Page 27 of The Undead

He turned and began walking toward the cul-de-sac exit, but then stopped and looked back. He looked, in that moment, entirely the Adam Radburn I’d made my friend years ago, and he touched his right hand to his forehead in salute.

“Thanks. For saving me from a difficult choice.” As he opened his mouth to say something more, he suddenly froze and raised one hand in a cautioning gesture.

Somebody was blundering through the maze, laughing and cursing.

From the sound of them, it was a good thing that the mirrors weren’t glass.

“Adam,” I said softly. He shook his head and came toward me.

“Let them pass. They’re drunk and looking for a fight.”

Under that cool mask I could feel his readiness to move. There was something he sensed, or scented, or knew, somehow, that I didn’t. The maze cul-de-sac wasn’t big enough for the two of us to stand next to each other, so I let him stand in front as the noise came nearer.

“—fuck, man, this ain’t no fuckin’ fun, can’t even break them—”

“Shut up, Cal,” somebody advised wearily.

“Fuck you, you wanna make me? Come on, you pussy. Let’s get out of here and pick up some girls, take ’em on the tunnel o’love ride, right? Don’t even need tickets for that, just a couple of beers and the car—”

“Man, you’re obnoxious when you’re drunk, Cal. I’m sick of this shit. Let’s go cruise the queer parks and see ’em run.”

“How many of them?” I asked Adam. He held up four fingers. “Great. They’re going to see you haven’t got a reflection, you know.”

“No, they won’t,” Adam replied. All around me, Adam’s reflection shimmered into existence next to mine, sharp and perfectly defined. He made a sound that was not quite a sigh. “Can’t hold it for long, though. It hurts.”

Somebody passed the end of the cul-de-sac and stumbled on, a big rawboned kid in blue jeans and a black leather jacket. He was followed by a shorter guy, older but dressed the same. That one looked down the cul-de-sac and stopped, legs spread, arms crossed. His dark eyes glittered feverishly in the bright reflected lights.

“Looky, looky,” he cooed, and reached out to drag the big kid back.

Two others crowded around him, wasted-looking men who were too old to be kids and too young to be adults. Their faces were vacant and feral.

“Here we were gonna go all the way to queer row to find a couple of goddamn faggots, and they’re standin’ here listenin’ to us the whole time. You faggots been kissin’ in here? Holdin’ hands?”

Adam didn’t say anything. I wondered what his expression was like, because three out of four of the punks shifted uneasily. Not the center one, though. His grinned as if Adam had given him an unexpected present.

“Your boyfriend there, he don’t look so good. Maybe we ought to give him a hand. Or maybe you already gave him a hand, huh?” He pumped his fist up and down and waggled his eyebrows. Adam didn’t move, so the short one took a step forward. “Or did you suck him off, queerboy? You want to suck my dick?”

“No” Adam said amiably. “All we want to do is get by. That okay?”

He’d reached some kind of decision. I couldn’t see how he did it, but suddenly Adam seemed frail and nervous, his gestures elongated and effeminate. It struck me that he hadn’t seemed this way in the gay bar, but then in the gay bar nobody expected him to. The punks all laughed and nudged each other in anticipatory excitement. The shortest one made a grand bowing gesture, but he didn’t move back; Adam took a step forward and squeezed by him. As I moved to follow, the short one put out an arm and cut me off. Adam turned, brown eyes mild and alarmed and entirely false as he assessed the situation. The big kid, more than a little drunk, grabbed Adam’s arms and held them up painfully high behind his back.

“Not you, queerboy,” one of the other punks, the blond one, sneered, and shoved me back into the cul-de-sac. When I regained my balance and took a step forward, he pulled out a knife and flicked it open with a practicedsnick.I reconsidered. “You stay ri-i-ight there. First we’re gonna do your friend, and then well do you, so don’t you go nowhere.”

Adam still wasn’t moving, though I’d seen his eyes move to focus on the knife with unnerving clarity before they blinked and shifted fearfully back to the two men facing him. The shorter one reached out and grabbed at Adam’s crotch.

“Please don’t do that,” Adam whispered. The red was back in his eyes, subtle but definite. “I’ll do what you want, just let my friend go. We can go somewhere—”

That was evidently the wrong thing to say, because all of a sudden Shorty bared his teeth and flushed an ugly, enraged color. He released Adam’s crotch and grabbed his throat. Adam shut his eyes.

“I ain’t no fuckin’ queer, you faggot, so you shut the fuck up. I’m gonna cut your dick off, and then you won’t be gettin’ all those pretty boys anymore, will you?”

Adam’s eyes opened slowly, and they’d changed to the color of drying blood. Shorty, drunk or stoned or crazy as he was, didn’t even notice. He pulled out a knife that matched the one still aimed at me and moved it to point at Adam’s throat.

Adam smiled, a slow, cold expression that made Shorty blink and frown in confusion.

“Break his arm,” Shorty snapped at his big friend. Adam raised his eyebrows, all effeminacy gone and replaced with a menace that I could feel where I stood.

“Okay,” Adam agreed blandly, and dragged his pinned arms downward as if the grip on them was tissue paper. Spinning, he slammed the heel of his hand against the kid’s forearm. The snap was brutally loud in the sudden quiet. The kid fell to his knees, gasping in shock, face the color of oatmeal. Shorty stared at him, then at Adam, and remembered the knife in his hand.

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