The Empty (12 page)

Now the question still remained—what to do with Shane.

In truth, Shane was simultaneously terrified and exhilarated. Naturally, he feared for his life. But in truth, he didn’t see these people as killers. Even Eudo, the most rigid of the bunch, grudgingly allowed Shane to remain yet another day—each and every day. It seemed to Shane that Eudo didn’t want to kill Shane, but rather that he felt there may be no other option.

Truth be told, Shane had no inclination to turn these people—he supposed he should call them people—in to the authorities. What had society done for him? Two failed marriages, a disenfranchised family, a job that paid well, but, hey, money was only that—money. If nothing else, at least these reyaqc were different, exciting.

“You seem to be in contemplation.” It was Gisele. She’d come up behind him.

“Yeah. My hair. Not quite the same look I had when I met you in that club.”

Gisele smiled that still-wry smile of hers. “It makes you look more the man. Not a boy.”

“Just what I wanted. To go gray before my dad. Maybe someone will give me an AARP card and I can get discounts.”

Gisele cocked her head, obviously not understanding the reference.

“An organization for retired people. I look old.”

Gisele grinned and looked at him head to feet. “No.
Blanc
hair or no, I don’t think any persons will think you old—especially not the ladies.”

Well, that was a curious comment. Shane was taken aback and searching for a response, when a commotion came from the living area. Peering out of the bathroom, he took in the scene. The other female reyaqc, her name was Monique, had brought home a young man, a donor—a victim—for one of the more transient male reyaqcs, Franc. But the intended prey had had a switchblade in his pocket. Franc was huddled on the ground to the left of the doorway, blood seeping from his shoulder. Monique was being held, back to the man’s chest, the switchblade at her neck. Eudo and Alard were on hand, but drew no closer for fear of frightening the man into harming Monique. As Shane stepped into the small living area he saw the apprehension on Eudo’s face, in his posture. Surely he thought Shane would side with the other human and complicate matters further. For the life of him, Shane couldn’t say why he didn’t.

Shane stared at the man, at his clothing, his bearing. He wore a Boston Red Sox cap and Gap blue jeans. “You’re American,” Shane said as he moved further into the room.

The man narrowed his eyes and drew Monique closer yet. “So?”

“So am I. Cleveland.” There was a pause. Every eye glancing from one person to another. Each wondering what the other would do. “You can put the knife away. These people won’t hurt you.”

“The chick set me up. She said we’d be alone, have some fun. Then that freak came at me.”

Shane shrugged. “Now he’s on the ground bleeding and you have a knife. There’s me and two other guys standing here. That knife can’t get all of us at once. Let her go. Leave. Forget this ever happened. If you come back with the cops, we’ll all swear you pulled a knife and tried to rape the girl. That’s what, six against one? And you a foreigner. Cut and run, pal. It’s better for all of us.”

The man glared at Shane, then at each of the reyaqc. His eyes were wide, his expression grim. He had to know Shane was right, had to know he was outnumbered. But logic doesn’t dictate every action. In one swift movement, the guy drew the blade across Monique’s neck. She screamed and everyone moved. There was chaos. Eudo tripped over Monique as he attempted to rush the man. Alard dropped beside her and pressed his palm against her wound. Shane rushed forward, tackling the assailant in the hallway and tumbling with him down the narrow wooden stairway. Shane’s shoulder hit the railing, then his head connected with the corner of a stair. The other man’s knee jabbed him in the gut.

The two embattled men hit the floor with a thud. The bloodied switchblade skittering across the tile and out of reach. Shane slammed his fist into the Boston guy’s face four times in rapid succession, subduing him. Shane was still not at full strength, but a lot could be said for adrenaline. Eudo and Alard were upon him in moments, dragging the American ruthlessly up the stairs in a series of staccato
thumps
and
thuds
. By the time Shane made his way back up into the room, Alard and Gisele were on the couch tending Monique’s wound, and Franc, bloodied but not lethally injured, was on the wood planked floor, bent over the man, his palm pressed firmly at the back of the guy’s neck.

