Vile Men Read online

  “Did you smoke in front of the boys?” she asked.

  “No.” He looked at her, looked for too long.

  “You’re supposed to tell me if something’s bothering you.”

  Luke traced his fingers over the railing, felt the slopes in the chipped paint. “I’m just tired,” he said.

  “From what?” she asked. “Work?”

  Luke shrugged. “It’s everything, I guess.”

  “You were doing so well,” Anita said.

  “I know,” Luke said.

  “How much are you smoking now?”

  “I don’t know.” Luke didn’t want to look at her. “Two, maybe three a day.”

  Anita sighed. She leaned against the railing beside him, her fingers clutching, turning white. “You don’t just pick up smoking after four years for nothing.”

  “You’ve never smoked, Ani. You have no idea what it’s like.”

  “I know what you went through before,” she said. “I’m your wife. I was there for you.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. He pushed away and dragged his fingers through his hair. “I just needed time. I needed some relief.”

  “Relief from what?” she asked. “You’ve got a family, Luke.”

  She kept on saying it. She wasn’t making it any easier, not with her hand on her stomach and the worried look on her face. Her eyes were glossy and she shared his gaze, the weakness in it. He had a half-finished pack in his pocket and all he wanted was to light one.

  “It’s that fucking kid,” he said. “I hate that he’s going around our complex, stealing shit out of cars. I work hard, Ani. Everything was fine until that kid started showing up.”

  She slid her hand across the railing. He felt the instinct to pull his hand away, but he waited for her to take it, her fingers curling around his palm. She leaned in and hugged him, but all he felt was her pregnant stomach keeping them apart.

  He walked circles around the complex parking lot. He lingered in the shadows instead of lighting up. He clenched his fits at his sides instead of burying his hands in his pocket. Before he quit he smoked a pack a day. He only stopped because of the distractions.

  He thought of Anita sleeping soundly. He thought of the boys adjusting to a shared bedroom again. He thought about Father’s Day. He thought about becoming a father again. He fidgeted, dug in his jacket pocket. His fingers flinched around the pack of cigarettes and he wondered what the real distraction was.

  He walked back to his doorstep and that was when he caught the flash of white, the noises behind the neighbour’s truck. The kid was there, flashlight in hand, pushing his uncoiled wire hanger between the window and the door.

  Luke hesitated, his lungs burning. He dropped his lighter, his smokes, his devil’s sticks scattering on the pavement. The kid looked up as Luke approached. Luke shouted and the kid bolted for his bike. He dropped his flashlight and climbed on, pedalling.

  Luke sprinted, reaching out to grab the sleeve of the kid’s sweatshirt. He tripped over the bike, tumbling over it and the kid. He grabbed the kid and pinned him to the ground, gasping, his fists clenching, the kid’s face a distorted blur in the dark.

  “Stay out of my neighbourhood,” Luke said.

  “Fuck you,” the kid said.

  Balling the sweatshirt in his hand, Luke lifted his arm and threw a punch at the kid’s gawking face. The kid moaned. The kid squirmed. Luke threw another punch, his wrist locked, knuckles aching. The burn in his lungs filtered down through his arm and into his fist. His knuckles came back with blood and Luke clenched his fist tighter. He threw punches, one after the other, again and again. He breathed in the night air, thick and heavy, filling his lungs until he was heaving over the kid’s face.

  “Stay the fuck out of my neighbourhood, you little fucking piece of shit.”

  Lights flickered around him. He heard windows opening, heard the neighbours gasp. He looked up. Joe’s bedroom light was on, his shadow in the window. Blake Bennett stood on the lawn in his plaid pajama pants.

  He heard the kid moan underneath him, and then he heard his wife calling his name.

  Anita ran to him in her slippers and her robe, her hand over her stomach. Her voice wavered. She asked him what he was doing. She begged him to stop. In the flickering light, he saw that her eyes were wet.

  He tried to inhale but he couldn’t breathe deep enough.

