Read The Cipher Online

Authors: Kathe Koja

Tags: #Fantasy, #Horror, #Fiction, #Urban Fantasy

The Cipher (9 page)

BOOK: The Cipher
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"So." Randy crossed his arms. Big arms. "When can I see it? Tonight?"

The sensation of being boxed in, trapped in a cusp moment of purest choice, warred with a weird diluted glee, what the hell, right? What the hell. It's not my goddamned hole anyway now is it, not my personal property, it doesn't have my name on it. Whatever happens won't be my fault.

"Sure," I said. "I get home about six."

"All
right"
Randy's smile restored, I thought he would actually shake my hand but instead he punched my shoulder, lightly, a gesture so adolescent that for a minute I misunderstood and stood, my own grin fixed, waiting to get smacked again but this time less tenderly. "I'll give Shrike a call. See you later, man," and gone, cold air blowing in his passing, and watching him all the way to his car, wondering, still my stupid grin until my friend the deserter came up to me, tapped me on the back.

"Friend of yours, Nicholas?"

"Guess so."

I reached, seemingly without my own consent, for the phone: call Nakota. Then: no. No I won't. Let her find out from him. Still grinning, put the phone down, and as I did I saw my bandage, soaked and bubbling, a rich reddish gravy leaking fresh across the counter and I blotted it, fast swipe with my sleeve, went at once to the bathroom to peel free the clotted gauze and rinse the wound, the hole, the running water not as fast as the leak, drainage they call it, this was drainage all right.
"Look
at that shit," I said to myself, finally not even rinsing but just letting it run, run, if it was blood, I thought, I'd be bleeding to death.

It went on so long it got embarrassing: somebody, the new guy knocking at the door, "You okay in there?" and me watching the flow, mumbling something; at last he went away. Finally, without slowing, it just stopped. With my left hand, clumsy but getting better, you know what they say about necessity, I extracted my little Band-Aid tin of gauze and preclipped tape, made a new bandage, watched a careful moment to make sure it wasn't going to start up again. Nothing. Nothing but the white innocence of the gauze, the crisscross tape, my sallow flesh.

The rest of the day dragged. Was I actually excited about my new job as ringmaster, hur-ry, hur-ry, hur-ry, step right in to the greatest hole on earth, you betcha. For once exercising my bullying rights as assistant manager, I made the new guy close up, drove home too fast for the weather, slewing and skidding, arriving a little before six.

Cold enough, in the entryway, to see my breath, cold enough to stiffen my normal hand as it tried to work the key, lumpy feel of my fingers and impatient, I used my right hand, ignoring the pain for that moment, sorry I had the next. Boom, boom, migraine throb in my palm and I had to sit down, right hand cradled in left, coddling my cut-rate stigmata and the knock on the door, loud and brisk, already?

"Come on in," I said, too quiet, had to say it again but by that time they were, big ol' Randy eager enough to slobber, and Nakota, cheap black windbreaker, hair in disarray, surlier than ever. She went to the refrigerator, came back scowling, no mineral water of course. That idiot grin was back on my face. It felt great.

"You've met," Nakota said, as if that were somehow my fault.

"Want a beer?" I asked Randy. "Let's take 'em with us."

He got two Old Milwaukees, had his half-drunk before we got downstairs. Nakota, no dear, I will not let you lead, this is my dance. You made this bed, so lie in it. Buddy buddy down the hall, and my hand on the door, no flourish, it didn't need one: "After you," to Randy, and—am I smooth?—a quick step in front of Nakota, cutting in, cutting her off, I almost stepped on her. Grinning over my shoulder.

"Fuck you very much," she said, less than a whisper; I winked at her.

My beer can was empty. I tossed it in the corner, heard its faint metallic rattle, nudged Randy. "Should've brought a couple," but he wasn't listening, no, he was on his knees, humble worshiper, saying—I had to get closer to hear—
"Look
at it, man, look at it, look at it," his jacket's shoulders hunched and damp with melted snow, white hair hanging down like tattered fringe.