The process seemed to go on forever. At first the Bostonian shuddered and twitched, yellow muck seeping from the corner of his mouth. Twice, he made feeble attempts to shrug his assailant off, but eventually he became still. Yet Franc continued, his eyes narrow, his tapered jaw set firm and unforgiving. Soon there was the rank odor of defecation. Alard attempted to pull Franc off, obviously warning him of some danger, but Franc shrugged him away, continuing until all knew that the man was dead.

* * * *

Shane stood in the tiny bedroom gazing out of the window at a neighbor’s laundry fluttering in the breeze. Gisele entered the room, approached him from behind, wrapped her arms around him mid-torso, and laid her head against his back. “You defended Monique. You captured that man before he could flee and give us away.”

“Then we all stood around and watched Franc murder him.”

“Franc is gone. He is not like most of us.” Gisele gently turned Shane so he was facing her. “Emotions were…I’m not sure how to say it. Escalated. There was fury. It is regrettable, but it is done. This is not the normal way of things, but it is not unheard of either.”

Shane shook his head. “If I hadn’t tackled the guy, he’d still be alive right now.”

“And we would be in danger.”

“The guy had a switchblade. He wasn’t the kind to go to the cops.”

“No. But he might have been the type to return here with associates who also bore switchblades, or maybe guns.”

“He was American. I doubt he had a gang with him.”

“Monique says he spoke French with little difficulty. He claimed to have been here for more than a year. He could have friends.”

Shane remained silent for several moments. His emotions were in turmoil. Guilt weighed on him, but excitement as well. He wanted to believe Gisele, that this was just something that happened occasionally. The man obviously wasn’t a model citizen—he had a switchblade, after all—and used it. It was pure luck that he hadn’t found Monique’s jugular vein, or some other crucial spot. The girl had a cut, but that was the extent of it. Still, had Franc really needed to kill him? And why hadn’t Shane stepped in and pulled the reyaqc off once he’d realized what was happening. Alard had done as much. Perhaps if Shane had joined the effort…

Shane closed his eyes. The Boston guy was gone. True. But Shane was still here. And these people were fascinating. In particular Gisele. She’d been nursing him over the past several weeks. They’d talked, even laughed some, bonded. She was beautiful beyond description, and he believed she was genuinely attracted to him as well.

But she wasn’t human.

He looked down at her, at the concern on her face, and yes, in those so-strange eyes. He didn’t know what made him do it. Perhaps it was the tangled emotions, the fear, the adrenaline rush, maybe simple hormones, but he lowered his face to hers, slowly, so slowly, and brushed his lips against hers. At first her response was tentative, but only momentarily. For then she pressed closer to him. Their lips connected again, but this time there was no hesitation. They stayed this way for several moments, standing before the window, caressing, kissing, loving. At some point, Gisele lost her shirt. Shane wasn’t sure how that had happened, but greedily cupped her left breast in his trembling right hand. Finally they moved toward the bed. It was small, barely more than a metal-framed cot. But it would do.

* * * *

The next several months were a kaleidoscope of emotions and excitement. Shane took an extended leave of absence from his job—and in doing so, lost his current position. But his boss hinted that they might want him in a new region just launching in Las Vegas. That would be fine—eventually. At the moment he wasn’t sure if he’d ever return to the states. If he did, it was nice knowing he had a job awaiting him.

Shane and Gisele were in love. Soon he was fully accepted by the other local reyaqc as well. These young reyaqc were not wealthy. In fact, most stole for food and money, though Shane did meet two who had jobs, and one who attended University. Soon Shane helped fund their lifestyle. His bank account was large, but not endless. It took only a few months to deplete it entirely. Then it was back to stealing—this time with Shane’s involvement. Most often, they stole from the “donors.” After bleeding them of their DNA, the reyaqc took the victim’s wallet. The cash, of course, was easy and untraceable. But Eudo seemed to have the whole identity theft thing down to an art. He’d use credit cards online, and even at ATMs, as he had software designed to reveal a person’s PIN. It was an exciting life that Shane felt would never end.

But all good things do end.

Often, tragically so.

