A Gray Life: a novel (3 page)

The secret hadn’t been shared; it belonged to the guard, but she hadn’t known it then.

Anger, white and hot, spiked inside of Ashley. Luggage, cash, and tickets, yes. She had also dug through her father’s desk until she found his gun. The weapon lay heavy in her pocket. She had never used a gun, but the mechanics seemed simply enough. The little safety latch remained engaged. She reached in her pocket to switch it off.

Ashley hesitated in drawing out the weapon.
Her white anger lifted a little. If she killed the guard, there would be no taking it back. She would not be Ashley anymore. She would be changed. Not to mention the noise and mess his death would bring. Attention was something Ashley didn’t crave, for once.

S
he dropped her hand from her pocket and crept her way to the street. The guard had his back turned, oblivious to her departure.

Will I see you again
?

Most likely
not. She felt sick remembering she would never see her father again, and her hand hovered over her pocket, ready to exact justice. She decided against justice, and moved on.

Out on the street, it was dark and quiet.
A few people sat slumped on sidewalks and against buildings, but she couldn’t tell if they were dead or alive. She walked down the sidewalk, hoping the people she passed didn’t wake up.

Ashley checked her cell phone. Not quite midnight, but almost. Good thing she
rebooked the next available flight to Bath before she left the apartment. The plane would leave at eight o’clock the next night. She had a lot of time to fill.

She needed to get inside
. Going to a friend’s house was safe. But, then the authorities would know the men hadn’t abducted her, and Ashley’s entire plan would go kapoot. No. She wanted to call Claire or Heather, but she couldn’t. For the duration of her stay in the city, Ashley would be on her own.

Though, she had to go somewhere. A hotel could be the
solution to her problems. The Four Seasons was two blocks away. The concierge might question why a twelve-year-old needed a room for herself on a school night. They might not even let her get a room. Ashley knew a motel like Coach Inn might not care about her age, only about her money.

Coach Inn was a motel outside of the city.
 For that reason and others, it held a questionable reputation. It was also the butt of many a school yard jibe. For instance,

“Saw you and
Sabrina holdin’ hands. You two goin’ to the Coach Inn later?”

Or

“Hey Alejandro, I saw your mom at the Coach Inn last night!”

Place like that? Take her in with no problem.

Ashley looked up the number of a cab company on her phone. She told the dispatcher where she would be waiting. She also told them to hurry.

“A little please and thank you wouldn’t kill ya.” The dispatcher said.

“Please hurry the hell up, thank you.”

She hung up.

It was rare for Ashley to use please and thank you in mundane situations; she certainly didn’t care to use them in life or death situations.

A bench some twenty feet away
called to her, and when she slumped down onto it, it amazed her how drained she was. She had only been awake for a few hours, but the night’s events had stolen her energy. Ashley felt ready for more sleep, and was halfway to dreamscape when the first raindrop hit her head.

****

July 18th

One of the Wasters died right in front of me today. I should be used to seeing people die, but I’m not.

I woke up from a lazy afternoon nap to see a Waster on his hands and knees, throwing up blood.
It went on for a few awful moments before he dropped face down on the floor. Months before, the Waster in question had been a healthy man. 

He was one of the only
male Wasters. I think he was gay, and I know this because The Man would fling names at him, names I’m sure you can imagine. Still, He didn’t kill him, and the cycle of torture and humiliation wouldn't stop. He must’ve thought of a way out, and his way out was to become a Waster. Time went by, and he showed up to the trough every few days instead of every day. Eventually, he stopped wearing his clothes and started sleeping near the Wasters in their own little corner of hell.

When
Erin saw what happened with (darn it, I don’t  even know his real name. All’s I can think of to call him is
faggot
, as it’s all I heard him called), she ran from the bathroom to see if I was hurt. I shrugged her off me and told her to check on the Waster. Was he dead? After feeling his leathery wrist, she nodded.

