Beginnings Page 8

  “She is,” replied Paul, suddenly feeling acutely embarrassed at how everyone knew where he was going.

  His reply earned him a watery chuckle. “That’s what I figured you’d say.” Ooze got up from the chair and planted a squishy hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Listen…our maker gave me the basic knowledge of human relationships. I know what I look like. Sandstorm isn’t much of a talker as you’ve probably figured out by now, and as for CF? Well, he’s—”

  “He’s a zombie.”

  “Yeah, what you said.” Ooze turned around and went back to his seat. “But Angela’s been okay to us and she seems to like you.”

  More than a little mortified, Paul used his foot to scuff the floor and mumbled, “How do you know that?”

  His innocent act didn’t fool Ooze for a second, though, as a knowing expression formed on his watery face and he laughed again. “I was here when she brought you in, bud. She was real careful with you. She put the bandages on you and stayed with you just before you woke up. And you’re both about the same age.”

  The shadow he’d seen… It had been her. A flush of gratitude swept over him, but at the same time, did being the same age make two people compatible? He was almost eighteen, and as for Angela, she was less than a month old. It was a big difference.

  Ooze interrupted his thoughts by burbling, “Anyway, like I said, you two make a nice couple. It’s not like I can have a relationship or anything. I mean, I’m sentient. I can think, you know? But try talking to tap water. It doesn’t work. Still…Angela…she’s special. She was made special. So be nice to her, okay?”

  Taking advice from a bag full of water—he didn’t know whether to be chagrined or offended. In the end, he just said, “Thanks.”

  Walking upstairs, he remembered the door in the garage and resolved to ask Ooze about it next time. The sound of a vacuum cleaner interrupted his thoughts, and running through the kitchen, he found the zombie lifting the sofas and other furniture effortlessly while he ran the machine over the surface. “You’re cleaning?” Paul asked over the roar.

  “I want to,” CF answered in a noncommittal manner. He seemed to be very conscientious about his duties and didn’t miss a spot. “I don’t know why. I just have to clean. I can do your room, if you want me to.”

  When in doubt about the weird, embrace it. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  CF nodded and switched off the vacuum. Seconds passed as he traced the cord from the end of the vacuum to the wall socket then he put the dots together, took out the plug and lumbered upstairs.

  Paul stared after him in disbelief. He was living in a house alongside a zombie with a cleanliness fetish. Now he’d seen everything. A second later, he took that thought back. There was a lot he hadn’t seen and right now he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  The room was dark as usual and smelled more than a little musty, so he went over to the window, reached through the drapes and cracked the window open a few inches. A cold draft entered and soon aired out the room. Maybe a little sunlight would be a good idea, but as he put his hand on the fabric, a voice out of the gloom said, “No.”

  Jumping from the suddenness of the voice, he turned around to see Angela standing beside him. Talk about silent and possibly deadly… He’d never even heard her footsteps. “You get that we’re still keeping a low profile, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he answered and vowed not to mess up. “Ooze is still working on the computer and—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. Pausing a moment, when she spoke again her tone seemed a little warmer. “Since CF is making the place neat and tidy and we’re all busy, I just wanted to ask you what I should wear tonight. If we’re going to go out, do I need special clothes?”

  Now he’d become a fashion expert…not. Grabbing the remote, he turned on the television and flipped through the channels until he happened upon a video show. Loud rock music was playing in the background with skinny guys and pretty girls dancing around up close to the camera. “Check out those fashions for the girls,” he said. “There should be something.”

  Wordlessly, Angela took a seat on the couch and gazed at the screen, her body immobile. She seemed to be engrossed in the show, so he decided to catch a nap upstairs until it was time. As he mounted the first step, above the roar of the vacuum he heard the usual refrain from the zombie. “Is there any food in the fridge?”

  Sighing, Paul wondered why the doctor hadn’t given CF more brain cells.