  THINSPIRATION

  He seemed normal at first, a middle-aged man, tall, built, bearded. He walked up to the car and asked me for a cigarette. I reached for the pack on the dashboard and dug inside for my last slender stick. When I turned back he had a gun pointed at my face.

  “Get into the passenger seat,” he said.

  His steady grasp took control of the moment, knuckles bent tight around the grip, his index finger pressed firm over the trigger. I tried to draw a breath but my lungs sat like decaying remains in my chest. My hands started to shake. The frail cigarette slipped through my fingers and rolled under the seat.

  “C’mon now,” he said. “Unbuckle your belt and slide over.” The skin of his neck strained tight against his swallow. He waited; tense seconds passing as his gaze drifted from my face and moved slowly over my frame.

  I slipped back against my seat, lightheaded, the taste of ashes filling my mouth.

  Beyond the vehicle there was laughing, sounds of a family on the other side of the rest stop parking lot, unloading their SUV with picnic supplies, pop, chips and hot dogs. They were all too preoccupied to notice my situation. I drew another cigarette breath, my gag-reflex straining as I reached to unbuckle my seat belt.

  “There we go,” he said. “Move over now. Come on.”

  I climbed over the gear shift and sidled into the passenger seat. He unlocked the door and climbed in, his scent filling the car, the aroma of diner breakfasts, of maple syrup and sausages, sweat, exhaustion and rage. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled alive, shaking the empty space in my stomach. I shut my eyes and tensed my grip over my knees, thinking of pleasant thoughts, of fantasy, images of pretty girls who’d persevered.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “You’ll still get to go wherever you’re going,” he said. “I’m just going to do the driving until I get to where I need to be. Then you can have your car back.” He looked at me, staring intently. “You’re going to be good, right?”

  I nodded.

  “No protesting, no nothing.”

  “No,” I said.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He tucked the gun beside the seat, put the car into gear and pulled out onto the highway.

  He drove the speed limit with his thick fingers clenched tight around the wheel. He stared at the road, eyes straight ahead, determined. My gaze shifted to the window. I stared at nothing but the passing blur of sights, open fields of vegetation, just an endless mass of green. I thought about opening the door, about jumping, but then I caught my reflection in the side mirror. My pale face reflected the glare of the sun. I turned my cheek and studied my jaw, lifted my hand and pulled the skin taut.

  “What are you doing all the way out here?” he asked. “Girls your age shouldn’t travel alone.”

  I pressed my fingers under my chin, wrapped my thumb around the tendons in my neck and gripped tight, model-steady. I met my own gaze and still couldn’t recognize myself, my gaunt cheeks more ghostly than glowing, my pale lips unable to smile.

  “You a runaway?” he asked. “You trying to start a better life somewhere else?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  He breathed a laugh and loosened his grip. He let his fingers relax over the wheel.

  “It’s funny how easy it is,” he said. “The last girl thought I was gonna rape her. She kept on pleading with me. I didn’t even have to rely on my gun. Made it so much easier to drive.”

  My fingers twitched over my throat. I swallowed. My esophagus burned. The taste of orange juice and b
ile still lingered in my mouth. It was the reason why I’d pulled into the rest stop to begin with, was to purge the mistakes I’d made, to cleanse myself of my lack of control. I thought of the family and their picnic lunch, their smiles wide, more like grimaces.

  It wasn’t often, but at times I could be realistic about my situation.

  “It’s funny to think of it,” he said, “what really scares you girls.”

  The wide neckline of my shirt slipped off my shoulder when I shrugged. I reached to pull the sleeve back up, wrapped my arms tight around my chest.

  He turned the radio on but he couldn’t pick up any stations. He left it on anyway, filling the car with whir and static, the sound of salt water lapping against a shore. I eyed the open emptiness of the sky, felt the heat burning my cheeks. Thoughts trickled into my head, fantasies of starving on a remote beach in the sun.

