of movies, things like
Frankenhooker
,
Blood Feast
,
Blood Diner
,
The Driller Killer
,
Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS
, and
The Gates of Hell
, all of which had been made many years before any of his young guests had been born.

Sometimes he worried some of their parents would put together a lynch mob and come after him, determined to put an end to his negative influence. But the kids stayed out all hours of the night and slept when they got home from school. The goddamn parents obviously weren’t involved in their lives in any meaningful way.

The doorbell rang again.

Still, it never hurt to be careful. Clayton got up with a grunt and winced at the creak of his knees as he walked out of the living room and into the foyer. A Louisville Slugger was propped in a corner next to the door. The fat end of the bat was heavy and solid. One good blow from that bad boy would lay out any intruder. Okay, so it wouldn’t be much good against someone with a gun, but Clayton hated firearms. His father had committed suicide by blowing his brains out with a Smith & Wesson .38. A gun in the house would be a constant and unbearably painful reminder of that decade-old tragedy. But there was more to it than that. A gun in the house would also be a dangerous temptation. Clayton liked to drink. He liked to get high. He did these things alone a lot. And sometimes he got weepy and started feeling sorry for himself and regretful over the way his life had worked out. It was too easy to imagine opting for the same kind of exit his father had chosen.

He picked the bat up by the handle and put an eye to the peephole.

He set the bat down again and opened the door. “Hey, Fiona.”

The girl standing on his porch smiled at him. It was chilly out and she was shivering slightly. Her hands were shoved down in the pockets of her black hoodie. “Hey, Clay. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

He stepped aside and held the door open for her. The slim girl slipped through the opening and stood shivering in his foyer. He closed the door and listened to her teeth chatter. She bounced up and down on her toes and nodded her head. She had a nice face. Really cute, with big eyes and high cheekbones. The dark eyeliner she wore made the eyes especially compelling. Long, dyed-black hair framed her pale, delicate features. The only flaw was a faint speckling of acne across her chin. And she was almost too skinny, with no real figure at all.

She smiled again. “You look like the Dude.”

Clayton frowned.

Then a light went on in his head.

Oh, yes.
The Big Lebowski
.

His long, scraggly hair and the fraying bathrobe he wore over his pajamas made it an obvious comparison. “I swear, it’s not intentional. I, just, uh . . .”

She laughed. “Yeah, sure. You got any weed?”

Ah.

The reason for her visit. It was usually either this or booze. He didn’t mind hooking them up with what they needed. He knew what it was like. Again, he’d been much like them at their age. You had to get loaded and you needed a reliable way to procure your poison. The kids were commendably circumspect regarding where they got their stuff. More than one of them had gotten into some trouble over some foolish thing they’d done while under the influence, but so far, knock on wood, no cops or irate parents had ever come calling. He trusted them and didn’t think they’d ever narc on him. Maybe it was stupid, but he believed it.

“I might be able to help you out.”

“Cool, man. I appreciate it.”

“What do you want?”

“I was thinking an eighth?” Her voice rose on the last word, turning the statement into a question. “But I’ve only got ten dollars on me. Could I owe you?”

Clayton scratched the stubble on his chin. “Don’t you still owe me for the last bag?”

Her face scrunched up and she bounced again on her toes. “Come on, man. I’ll pay you back. You know I will.” She laughed. “Hell, I’ll blow you for it, if you want.”

“Uh . . . that won’t be necessary. I’ll just spot you again.”

Fiona came closer to him, pressed herself against him. She looked up at him, her expression coy and playful. “You like me, don’t you?”

He smiled. “Of course I like you. It’s just . . . I, uh . . .” He struggled to concentrate. Her slender body felt nice snuggled up against him. But she was so young. Too young. He couldn’t go there. Not with her. Not with any of them, regardless of how painfully tempting it could be. He pressed his hands gently on her slender shoulders and backed her off a few paces. She frowned. Then he pointed to the staircase behind Fiona. “I’m going up there for a few minutes. Make yourself at home. I’ll be down shortly.”