Shane discovered Eudo first. He lay on the floor, perhaps four feet to the right of the door, neck slashed open in a jagged tear, a pool of blood spreading across the years-old carpet. Alard was in the kitchenette, his naked body lying in a twisted lump, limbs spread at awkward angles, white satin eyes lifeless and staring. There were shuffles and thumps coming from the bedroom. Shane heard a familiar feminine voice, strained and cursing, then silent.

“Gisele!” he screamed. “Gisele!”

He had no time to think as he sprinted across the small living area and into the bedchamber beyond. He didn’t stop to ponder who or what might have done this. He didn’t pause to find a weapon, perhaps a butcher’s knife or some heavy object that could be used as a club. The creature was one such as Shane had never seen—never imagined. Gisele lay sprawled upon the floor, her lovely face bruised and distorted with swelling. Her sightless eyes seemed as two pearls floating in hot red wax. There was blood, far too much blood. Shane couldn’t determine specifically from where it had come. The beast crouching above her turned, its face contorted, features uneven and indistinct. There was very little that resembled anything human in form or manner. Still, there was recognition, however faint, however impossible. Only the slightest semblance of a face Shane had not seen for several months.

“Franc?” Shane whispered.

Then the thing was upon him. He was unconscious. And Gisele was forever gone from his life.

* * * *

Shane awoke in a spacious hotel room. His head swam, that low hum sitting somewhere deep in his ears had returned. His mouth was parched, his lips cracking. A figure sat at a small table across the room, typing on a laptop computer and occasionally gazing out through the nearby window. He seemed to be of about middle age, was not tall, and wore a tight reddish brown beard. Shane instantly identified him as a reyaqc. Having spent so much time with them, he recognized the rubber-like skin, the contact lenses, the slightly unusual facial expressions.

“My name is Doctor Donald Baker,” said the reyaqc. “I own the apartment building you’ve inhabited for the past several months. It’s commendable that you have befriended my species. But your companions are no more. I think it best you leave this country.” Donald Baker smiled his practiced smile. “But first, we must talk.”

For the next three days, Shane told Donald everything he could remember about his time with the reyaqc. Donald recorded each conversation on audio, as well as jotting copious notes. He asked clarifying questions, covered the same ground many times over, and occasionally divulged tidbits of information from his own life. Shane was familiar with Donald Baker by reputation. According to Gisele, Baker was a historian. Never before had someone attempted to chronicle reyaqc history, and Baker had done so meticulously, researching legends, genealogies, first-person accounts. He interviewed numerous subjects, both human and reyaqc. There were journal entries, correspondences, court records, even a translated excerpt from one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, in his writings. Some of his information dated back to as early as 1400 BC. During the course of his meetings with Baker, Shane wondered if perhaps these interviews would make it into a future volume of this ever-expanding project.

Shane pestered Baker about the creature that had killed Gisele. It had been Franc, he was nearly certain, but Shane had never seen a reyaqc such as this. Could this be the mysterious “molt” Gisele had warned him of? Baker remained quiet on the topic, revealing nothing, and responding to questions with questions. Shane would later find the answers he sought, but not from Donald Baker or from any other reyaqc. His sources would be much more mundane.

At the end of these few days, Donald rose, extended his hand, and offered Shane an airline ticket and a business card. “I reside in Boston. Do not hesitate to call should you once again become involved with my kind. Of course, your discretion will be much appreciated.” He paused, cocked his head, and then added, “You may from time to time hear talk of me by my given name, my reyaqc name.”

“Yes?” Shane said.

“That name is Dolnaraq.”

With that, he left the room. Shane would not see him again for over three years.

PART TWO – THE ROGUE – CHAPTER ELEVEN

2012

A cry of pain and frustration came from across the room as Donald Baker slid a page from the report and placed it atop the walnut end table beside him. Moving his hand about six inches to the right, he clasped his lukewarm cup of Earl Grey tea and drew it to his lips before reading the following page aloud. “Madigan’s account is, of course, fictitious. The ravings of a lunatic mind. That this survivor was subjected to unspeakable horrors is undisputed. His physical and mental conditions alone attest to this. Yet the nature of these horrors we may never know.”