Wickerman Cove

Part 6: In Between Places

The alley was full of homeless people – cardboard shelters, tarps anchored to overfilled dumpsters, sleeping bags shoved into the fire escapes of restaurants. Steph felt a little heavier.

The dumpsters stank, with a particular metallic odour of mixed decomposition that reminded her of some of the worst duties she'd had during basic. Nobody chose to live like this. There would be a hierarchy, even on the street – dibs on the best sleeping spots, alliances. Safety stuff too: local gangs, how much you could trust the cops. Which businesses would give you something to eat and which ones would spray you with water on a sub-zero evening.

She couldn't help wondering how many of the poor bastards were ex-military. A nauseous lump formed in her gut, and suddenly living with her mom didn't feel like such a bad idea.

Renard gave a little yelp – somewhere between a yap and something else.

Penny was holding a dainty little purse – a clamshell design, made of black velvet with a gleaming silver clasp – and she was counting a fistful of coins and crumpled notes into her palm.

"Hey, put that away," Steph said, putting a hand over Penny's cash. "This isn't the place to start doling out bills."

Penny gave her a look of indignant surprise and pushed towards a particularly old white guy with a cataract. He drew back fearfully as she pressed a note and some coins into his hand. Nearby, a woman stirred. She was black, with a green coat and pink wool cap that looked too hot for a summer night. It was probably all she had. She peered at Penny, blinking away sleep, and whatever booze or medication had brought it.

"Hey, sweetheart," she said, pulling herself up from her nest of boxes. "You put that away, you shouldn't have that out here."

It was hard to tell how old the woman was – she looked older than Steph or Penny, but she probably wasn't as old as she looked. More people were stirring – a kid of about fifteen, with scabs on his neck; a guy – pale, with the shakes – who Steph had seen eyeing her bags on the street corner. Others, just as hungry and tired looking.

"Just you leave her alone," the black woman said, putting herself between Penny and the others. "What's your name sweetheart? You shouldn't be here."

Penny made a gesture to indicate she couldn't speak – tapping her lips and shaking her head. The black woman's face melted into an expression of pity.

"You can't speak?" the woman reached forward. For a moment, Steph thought she was going to grasp Penny's hands. She gestured to Steph. "Oh, sweetie, that's terrible. You still shouldn't be here, is this lady your nurse?"

Steph watched the group. They weren't much harm. They were probably going to clean the archaeologist out, but that wasn't the worst thing in the world. The shaky guy was the only one who looked like he might be thinking of something, and he seemed sufficiently wary of Renard that he wasn't going to act on it.

A flash of movement took her attention.

If her eyes hadn't adjusted she might not even have spotted it – the heavyset guy from a moment ago, leaning over one of the sleeping figures. A tool of some kind caught the light – long, metallic. He bent over, his arm in such a weird position that it almost seemed like the shiv was coming out of his mouth.

This wasn't her problem. She wasn't a cop. Nothing but Penny was her problem, and she wasn't in any serious danger, except maybe from getting her pocket picked.

Her stomach sank. Steph dropped her bag and made eye contact with the kid. She held out a ten. "You want to earn another two of these?"

He nodded and reached for the bill. The shaky guy stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "What for?"

"I was talking to the kid," Steph said.

"Well, he's my boy," the man said. Part of her died as she saw the family resemblance. "What do you want with him?"

"Take care of my stuff," she said. "If it's all here and unopened when I get back, you get the money."

He nodded stiffly. The kid grabbed the ten and Steph started jogging down the alley, shrugging off her jacket. Hoody guy was bent over the sleeper so far that his forehead was almost touching them. The sleeper didn't move, probably because of the empty quart of fire water sitting next to the sleeping bag.

He moved. The shiv caught the light again.

Christ, how far had he stuck it into their neck?

"Hey," Steph called out, speeding up to a run. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Hoody straightened up.

There was something wrong with him, she knew that much even from twenty feet away. He was built and bald, but his face was almost like a balloon – like it was stretched out, with nothing but pressure giving it shape. He was white, whiter even than Penny, with the sort of paleness that caught the light in the dark alley, almost as if he had a glow.

He shifted to face her. Looking at him was like a piece of weird art: the longer she did, the more creepy shit crawled out. His eyes were just circles of white with black dots, his lips overplump, with a slim round spike, set into glistening black flesh, coming out from between them. It made quick, jerky movements, like it was feeling out the air.

Jesus, it didn't look like the shiv was coming out of his mouth.

Steph stopped running and took a step back, her hands balled into fists. He was a foot taller than her, but that counted for a lot less than people thought. So long as he didn't keep transforming into some kind of creature from her nightmares.

"You want to try this, buddy?" Steph said, sidestepping until she was between him and the knot of people who had gathered around Penny. "Just pick a different alley. Whatever you're doing? Do it where I don't have to see and we're all good."

His overplump, pearl white lips quirked into something that she thought might be a smile... until his bottom lip broke in half and thrashing, spiderlike limbs poured out.