  * * * *

  When Paul landed in downtown Manhattan at roughly ten-thirty in the evening, Times Square was awash in a neon glow. It had all the noise, action and humanity New York had to offer. Paul had been to Manhattan before on trips from the orphanage, but they’d only been to museums and only in the daytime.

  Now, a veritable Babel of languages and accents came all at once, simultaneously dizzying and intoxicating. English, Japanese, Korean, Spanish, they all fought for supremacy. The smells of food also came through clearly, cold or not cold. Kielbasa, tacos, the aroma of hamburgers, hot dogs, the sour stench of cheap beer—this was how people lived.

  As for the crowds, he found it difficult to get his bearings at first. He was used to going solo or, more recently, with Angela. Now, though, people jostled and shoved and pushed their way along the jam-packed streets, everyone in a good mood in spite of the weather.

  Angela stared wide-eyed at the bright lights and the incredible array of shops hawking everything from souvenir T-shirts to food to hunting knives. When she saw a group of teenage girls dressed in the latest fashions—high heels, short skirts, fluffy jackets and teased and gelled hair—she whispered, “How do I compare?”

  “You look better,” he answered.

  After taking a step back, he had to admit it—she was hot. No cape, but she had on a pair of stylish black jeans and a black blouse with puffy sleeves and a frilly collar like something out of a Victorian romance novel. High stiletto heels completed the picture.

  “These were in my clothes closet when I woke up,” she whispered in a voice like silk. In a quick move, she twirled around, somewhat unsteadily. “I saw that move on television. Is it correct?”

  Paul’s voice suddenly went missing and only returned when she smacked him on the arm—gently. “Well?” she asked, gazing at him.

  “Uh…” The iciness in her eyes had disappeared, replaced by a soft blue glow. They were—his mind searched for the word—mesmerizing. “Yeah, you look great.”

  He meant it, and she squeezed his hand tightly. Not enough to hurt, but he felt the power in her grip. “What do we do?” she asked then stumbled. “Ouch,” she commented. “These shoes hurt.”

  Suddenly, he felt clueless, and as he wondered what to say, a group approached them with one young woman pointing in their direction. Dressed goth-style to the max—black leather pants and shirts with lace trimmings for the girls and metal studs for the guys—they all wore white makeup and heavy black eyeliner. When they saw Angela, though, they stopped dead in their tracks.

  “Hey, that’s a rad look for you,” one of the girls said with admiration. She looked to be in her early twenties although it was hard to tell under all the makeup. “You into styling like us?”

  Angela looked confused for a moment, but recovered nicely and said, “It’s my usual fashion choice.”

  Approving nods came her way. The girl who’d spoken fished around in her leather shoulder bag and pulled out a card. “We’re going to a rave later, so if you wanna join us, you’ll fit right in.”

  “Uh…thanks,” said Angela as she pocketed the card. “We might do that.”

  “Bring your boyfriend,” the girl laughed. “He’s sorta cute.”

  The group left, and Paul stared after them. “Well, you are kind of cute,” Angela said, breaking his spell. “She got that much right.”

  “Are we really going later?” he asked. Dates were one thing, but he’d seen how other people looked at her. Still, they were out—together—so why not?


  Angela shrugged. “At least they didn’t comment on how white I looked.” She scanned the area then a smile lit up her face. Grabbing his hand, she said, “C’mon.”

  “And your plan is…what?”

  She pointed to a store sign. “There,” she said. “That’s where I want to go.”

  It was a music store, and she hauled him over to it. “We can listen to music.”

  There’s a first time for everything, he considered as they walked inside. A brightly lit place, teenagers of all shapes and colors roamed the aisles while chatting about the latest pop idol. They took up positions in the various listening areas in order to get their music fix on.

  “We listen to this, right?” Angela asked while towing him over to a section entitled Easy Listening. “Is this good?”

  “I don’t know. It kind of depends on what you think is good.”

  An expression of annoyance settled over her face, accompanied by scrunched eyebrows and a frown. “I told you before that I know what the term means. You’re the one with experience, remember?”

