Arkady lobbed the trash bag into the dumpster - and turned around real fast.
Nothing.
False alarm...?
Yeah. Right.
He looked around for a few more seconds...
The parking lot looked the same. Nothing suspicious. Of course, that didn't mean anything. Not any of the other times -
Oh.
Ark sighed. Yep.
Fuck.
Just another one of those times. He knew this feeling. No evidence, nothing he could see or point at.
But he was gonna get jumped again. Sure as shit.
He groaned out loud. Any time now. He wondered if be was being watched right then. Maybe it was just the old familiar paranoia...
The wind ruffled his hair. He wanted a smoke - real bad. Almost a month without one. Times like that, he couldn't remember why he'd even quit.
"Sick," he grumbled to himself. He scratched his rope-tat idly, and looked in the direction of his apartment. No visible threat, but there never had been any clues, the other times.
Twenty steps. Sprint hard, and slam the door. Then he'd be safe.
It sounded good, but he knew better. That could be exactly the wrong move. If they were hiding in his closet already, for example. Gotta check the closets, he thought. Go through the motions, even if that wouldn't fend 'em off.
A quick memory, vivid in every detail: Green fingers wrapped around a tube of liniment, squeezing it. Dark amber snake growing from the end, dangling over his belly-button.
Bucking under a dozen glossy hands, empty and magical -
Arkady shuddered. More of the same. No doubt about it. He was positive, without knowing why he was so sure. He blinked a few times and slumped his shoulders. Then he went back inside.
Checked the closets, behind the couch, under the sink. Everything looked ordinary enough. Reality. Comforting...
He couldn't just sit around there and wait. Back out the door, then. To the coffee place.
A guy he used to work with was there. Ark's hands helped himself to the guy's cigarettes, laying there on the table. The dude grinned and kept talking, handing him a book of matches.
The cigarette tasted like shit, and he got all lightheaded. He had to sit his ass down.
Arkady smoked it hard.
It wasn't until he was at the store, standing in the checkout line with the goldfish food in his hand. Then it hit him...
Tonight. They'd grab him before morning. Definitely.
He sighed again.
The gas gauge was past 'E'. Arkady usually drove around on empty.
Most of the time, they propped him behind the wheel and drove on out to wherever they were gonna... keep him. But he could hope, right? Running out of gas was something that might go wrong for 'em. One of these times, he thought - and he'd been having that thought for years - it might work. Make 'em give up, grab somebody else.
But he didn't want to have to walk back to a gas station, either. Not today.
Fuckin' car. It looked like shit. Ran like a top. They... replaced stuff. One time, he made it home and slept for a couple days, and when he crawled outside to get more cigarettes his Daytona had a new engine in it. They didn't even ask or anything.
They took good care of their getaway vehicle.
He knew there'd be a carton under the driver's seat. Afterward.
And a wad of cash under the floor mat. They'd wrap it around a tube of ointment after they laid down more tats.
Inside the little store at the gas station, Ark stared at the beer cooler longer than he should have. It sounded good.
Naw, gotta stay sharp...
That was a old thought. He laughed once, but it wasn't funny. Like it even mattered.
He grabbed a six-pack of Dos Equis.
At a stop light, he lit a cigarette. Oh, yeah.
Then he stared at it. Exhaled the smoke...
He'd been daydreaming. Or remembering. Some of the stuff they'd done. Walking over to the cash register, pumping the gas. Driving off. But his mind was somewhere else.
A white plastic bag was on the passenger seat. He peeked inside. The beer, a bag of potato chips, and two more packs of Kools. The pack he just opened made three. His usual.
Four bucks in the tank, six for the beer. One buck for the chips. She'd handed him back a one and some change. He'd paid with a twenty. So he must've -
Yeah. He finally remembered saying it to the cashier. Anything else? Yeah. Kools, hard pack, three packs. Man, was he distracted...
All the shit they were gonna do.
Then he just shook his head and concentrated on his driving.
He threw out milk and lettuce, yogurt that was already a month old, some leftover Chinese food.
At the dumpster, again, he looked around. Maybe... now?
But he made it back to his apartment.
So he left a message on Ron's machine, and wrote a note to Tanya, his apartment manager. They both had a key to let themselves in, and they checked on him every few days. They'd feed his fish... while he was gone.
Real soon now.
And he felt strong as an ox, too.
Dammit...
His apartment was filled with the same old smoky haze.
The disgust faded after the first half-hour. He sat at the kitchen table, lighting one cig off another, not seeing the empty beer bottles in front of him... thinking about the stuff that really got to him. Toys he really hated. The cells that bugged him the most - padding everywhere, rings poking out of it. Well-made. Carefully built. That always got to him.