  He drove for an hour with his hand on the gear shift and the gun still tucked between us. The black metal caught bleak reflections of the sun’s glare, heated tension that burned the empty pit of my stomach.

  The growls sounded loud, filled the car.

  He looked me over again, eyed me for too long. Goosebumps pimpled my skin. I pressed my knees together, grasped my hands underneath my thighs, palms slipping under the heat, the sweat, the unease. He studied my posture, his gaze drifting again, all the way down to my bare legs. I winced and gathered a breath.

  “Please stop,” I said. “Just look at the road.” He wrinkled his brows and turned away.

  I felt like I was going to shatter, but all I did was flinch when he geared down and turned onto the next exit, the sign beside it listing all the nearest shops and restaurants in the next town.

  “You got money?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t eaten in a while,” he said.

  He didn’t see me shake my head. I sat up straight in my seat, sucked in my empty gut, my reflection in the mirror rigid and tense. My chest pounded at the thought of seeing him eat, seeing his teeth sink into fleshy meat, thick grisly fat right down to the bone.

  He pulled up to the McDonald’s drive-thru. The line-up was long, an intestine string of cars leading to the window that expelled paper bags full of grease. He groaned and glanced over at me, the shrunken shifty mess that I was in the passenger seat. He reached over and pushed down the lock on my door.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I don’t need anything,” I said.

  “Sure you do,” he said, studying my arms, my thighs, my stomach. “There’s still a ways to go,” he said. “I’m not going to stop again.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  I nodded, stomach aching, begging.

  His throat tensed again. He bit his lip and breathed heavily, his fingers slipping from the steering wheel. He made fists, clenched them tight before he turned to me, stare piercing in black, worse than his gun.

  “Where’s your purse?” he asked. “Where’s your money?”

  I hesitated, mouth turning dry as he turned and dug into the pile of clothes and magazines and makeup in the back of the car. He grabbed the strap of my open satchel and pulled the bag onto his lap. I flinched when he dug out my journal. He flipped it open and revealed it all, the textbook of inspiration that kept me so empty inside.

  He flipped through the pages full of magazine clippings and journal entries. The numbers at the top of each page started at the weight I used to be and counted backward in awkward increments, my hard abrasive handwriting highlighting my journey of self-loathing. He stopped on the last entry, where I’d tucked that picture of Kiera Knightly I’d cut out from an issue of Vogue. In it she was sitting in a white dress, sitting before a typewriter. She looked so dreamy, so romantic, so at ease.

  “It’s just a picture I like,” I said.

  “What do you like about it?” he asked.

  The radio static still filled the car. I tried to concentrate on it but the sound wasn’t calming anymore. “I think she’s pretty,” I said.

  He looked down at the photo. “She looks like a sheet of drywall with a face.”

  I squeezed at my thighs, the meaty middle parts that flattened against the seat, spreading out like pancake batter. Bile brimmed up my throat, the taste of ugly truths.

  “She has it better than I do,” I said.

  He stared at me, dark pupils reflecting my face.

  The car behind us honked and he tossed the journal at me. The picture slipped between my legs and to the floor. I reached to pick it up.

  “Sit back.” He handed me my satchel, demanded me to dig out some money.

  I handed him my last ten dollars and shifted back, breathing deep as I let myself crumble into the curve of my seat. I glanced at the mirror and blinked, tried to make my gaze look real, responsive.

  He drove up to the drive-thru speaker and ordered two cheeseburgers and a large coke.

  My chest started throbbing. The tears burned behind my eyes.

  He paid for the food at the window and set the brown paper bag beside his gun. He drove to the back of the parking lot. He killed the engine. The rumbling gone, it was just the sound of his breathing, the sound of my own stomach growling, the scent of his presence, cigarettes and sweat and grime. Exhaustion. He dug one of the burgers from the bag and handed it to me.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said.

  “You should eat anyway,” he said. “It’s still going to be a few hours.”