I got a tarp from the other end of the basem
ent and, with the help of Erin, rolled the body up into it. We dragged it to the bottom of the stairs. The Man would be sure to take it later.

I thought that was the end of
things, but Erin caught my arm, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes were big, full of tears. She opened her mouth, but didn’t speak. She shook her head, tried again, but still didn’t say a word. Finally, she led me to her bedroll where she pulled out a small paring knife from the folds of her blankets.

Possession of a weapon was against His rules, and punishable by death. Everyone knew it, and few disputed the rule. She held the knife out to me, but I wouldn’t take it.

“Why do you have that?” I stared at the knife as if it were alive, and it seemed that way. Just having it out in the open made me nervous, and it upset Erin too.

“He didn’t notice I took it, one time, after…” elaborating on ‘one time’ was unnecessary, and Erin continued, “I took it for me! I
thought I might need it. I didn’t want to end up like Mom, but I couldn’t go on like I was either. Then--,” she gestured at the unmoving roll of tarp at the foot of the stairs, “I saw that poor bastard, dead, and I’m not ready. Not ready to die like that, or like Seth, or like Mom, or Dad.” There, she seemed like she might cry. Later that night, I heard sniffles from her, but nothing more. She’ll be okay now, I hope.

The knife stayed in her bedroll. There’s
no where else for us to keep it. Such a small thing, but it’s burning under the blanket, a red siren hidden in plain sight.

A sickening thought, but I’m glad the dead man served a purpose, if only to make Erin want to live. An even sicker thought, but I’m glad she wants to live, because it means I won’t be alone.
Rolling the dead man in tarp was like second nature, but it made me think more on our first days here.

I can
remember my parents huddling with me and Erin in a corner. They tried to shield us kids from the Man’s view. He laughed before taking Erin to the kill room for the first time. Dad tried to stop him, but got punched in the jaw.

I didn’t know what he was doing with my sister, couldn’t imagine. Mostly I wanted to know why. Was he questioning her? Was he taking her away forever?

Thirty minutes later, He came out and dragged my mother into the room too. Screaming, moaning, and grunting. They must have been going through rigorous training, or an obstacle course from the sound of it. The noises really bothered my father, who covered his ears with his hands the way I used to do during scary movies. It was funny, but really, too strange to be truly funny.

Later,
but not much later, my mother and Erin stumbled from the Kill room, wiping away tears. Bruises bloomed on their arms and necks. No wonder they had been screaming; he hurt them. I couldn’t have known everything then, not when the gist of my sexual education consisted of glimpses at my mom’s fashion magazines.

The Man exited the kill room after them, a big smile on his face. He nonchalantly zipped up his pants and headed back up the basement stairs.

To His back, my father was screaming curses, pleading with him.

“Let us go!”

* * * *
 

July 21st

I woke up today with a boner. Dad explained to me the basics of what to expect as “a man”, and he told me to look out for morning wood. The term made me laugh back then, and it still sounds funny, but not as funny as Gary’s term for it: a hard-pecker sunrise.

Getting a sunrise woody is a big deal down here because there’s no
goshdarn way to hide it. At home, I could wake up, marvel at my hardened gizmo, and it would go away after my morning pee. Here, it’s hard (haha, pun totally intended) to make it to the bathroom first, and to get there, I have to walk past everyone. Before I get out of my bedroll, I have to conjure up the most heinous images I can to get my guy to wilt. Usually, I give a good long (pun again intended) look at the Wasters, and it goes away. Today, it worked like always, but not before my sister whispered,

“Jeez, bout to poke some eyes out, brother?”

I covered up best I could, but I couldn’t cover up my deep humiliation.

The one thing to take the stink off of me was the news.

Newbies. A buzz is going around the basement about the newbies The Man brought home last night. We knew He had gone hunting because we heard the heavy front door open and close. That hardly ever happens anymore.

He came back a couple hours later, and there was shuffling, muffled voices, and then shouting. I waited for
Him to throw new captives down here, but it never happened. Whatever trials He brought on them, He visited it on them in the privacy of His own living room. Poor devils.