Just after two, he jiggled the second pack he'd opened, and saw five or six Kools left in it. Ark yawned, and stretched real big.
"Fuck it," he said to the refrigerator.
Nothing happened.
Then he stood up, and yawned. Mainly for something to do, he fed his fish and topped off their tank.
What were they waiting for?
Ark took a shower, keeping a close watch on the glass doors. Watching for...shapes. Moving in. Cornering him.
He brushed and flossed his teeth, and looked at his bed.
Paced around for a couple more cigarettes.
On the TV, nothing much was on except those long ads...
When that pack was empty, he got off the couch and opened the last pack. If they didn't grab him, he'd get a carton tomorrow - uh, later today. Ark was smokin' again. Off and running.
He sat down again and started counting all the different gloves they'd used. He got stuck at twenty-three. That just sucked.
One more smoke, and he stripped down. Crawled into bed. That's probably what they were waiting for. As soon as he was asleep, they'd move in.
That kept him up a while longer. All worried. Dreading it.
When he woke up, it wouldn't be in his own bed.
Shit...
Ark realizes, very vaguely, that he's not sleeping on his belly. So he rolls over...
Only - he stays on his back.
Another bad dream. Okay. Nothing new there. He...
Wait a minute.
He pulls harder -
"Oh... no. No! Oh fuck! Oh no, no, oh fuck, no, fuck... aaawwww fuck..."
He's caught. Wrists way out from his sides, ankles down... Metal cuffs, with foam inside. Leaning back a little. Something like a dentist's chair, only wider. Sturdier. The manacles are thick, huge fuckin' hex nuts, lock washers...
There's a cigarette in his mouth. Unlit. Stuck to his lip.So Arkady gets his "oh fucks" out of the way while he lunges. The chair doesn't even creak. Air under his ass, a strap across his forehead. Thinner straps anchoring his forearms and biceps, thighs and shins. Another above his belly button.
They're sacrificing turf to really immobilize him. Not good. Probably the thin straps would disappear after he started to relax... when his nerves were really screamin', and he knew the manacles were going to stay tight.
His underwear was still on him. So it could be worse.
Number twenty-seven. He couldn't believe it. Caught again, and here it comes.
Fuck. Movin' across the state sure didn't do any good.
"No... no, aw fuck. C'mon...," he moans, looking around. Padded walls. Ceiling, floor... thick and quilted, probably real effective. Unnecessary. Yelling had never brought help, not once. Twenty-six fuckin' times before this -
"No! Dammit! You hear me? Help... haallllllllpp... Heeeeyyyyyy... shit..."
He yells for a few minutes. No response, of course. Damn soundproofing.The cigarette fell. It's stuck to his chest, soaking up sweat.
Fingers -
Picking it up. Black...
No, they're dark brown. Very dark. Water-stained. Half-gauntlets, fringed, with tin straps across the back.
Old leather, he thinks to himself. It's seen some use. And he knew what kind of use. The friction will chew me up in no time. So this won't be a long one. Whew...
The glove is empty, like they always are. It squeezes the cigarette... and tucks it between second and third fingers. Not Ark's fingers. It's a left-hand glove, holding a cigarette. Mocking him?
He doubted any hand had ever been inside it. Unless it was tied down.
The gauntlet just hangs there.
He squirms, none too hopefully.
And the glove starts to coast... down.
The index finger straightens - and Ark flails desperately. Here it comes -
Pressing below his breastbone. Not hard. Just a fingertip. Leather. He stares at it, and grits his teeth...
The finger moves slowly, up and down.
It lifts off... and probes his elbow. That tenses him up.
Kneecap.
Outer thigh...
And his nose, flicked gently. Ark stares at it... fighting a chuckle as the fringe drags acoss his tits.
The glove goes away.That confuses Arkady - what are they waiting for?
A dull thump makes his head swivel.
White bucket. Five-gallon bucket of something. The glove that's letting go of the wire handle is flashy - cobalt blue, with fat red lightning bolts. Motocross glove. It could be leather. Ark can't tell for sure.
Another one, just like it, starts picking at the lid of the bucket.
More gloves come and hang out above them. Waiting. The fringed cycle gloves return, and two pair - each - of industrial black rubber gauntlets, golf gloves, smooth tan pigskin.
The lid finally peels free.
Eighty fingers float on down and help themselves.
He stares at them, as they dig into the pale substance. Scooping up the first handfuls.
He doesn't believe it. No - more accurately, he doesn't want to believe it. Ridiculous. Impossible...
Gloves coat each other. Sensually, as if they enjoy it.
"Aw, no," Arkady wails, snapping at the cuffs. "Not this."
The empty hands finish their rubdown, and amble over to his body.
"Don't butter me..."But that's just what they do.
16jun2002