  I shook my head, staring at the burger, still wrapped in its greasy waxed paper. “I can’t,” I said. “It’s going to ruin everything.”

  He unwrapped the burger and grabbed my wrist, forced me to hold the flimsy bun in my grasp. “Eat it,” he said.

  I shook my head.

  He leaned over the gear shift, his steady grasp bearing down, taking control. “I’m the fucking kidnapper here. You’re going to do what I say.”

  “Please,” I said. “You can take the car. You can have whatever you want. Please.”

  He tightened his grasp. He dug his fingers deep, pressed at my triggers.

  “You don’t even know me,” I said, straining. I winced and writhed, moans drifting from my throat as I tried to pry myself away. My grasp tensed around the burger. Cheese brimmed from the edges of the bun. The cooked meat showed through the cracks, seeping clear grease like tears. I pressed my lips together, tried to resist the calling groan of my stomach. He gripped my wrist tighter, lifted the food to my face.

  “Take a fucking bite,” he said.

  It wasn’t until then that I started crying.

  BETTER PLACES

  It’s been sunny ever since the dead started walking. They get closer with every sunrise, their groans a chasing echo on the highway. I’ve been riding this bike for days with my weight leaning over the handlebars, feet slipping off the pedals, breath heaving, weak, dehydrated, gravity taking hold.

  There’s a dishevelled bed and breakfast off the road, its windows boarded. The zombies approach and I stumble off my bike and run. I round the building. I pry at the boards, bloodying my fingers until there’s a crawl space big enough to climb through. Inside, the front lobby is littered with the fragmented wood of a demolished staircase. A rope hangs from the second floor and I struggle to pull myself up.

  There’s a man on the landing pointing a gun.

  He says, “This isn’t your property.”

  “There’s nowhere else to go,” I say, collapsing on the floor, pleading. “You have to help me.”

  His fingers flinch over the trigger. “You think I care what happens to you?”

  “Please,” I say. “I lost my apartment. Looters broke into the building and took everything. They would have killed me if I hadn’t run.” The words shudder up my throat and I blink, eyes stinging and hot. “I haven’t eaten in days.”

  His gaze drifts away from mine. He looks me over. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip and he says, “You can suck my dick if
you want.”

  He steps forward, his eyes dark. I crawl back, looking down the open landing below. Outside, the zombies pound against the boards, the sound throbbing with my chest.

  “I haven’t even seen a woman in months,” he says. “What else could you possibly do for me?”

  I shake my head. He takes another step, closing in, towering over me.

  He says, “You can either give me a blowjob or I can kick you back down there.”

  He says, “Come on,” and he unzips his fly.

  He says, “This is about survival, not your fucking dignity.”

  He leans against the wall and pulls his dick out. He smiles when I crawl to him. His lap of pubic hair smells of sour sweat and piss. I hold my breath and close my mouth over his hard warmth. He wraps his hand around the back of my head. He presses the cold metal of the gun against my scalp and he says, “Put in some effort.”

  I try not to retch.

  He was prepared.

  He spends all his time in the solarium on the third floor. It used to be the breakfast room but now it’s his domain. He has crates of canned food and bottled water. He has guns and crowbars and knives. He has jigsaw puzzles on every table, a collection of different places, better places: The Eiffel Tower, Niagara Falls—the Venetian Canal.

  He says, “You’ve got to have something to do.”

  He opens a can of beans and sits at the table with a half-finished puzzle on top. The picture on the box is of a historical park in Thailand, a grey bell tower monument before a river of lily pads and pink flowers. Everything is bright, alive.

  He says, “It’s like every puzzle is its own apocalypse. No people. Just scenery.”

  He hands me the can of beans and I take a bite. All I can taste is him.

  He asks, “What’s your name?”

  I tell him. He smiles and I pass the can back.

  “I haven’t talked to a woman since this all started,” he says, spooning the beans into his mouth. “All I ever see out there is zombies and bandits. You’re like a unicorn.”