I wonder how He got them to follow Him here in the end. Everyone’s story is different. Did He catch them at the nearest house? Did He pull them over with false pretenses? Or did He scan the streets, looking for the perfect people to abduct?

Wait. I hear the basement door opening. More to come later.

* * * *

July 23rd

They’re a strange couple.

Of course, they're scared and keeping to themselves, so I can’t tell much about them. I can tell they don’t know what to think, like about the Wasters. The Wasters shock newcomers, with their skin-and-bone frames, clothes hangin’ off ‘em like sacks, (the few who still
wear
clothes). It’s their eyes; there’s emptiness in them, because they’re dying to eat, but at the same time, they’re starving themselves.

Anyhow, the newbies still have
a look to them. Like if one of us approached them, they’d attack. Erin and I kept our distance. Right away, I could tell Erin wanted to talk to them ‘cause they look to be close to her age. Well, closer than any of the others. When she saw how terrified they were, she thought better about speaking with them.

While I would never wish o
ur fate on anyone, it’s nice to have new people down here. They‘re going to be able to tell us how things are, on the Outside. 

I
f He doesn’t break their spirit first. He’s been splitting them up, throwing the young guy into the spare room, and taking the girl into the kill room with Him. It might seem like He’s doing them a favor that way, but really He’s making it worse for the guy (or boyfriend, whatever). If He brought the boyfriend into the kill room, then at least he could see what was going on. By locking him away in the room right next door, He's jump-starting the guy’s anxiety. I bet he’s chewin’ his nails the whole time, wishing the walls would melt away so he could charge in and stop his girl from getting hurt.

Then again, he might welcome the solitary sessions, because before He takes the girl into the kill room, He likes to get things
rollin’ by torturing the boyfriend. When the boyfriend comes out, he’s bleeding from lotsa different places. Last time, he vomited all over the cement floor.

Tomorrow, I think I might say hello.

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, the rain stopped. Ashley huddled under the awning of a closed restaurant to keep dry. She
thought about what a terrible night it was, the most terrible of her life. No, it had been the most terrible night for her father.

Ashley
got to crying again. Her misery clouded her awareness, and if she had been of clear mind, she would have heard someone approaching, but she didn’t. Not even when a young man emerged fully from the alley behind her. She jumped when he spoke.

“What’s wrong?”

The boy was older, handsome, and didn’t appear threatening. However, not many non-threatening handsome young men went out past midnight. Not anymore. Ashley’s hand caressed the gun in her pocket.

“Nothing’s wrong. Go away.”

If he didn’t leave in two minutes, Ashley would shoot him. She was surprised at how quickly the decision came to her.

The boy ignored her and sat down on the bench. Okay, maybe three minutes. She thought he would ask her what she was doing out at night, but he didn’t.
It would have prompted her to return the question, but the conversation took a different direction.

“I know why you’re sad.” H
e said.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. You’re sad because you’re alone.”

Ashley didn’t lose hold of the gun, though she didn’t see the need for it anymore.

“Look, I’m not sad.” She lied. “Just go, please.”

She had never been exposed to
weird men. It didn’t occur to her how weird strangers could easily mutate into dangerous strangers. She didn’t know it was perfectly within her rights to walk away and ignore him.

“You probably think
I’m a major creep, but I’m not.” He moved closer to her, undermining his statement on not being a creep. “It makes me sad to see such a beautiful girl all alone. You could get hurt out here all alone in the city, in the dark.”

She should have left then, and maybe he would have let her.
It flashed in her head he might be a bad man, and her recent experience had taught her what bad men were capable of, but she refused to listen to her instincts.
He’s my age. He won’t hurt me. But maybe I should check and make sure.

“You say you’re not a creep, but you’ve been
tres
creepy so far.”

Even as she spoke, Ashley
had the insane wish for him to kiss her. She wanted her bad memories to fade in physical feelings for the stranger.