Me on his left, and Nakota of course between us, her face, what, peaceful? Sort of, or as peaceful as she ever got; "fulfilled" might be a better word. Bending low as if at a water hole, ignoring both of us, drinking in the smell and it was truly staggering tonight, an almost liquorish reek. Was it a taste in the mouth, for them as for me? Did they feel my rich foreboding, my sudden nervous itch?

"Look at it!"

Nakota's breath, in and out, in and out, I could see, even in the dimness, the tiny quiver of her breasts beneath the windbreaker. There was new blood at the corners of her mouth, not even dry yet.

Breath going in and out.

"Look at it."

In and out.

My hand hurting, irritating, like a beating heart, in time almost with Randy's rhythmic exclamations, shut up, I felt like shouting, shut up you stupid bastard, in and out and
"Look
" and all at once it was
funny,
funny in a way it had never been before, in fact hilarious, and beneath its influence, in a gleeful spasm of lunatic bravado I stood, flexed my knees in runner's burlesque and began to jump, fast and then faster, back and forth across the Funhole, Jack be nimble, back and forth and sweat ripe on my forehead, what fun, back and forth, "Look Ma," yelling, "no hand!" and back and forth now in slowing pirouettes and Randy's arms grabbing me, his grip on me much like mine must have felt to Nakota, her face now pointed toward me, and I saw, with a clarity that calmed me, that she was frightened.

Randy's face was blank, but his eyes were wide, so wide I saw the veins, and I laughed, a descending little chuckle because I was realizing I had just made pretty much of an inexplicable dick of myself and wanted to salvage something of it with a joke, in fact I had no idea exactly what had been so overwhelmingly funny just a minute ago.

"You were floating," Randy said.

"You should see me dance," but I saw he meant it, no metaphor, Randy would not reach for a metaphor, now would he? No. No, he would say what he saw.

"You were, you were, what's the word—"

"Levitating," Nakota said. Her voice was very dry.

"No no," weak josh, "I'm just very fast," but they weren't buying, they were barely listening, they were staring at me.'Finally Randy turned to Nakota.

"You were right, Shrike," he said. "Boy were you right."

I looked at her, but she was looking at Randy, and then they both looked at me and Randy said, with a peculiar inflection, "You better lay down for a while, man. You don't look too good," and the fact was I didn't feel too good either, so back we went, me lying on the couchbed with a fresh beer balanced on my stomach, Randy beerless across from me, Nakota running tap water in fruitless hopes of making it cold.

"Just drink beer," I told her.

"What'd you
do
back there, man?" said Randy. He took a big swallow of beer. His earring jiggled. "What
was
that?"

"Nothing." I was embarrassed now, I wished they would just quit looking at me and talk to each other about the Funhole, the weather, their curious tastes in sex partners,
my
curious taste in sex partners. Anything. "I was just acting stupid, okay?"

"You were levitating, Nicholas." Nakota, sudden appearance over my head, looking as if she too had mastered the trick but no, she just took a seat on the couchbed back, looming down from there. "You were hanging in the air over the Funhole for at least thirty seconds. At least."

"Bullshit."

Randy said, "More like a couple minutes," but she shook her head, how often had I seen that dismissive shake, used exclusively when she knew she was right, absolutely knew it, and I was scared, now. Scared of the way they kept looking at me. Scared of the way I couldn't exactly remember exactly what I had done.

"You were right about him," Randy said to her. He drank off his beer, reflexively crushed the can. "Gotta take a leak," he announced, distracted politeness, shaking his head still in private wonder and moving off unerringly in the direction of the bathroom, maybe his bladder had a homing instinct. Door barely shut before I heard the vast luxurious stream, and I said quietly to Nakota, still above me like a gargoyle, "What's all this shit you fed him, about you need me for the Funhole?"

"It's true," she said.

"My ass. For God's sake, you've been coming Here yourself for weeks, you know you—"

"I can come here all I want," she said, "but nothing happens."

"What do you mean, nothing happens?"

"I mean," with cold emphasis,
"nothing happens.
It just sits there. It doesn't have a smell, it doesn't—it's not
active
without you, Nicholas. You're a catalyst. You're—"

Alarmed, I tried to sit up, to speak away her words, she was scaring the shit out of me and she wouldn't stop: "Would you like to see
our
video, Nicholas? Randy's and mine? We did it with his friend's camcorder. Fifty minutes of pure static."