Her face brightened. “Awesome! Can I have a beer?”

“Help yourself.”

“Cool.”

She took off, disappearing through the archway into the kitchen. Clayton stared at the empty space where she’d been standing, then turned away and headed for the staircase.

T
HIRTEEN

It had been awkward at first, there in the dark, on the uneven ground, with the undergrowth scratching at their flesh as they moved. The logistical aspect of getting enough of their clothes removed and their bodies properly positioned was also a challenge, but they managed to make it happen. He didn’t have a condom. She didn’t care. He could just pull out. He asked her if she was sure. Maybe they should wait. No, she was sure.

So it happened.

And it was wonderful.

Better than anything fucking ever. Except . . . he’d been so caught in the grip of ecstasy he’d started to come inside her before he even realized it was happening. He apologized profusely. Even cried a little. Visions of unplanned pregnancy and a forced early entry into adulthood assailed him like scenes from a nightmare. He would have to marry her. Get a job. He saw himself stuck in Ransom, forced to give up his dreams of escape and success elsewhere to provide for a new family. He would become just another local. A small-town nothing.

“It’s okay,” she told him, holding him down there in the dirt and the darkness. “Really. You’ll see. The universe isn’t so fucked up that I’d get knocked up the first time we ever did it.”

Mark didn’t know what to say to that.

The universe was plenty fucked up. Just turn on CNN any given day for proof aplenty. But he didn’t say that, either. What was done was done. He couldn’t take it back. So instead he just said, “I love you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Any other time she might have laughed at him for saying that. They were the Dark Ones. They didn’t believe in anything so stupid and fleeting as love.

She kissed him and told him she loved him, too.

They stayed down there in the darkness for some time after the lovemaking was over, locked in each other’s embrace. The wind sighed above them. Living things, probably squirrels, occasionally scampered through the foliage around them. Slowly, the impression of a significant block of time passing began to penetrate the languor of afterglow.

“Maybe we should get up out of here.”

“Yeah.”

Mark lifted himself off her and scooted out of her way as she pushed her skirt down and began to pat the ground around her. He pulled his pants up and fastened the button. “What are you looking for?”

“My fucking panties. I can’t find them.”

Mark got on his hands and knees and helped her look for a few minutes, but the flimsy scrap of fabric proved difficult to locate amid the bramble in the darkness.

Natasha made a sound of exasperation. “Fuck this. They’re lost.”

He clasped hands with her and they carefully climbed up out of the depression, keeping their heads down as they shouldered their way through the overgrowth. In moments they emerged from the hole and stood on the narrow dirt path that acted as a buffer between the field and rock barrier that bordered the Smith property. Natasha brushed at her hair and clothes, plucking away bits of dead leaves, grass, and bramble. Mark did the same.

Natasha picked a small thorn from a tear in her leggings. “Next time we fuck, let’s please do it on a bed or the back of your car. Anywhere other than a giant hole in the fucking ground.”

“Hey, it was your idea.”

She smiled. “Yeah. And I’m glad we did it. And at least we got all that first-time bullshit out of the way interestingly.”

“What do you want to do now?”

She chewed on her lip and thought about it a moment. She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe go see what Campbell’s up to. Get high, watch some stupid movie.”

“I thought you wanted to go to that spooky old house.”

She kicked at a rock and sent it skittering down the path. “Yeah. We could still do that, I guess.”

“Something wrong?”

“Did you really mean it?”

Mark frowned. “Mean what?”

“You know . . . that love thing.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “You weren’t just fucking with me.”

“No.”

She smiled. “You sound so fucking solemn.”

“I just . . .” He looked away from her, stared out at empty Austin Avenue. “You’re really fucking important to me. I wouldn’t joke about that. I love you. Maybe that makes me stupid.”