You need to start walking away, not making out
, a voice within her cautioned.

I nearly died tonight, and I might still die tonight. I deserve to have my first, and possibly last kiss
, she countered.

It was like
the boy heard her thoughts, and chose that moment to lean in. Close up, she could see he was more than a bit older than her. Sixteen at least.

“You don’t believe I’m a creep. Can I kiss you?”

Ashley answered his question by meeting the last six inches between them. Sharing her first kiss with a high school boy would have made her the coolest girl in school. Too bad she was never going back, and too bad most of her friends had fled the city, were declared missing, or dead.

Wonder if I’m doing this right
.

Your father is dead and you’re worried about your skills as a kisser.
Some daughter
. The voice mocked her, and she couldn’t stand it. Ashley thought she could drown out her loss with physical contact, but it wasn’t working. She felt worse with each second. The kissing needed to stop.

Things were getting too heated too quickly for young Ashley. She
tried to pull back. The boy’s hand cradled her head, insisting she continue. So they kissed some more. And more. Ashley was ready to breathe on her own. The kissing was too scary, too new. It got scarier when one of his hands shot up her skirt, and the other went up her blouse.

She moved his hands away, but they continued their excursions.

“Get off of me!”

When he didn't listen, she bit his arm. He yelped, slapped her,
and went on. It took her a second to recover from the slap. She bit him a second time, clamping on and yanking with her teeth. A small chunk of skin tore away from his arm. The boy cried out and finally jumped off of her.

"
Damn! Why'd you do that?"

Ashley spit out the piece of his arm
stuck in her mouth. She felt like throwing up for days on end, but she held it in. She needed to be ready if he came at her again.

"Seriously?"

He was examining his wound, which was bleeding at a ridiculous rate. “Oh, c’mon, you want me. Not every girl gives it up in the first five seconds, you know.”

The gun.
She had to take out the gun. Residual fear made her weak, and she found she couldn't move much.

"I've never done anything like that before."

“Guess you’re a virgin then. Don’t look like one, and you don’t kiss like one.”

He
stood over a puddle of water, and the reflection caught Ashley’s eye. He didn’t look like the boy at all. In the pool of water, she saw not a boy, but a thing with black skin and yellow eyes. Its mouth moved, and its voice sounded like a young man’s, but the monster could not be human. Ashley blinked, and the reflection returned to a clear puddle.

“Goddamn cunt. You’re gonna get it anyway.” The boy
said.

He reached for her. Something in her brain allowed her to react, and she shot the gun into the air.

“Holy fuck, are you crazy?”

“Leave me alone.”

Ashley imagined pointing the gun at him, but she didn’t want him to see how badly her hands shook, so she brought the gun down at her side, ready to lift and shoot if she had to.

The boy’s
lips set into a sneer, similar to an animal. He wasn’t going to leave.

The squeak of the cab’s brakes saved Ashley’s life. When he heard
them, the boy ran back into the shadows.

****

July 24th

Why I was hesitant to speak with
the newbies, I’ll never know. They’re super nice, and the most normal people Erin and I have met in months.

The man’s name
is Michael, and he’s a psychologist. His wife’s name is Louise (they’re not boyfriend and girlfriend, as I 
ass
umed), and she's a teacher. They said they’re both twenty-seven-years old. My sister laughed, touching Michael’s arm and saying she would have guessed he was nineteen. Louise gave Erin a weird look, and Michael shifted away from Erin’s hand.

I could tell they were older than nineteen. Don’t know what Erin meant, but
I like the newbies. Being around them makes me feel happier, safer. In a way, they remind me of a younger version of Mom and Dad.

Me
and Erin keeping to ourselves was a mistake. I think if we kept on that way, we would have gone insane. Sticking together with others better.

When our parents were still alive, they kept to themselves. They made sure Erin and I didn't talk to anyone down here.
It didn't stop Him from dragging Dad into the kill room for torture sessions. Every time he came out, he seemed less and less sane. We could tell he was about to break.