  Without having anything in the way of experience concerning the Top-Ten in rock oldies, Paul figured he wasn’t going to be of much help. All of this music came from way before his time. “Uh, well, listen to it and you tell me.”

  People swirled around them, some of them giving Angela looks of either curiosity or disgust. The curiosity came from the wide eyes, the tugs on their partners’ sleeves and the surreptitious finger pointing. The looks of disgust were indicated by a sneer or a shake of the head, invariably both. In order to avoid any potential trouble, Paul steered Angela away from the stares. “Put these on,” he said, pointing at the headphones.

  Her hands, usually so graceful, fumbled with the headphones, and he took them from her and gently placed them gently around her ears. Soon, her body started swaying to the beat. “This is good,” she shouted.

  “Calm down,” he whispered as he caught sight of some of the patrons staring and giggling. “Keep a low profile, right?”

  “Oh…sorry,” she shouted again.

  Paul didn’t know whether to do a face palm or make a joke. He decided to do neither action. Instead, he buried his head in the section and started to look for a name he recognized. Everything seemed to come from an ancient era when men wore wide-breasted suits, fedoras and bow ties.

  Angela continued to listen and her head began to bob more wildly, her hair flying out like a rocker going crazy on stage. Curious onlookers began to stare and point. Whispers of “What’s she on?” drifted over.

  He didn’t know what they were talking about until a girl about his age gasped and gestured wildly to the guy she was with. She pointed again at Angela…who was floating two feet above the floor.

  “Oh crap,” he blurted out and tugged on her arm.

  Angela ripped off the headphones. “I was listening to someone named Frank Sinatra. What’s going on?”

  “Look at your feet,” he whispered fiercely.

  After doing so, she let out a self-conscious giggle and dropped to the ground. “Sorry.”

  By now a small crowd had gathered and the guy whose girlfriend had alerted him seconds ago, a big and burly young dude in his late teens with a tough looking swarthy face asked, “Is uh, like, this for a movie, man?”

  “Yeah, it’s a movie,” Paul answered, thinking fast. What else could he say? “It’s a movie, you’re all extras, and the director will talk to you soon.”

  If his answer was designed to placate the teen, it didn’t work. Mr. Tough Teen strode over in tough-guy mode, flexing his arms and rolling his shoulders. His girlfriend tried to hold him back, but he shook her off with the comment of, “I’m just gonna ask a question.”

  Stopping in front of Angela, he waved his hand around her body. In consternation, she stepped back. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He offered a smirk as if he’d solved the trick of the century. “I don’t see no wires, man,” he stated. “What is this, some kind of a gag? And what’s with the girl’s face? Either she doesn’t like sunlight or she’s got some kind of a skin problem.”

  At that moment, Paul wished in the worst way they hadn’t gone to the store, but they had. From the way this jackass set his stance and tensed his body, it appeared as though he didn’t know what kind of trouble he was courting.

  Worse, Angela’s hands curled slowly into fists and the look in her eyes went from mild to barely contained wild. “I don’t have a problem,” she said in a tight voice. The tightness, though, seemed like a thin veneer. Under it, rage lurked. “But it seems you do.”

  This moron had absolutely no idea of who he was messing with, and Paul tugged on Angela’s arm. “Let’s leave, okay? It’s not worth it.”

  “She can make it worth it to me,” the large teen said with a smirk. “If she’s a freak, then maybe the news guys will want to interview her.” He waved his hand in the direction of the door. “Go and play somewhere else, punk.”

  Paul didn’t think twice. He shoved the guy, but it was like a fly pushing an elephant in its side. “Punk’s asking for a beating,” the teen said as his smirk morphed into an evil smile. “Now it’s my turn.”

  Bunching up his fist, he reared back to deliver a haymaker. The punch never connected, as Angela grabbed the teen’s ham hock of a fist in mid-punch and began to crush it. The bones in his hand made an audible cracking sound, and his eyes started to pop. With a gurgle of pain, he sank to his knees. “Gah…”

  “You’ll have to rephrase that,” Angela said, her voice low. In spite of her quiet and almost calm manner, the intensity lacing each word cut through the noise in the shop and the howls from everyone else.