“It doesn’t make you stupid. Well . . .” She smiled. “Picking me to fucking fall in love with
is
kind of stupid. I’m pretty messed up.”

He looked at her. “Well, I’m messed up, too. So I guess we’re a perfect fucking match.”

They stared at each other in silence for a few minutes. The intensity of the connection between them seemed to be strengthening by the moment. The spell remained unbroken until Mark glimpsed something at the periphery of his vision. His head snapped back toward Austin Avenue. A slim figure was moving along the edge of the road, taking care to stay out of the bright glare of the street lamps.

One of us
.

“Someone’s coming.”

Natasha looked.

“I think that’s Fiona. Let’s see what she’s up to.”

“Okay.”

Mark followed her down the path to the road, but they stopped short as the figure saw them and hesitated. But then the girl saw who they were and came across the Smiths’ yard toward them, climbing atop one of the huge rock slabs. Perched on the rock, the slight girl seemed to tower above them. “You guys look all dirty and shit. You go rolling around out in the fucking field?”

“Yeah. We fucked down in that big fucking hole.”

Natasha, blunt as ever.

Fiona laughed. “Cool. I just came from Campbell’s place.”

“Anyone else there?”

“Just Campbell. Got some weed. You guys got anything?”

Mark withdrew the pint of Southern Comfort from his jacket pocket. Remarkably, it had survived the tumble into the depression intact. “Got this. Some weed, too.”

Fiona hopped down from the rock slab and approached them. “Hook me up?”

Mark let her have the bottle and frowned at the several huge swallows she took. Jesus, what was it with chicks and Southern Comfort? Between the two of them, they were going to polish off all his booze before he could get a decent buzz on.

Fiona chewed on a fingernail and looked out at the field. “We should do something. This standing-around shit is boring.”

Mark reclaimed the pint bottle and tucked it away. “We were thinking of going out to that house.”

“The abandoned one?”

“Yeah.”

Fiona nodded. “Okay. You think Derek will be there?”

Fiona had a thing for Derek, but he didn’t seem interested in her. It made things awkward sometimes when they were all together. She would stare at him and focus almost entirely on him, but he would barely acknowledge her. She had a little thing for Campbell, too. Also awkward.

Mark shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“Cool. I’ll tag along if you guys don’t mind.”

Natasha laughed. “Why would we want
your
company, skank?”

Fiona flipped her off. “Bitch. Mark, why do you hang out with this slut?”

Mark opened his mouth to reply, but Natasha beat him to the punch.

“
Because
I’m a slut. Not like you, you little cocktease.”

“Better a cocktease than a cunt.”

“Dyke.”

“Whore.”

Mark tuned them out after a few rounds of insults. They were both proficient at rattling off seemingly endless strings of nasty and degrading things just about anyone would find offensive. It didn’t bother Mark most of the time. But it did disturb him to hear Natasha refer to herself as a slut. It made him flash back to that near showdown at school earlier in the day. He got mad all over again just thinking about it, so much so he didn’t immediately notice the girls had stopped trading verbal jabs.

Natasha slugged him in the shoulder. “Hey.”

Mark gave his head a hard shake. “What?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “You had this crazy look in your eyes. Like you wanted to beat someone to death.”

Fiona smirked and rocked backward on her heels. “Yeah, man. You looked like fucking Charlie Manson there for a second. Like any second you were gonna wig out and cut up some pigs.”

“No. I just—”

“Because I gotta tell you, man, I’d be down with that.”

Natasha laughed. “Hell, yeah.”

Mark shook his head. “Dare you to say that shit at school.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Right. Because I totally want to get interrogated by some dumb fucking cop who thinks I’m gonna go all Columbine on Ransom High. Like I’d let anybody know I was gonna pull some shit like that ahead of time. I’m not stupid. I’d just keep that shit to myself, then show up one day and start blazing, surprise the shit out of everybody.”

An unexpected silence descended.

Fiona did the eye-roll thing again. “Oh, come on. I was joking.”