The Man
made Dad do terrible things, some I can’t name, and some I can. One thing I can say is…He forced my father to eat his own filth in front of mom and Erin. They told me about it later, even though they were crying so hard they could barely get out what they were trying to say. I never went in the room with them, and I never had to see anything He did to them. Not until the last day of my father’s life.

Dad
, mom, and Erin were taken into the kill room together, like always. Nothing seemed normal (as if anything seemed normal back then, or now), and I was curious. I peeked through the crack in the door and saw….Him.

He was on top of Erin, h
eaving up and down. He urged Dad to 
have a go 
at my mother, who was bent over the bed, stoney-faced and naked. While I wondered what
having a go
meant, Dad cowered in a corner, hands over his eyes. Finally, The Man tried to force Dad to get on top of Erin. It seemed to me He wanted him to heave on her, the same way He had. Dad refused. Angrier than I‘ve ever seen him, my father struck Him, over and over again. I think he was trying to beat Him to death. The Man took his chance and ducked out of the next punch. The move put Dad on his behind, and He put him in a choke-hold till he passed out. When Dad came to, he was tied to a chair.

With plenty of tools at his disposal, He tortured my father to death.
Saw, thumb tacks, blow torch, He has ‘em all. The Man has a collection of medieval tools, and those came out first. One of them he called a brank, a wicked looking spike. Erin held mom back while he branked dad, but she couldn’t hold her off for long. Mom slapped Erin full-on, forcing her to let go. Mom charged at The Man, and she got one good punch on His arm before He scraped her head with the brank. The tool grazed her face, dragging sharp daggers into her cheek. It left a deep wound, which never healed right, and which contributed to the decline in her food intake later. The only good thing to come out of her attack on Him was her disfigured face; she disgusted Him, and He never touched her again.

Mom’s
branked face held me back from playing the role of hero. She was bigger, stronger, and braver than me, and if her attempts left her cheek hanging like torn sheets in the wind, what chance did I have against Him?

The Man’s
anger made him impatient to finish with Dad, when usually He spun the hurt out for hours. He brought back the classics, saw, thumb tacks, blow torch, and my father’s death came quickly, though definitely not painlessly. Whenever I see The Man with the same tools in his hand, I have to turn away because all I can think about is how he used them on my father. Saw, thumb tacks, blow torch.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

Do you understand?

I wanted to look away.

* * * *

July 27th

Michael and Louise told Erin and me about the world Outside.

In the five months we’ve been trapped down here, crime escalated.
 
Escalated.
 It was already bad by the time He brought us down here months ago. Disappearances and murders have become things to shrug about.

Michael
described a mugging he and his wife witnessed from their apartment. Since they lived in the city, muggings weren’t a rare occurrence for them, but they merely heard about muggings, never seeing one first-hand. When Michael saw two men beat a woman for the money in her purse, he wanted to run downstairs and help before she got hurt. He stopped when Louise cautioned him to stay inside. She pointed to the window.

The mugger
s repeatedly stabbed the woman, while another woman got dragged into an alley. The two incidents were unthinkable, but then another person ran past 
that
 craziness, blood all over their face.

“What did you do?” Gabriella had been listening in on
the story.

The guy she came here with, Marc, looked at her like she was crazy for chiming in, but she didn’t care. Michael’s story was more interesting than
all the television we weren’t allowed to watch.

“Nothing.
I stayed inside.”

Marc scoffed.

“If I had gone downstairs--,” Michael continued.

“You would have died.” Erin finished
his sentence for him.

She was as caught up in his story as Gabriella. Michael nodded at her.

“Yes, I would have died.”

“Then there would have been no one to protect your woman.” Marc said.

Gabriella glared at him.

“I would’ve missed Michael, but I would’ve had myself to protect me.” Louise said.

It was the one thing she contributed.

* * * *