  As she spoke, her fangs came out and the blue in her eyes grew deeper and icier. “You know, I never used to get angry when I first came here except at the punks who preyed on the weak. But when you called me a freak, and after seeing jerks like you pick on others, guess what? That really pisses me off.”

  Once everyone saw the fangs they stopped baying for blood and fell silent. A millisecond later, someone screamed out, “Vampire!”

  Then all hell broke loose with the patrons making a mad dash for the door, stumbling over each other in a frantic race to be first out of the exit. Angela kept tightening her grip and the teen, now in tears and on his knees, begged for her to stop. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” he screamed.

  She let go and he fell to the floor clasping his ruined hand and moaning piteously. “My fingers… You broke my freakin’ fingers!”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t break another body part.” She turned to Paul. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They made their way out of the door and Paul pulled her over to the safety of a side street. “That was…intense,” he said, breathing hard.

  Angela muttered something in a dark voice about idiots not being leashed up properly. “We should do something else,” she declared.

  “Uh, like what?” he asked. They’d already pushed their luck, he felt, and she wanted to stick around? “Maybe we should go back…”

  She was already fishing around in her pocket and brought out the card. “Let’s try here,” she said. “It’s nearby.”

  The card read Gothikz: Rave Joint and gave the address. Suddenly, Paul got a very bad feeling about all this. “This really isn’t the best thing—”

  “We’re going,” she interrupted, and took his hand.

  The club was located only a few blocks away. There, they spotted the same girl who’d given Angela the invitation. She waved hello and said to the bouncer, “They’re with us.”

  “C’mon,” she urged, “get raving,” and pointed the way inside.

  As they entered, heads turned in their direction, but Paul’s attention was on the décor. Black predominated, with black walls, tables and even black lights. Only one shiny silver bar interrupted the planned darkness. Their girl guide cut out and Paul wondered what to do next.

  The place didn’t seem to be overly crowded
. The sounds of Electro, Industrial and New Wave music assaulted his ears. Everyone had the Goth look going big time, and in the center of the room a group of people were dancing to the heavy beat. Angela shouted above the din, “Is this supposed to be cool?”

  Why is she asking me? What do I know about cool? “Uh, it’s a style,” he answered, trying not to sound too lame.

  “Let’s dance,” she said, and towed him to where the bodies were swaying. Paul didn’t know the first thing about dancing and did his best imitation of digging ditches and baling hay which he felt made him look and feel more ridiculous as time went by.

  On the other hand, Angela seemed to have picked up on the rhythm right away as she started moving her hips in time to the music, a look of near rapture on her face. The other dancers looked on with admiration and he noticed her eyes were half-closed in an almost sensual way. Then she pulled him close, and awkward as he felt at first, he began to sense the rhythms of her body.

  Along with sensing things, his heart also began to race and this, he thought, was the ultimate, the one and only moment that…

  “Hold it!” a voice called out and the lights suddenly came on, blinding him.

  Squinting, he looked to see where the voice had come from, and a police officer, burly and mean-looking, stood at the entrance. His hand hovered near his gun holster, and his fingers twitched as if aching to draw and fire. “There was a report of an assault at a music store,” he said and ordered, “Get down on the ground now!”

  Immediately, the patrons stood off to the side, murmuring and pointing fingers. Hands on her hips, Angela eyed the police officer coolly. “How about I say no?”

  He blinked. “Miss, I’m going to ask you nicely to get down on the ground.” His fingers twitched faster and he repeated his request.

  Paul’s first and only thought was that this was not going to end well. This place probably had security cameras, same as in the music store. He figured they’d already captured him on tape, but he still pulled his jacket over his face. “Angela, we don’t want more trouble,” he warned then cursed himself for mentioning her name.