"Come on," grabbing at a straw, the merest twig, anything, "I wasn't even there when—"

"You got the camcorder the first time. You sat with me to watch it. You said for you it never changes, it's always the same image."

Heart beating in time and I could feel my hand itching, itching hard under the bandage. "So what?"

"So it's not like that for anyone else. Me, Randy, Vanese—"

"Who's Vanese?"

"His girlfriend. We all see something different,
all the time.
But not you."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care." And then, leaning down so her hair brushed mine, "I didn't want you to know. Ever. I didn't even believe it myself at first until the first time I tried it alone—"

"When was this?"

"Few months ago."

"A few
monthsT

"Nothing happened. Nothing happened with Randy, either. I could bring an army in there and it wouldn't make any difference. That's the point, Nicholas. Nothing happens without you."

Randy, beer in either hand. "Here," and he even opened it for me, put it in my hand but I didn't want it, I didn't want them there, either of them, maybe Nakota most of all. I felt tired, almost sick, and I didn't want to hear any more bullshit, I just wanted to nurse my hand in silence and be left well enough alone.

"Go home," I said, closing my eyes. "Shrike. Go home, Shrike."

I heard Randy stand, heard the subtle creak of his boots. "Ask him if I can bring one," he said to Nakota, who bent to me again.

"Nicholas, Randy wants to bring one of his pieces."

Still eyes closed, "Pieces of what?"

"Sculpture, he's an artist, a metalworker. You saw his stuff at the Incubus, remember? He wants to set one up by the Funhole, is that okay?"

"Why are you asking me?" I sat up, staring at th'em both, the beer toppling, splashing cold against my ribs. "Why are you asking
mel
It's not mine, I'm not in charge of anything here. Do whatever you want. Just do whatever you want!"

"Listen," Nakota to Randy, gaze still on me, "we better go."

"I'll bring that piece by, man," and they left, then, finally, closing the door with an odd gentility and me left alone with my new terror, the rest of the night spent talking myself out of what Nakota had said, talking myself as far away from it as I could get.

When I woke my pillowed arm was numb, sticky-slick and, blinking, I saw my hand coated to the elbow with fluid as neat as a glove, a coy pink with tiny clots of deeper color spattered in some pattern which in my overwhelming disgust I chose not to decipher; I ran to the bathroom, literally ran, as if my arm was on fire, plunged it into the sink and turned the hot water on full blast, head averted like a fastidious driver past a smoking wreck, till I could feel the water on my plain bare skin, a plainly painful heat. I shut it off, toweled my arm, and found all of last night's beer rushing willy-nilly up my throat so, bending, I had to take care of that, too.

Wiping up, back to the couchbed and without a voluntary glance tearing off the sheet—pink, too, and wet, that much I had to see—jumbled ball and straight to the trash, no thanks, I puked once already this morning. Deeply grateful to discover it was Wednesday, my day off, my content evaporating when knock-knock at my chamber door and Randy's hesitant behemoth voice: "Hey, Nicholas? You up, man?"

Shit
If I could have broken his neck I would have, just for the pleasure of the silence after the snap. "Yeah," rubbing my frowsy face, vomit breath and less than half a phony smile. He carried something metal, silver and black and about two, two-and-a-half feet high. Looked something like a ladder as seen on the verge of a whiskey pass-out. Or maybe that was just my woozy perspective. Say what you see.

"Dead End,"
Randy said, nodding at the metal thing, and I remembered in a halfass way the bit last night about bringing over a piece of his art, apparently this was it. Actually it was almost interesting—a ladder, yes, but crooked, twisted, the rungs less stepping spots than dirty tricks, descend at your own risk was the first-glance impression, but I was really in no mood to critique anything, so I tried to indicate this by what I was hoping was an innocuous nod. I did it a couple times for good measure. Randy didn't say anything, just stood there, so I said, with another nod, "It's really nice. Really."

BOOK: The Cipher
12.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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