The old man in the seat next to me on the bus typed on a laptop. At first I was able to ignore the clickety-click of the keys. Having been on the road for about a half an hour, yet listening to him slamming his fingers against the plastic for fifteen minutes, I was a little bit more than pissed.
So, I slapped him harshly on the shoulder, and I told him to shut up.
The man stiffened, then slowly turned to look at me with angry bloodshot eyes. "What the hell was that for?" he asked, spewing rank morning breath onto me.
"For not shutting up on this goddamn trip," I snapped, trying to keep my anger in check and not impel a bullet through his chest. All it would take would be one quick motion. Reach inside my vest, out comes the gun, flip the safety off, bang, bang, and he's a dead man. Nothing more than that. I could've taken out the entire bus in one stroke had I given it enough thought.
"Learn to live with it, pretty boy," he growled, turning back to his work.
I nearly killed him right then and there. Yet, controlling my temper, I narrowed my eyes to a feral gaze and shot back, "Well, at least, I'm not a wrinkled, uptight ass like someone else."
"You seem pretty uppity to me."
"Did I ask you?" I hissed.
Shutting the top of his laptop, the man turned to look at me. "No, but I'm going to give you my answer anyway." Our eyes met, and I felt something pass between us. He reminded me briefly of the valor that my victims had displayed at their final moments. This man was a greedy, power-sucking bastard just like they had been, and I liked that about him; I'd have to force myself to be nicer so that he would work with me.
I shook my head, dismissing his impertinent answer. "Whatever."
The man laughed in blank amusement, focusing his attention on the window outside. The world spun, flashing by in streaks of early autumn colors. Leaves, wet with rain, slapped against the glass before moving onward to be crushed under the wheels of cars. The sky was still dusty with night, and all I really wanted to do was go back to my stolen home and sleep. Naturally, that was easier said than done, so I figured I would wait until my arrival in Michigan.
"You're right," he replied. "It is 'whatever'." Pausing, he hacked into a handkerchief that he pulled out of his dingy coat pocket. Finally, he cleared his throat and turned to me, "What are you going to Michigan for?"
"Family," I lied, not even bothering to blink.
"Really? Me too. My son."
"Son?" I echoed in amazement. The man seemed old enough to have grandkids, with great-grandchildren on the way.
"Yeah, playing in a football game up there," he responded, having "there" mean Michigan. "I haven't seen him since he started high school. He's a senior now, and I guess it's parents' night or something…"
"Then why are you going at all?" I asked, slightly perplexed as to why this man should even care about a person he hadn't seen in three years. I didn't give a damn about people who were my own blood that I hadn't seen in over ten years.
"Because I love him."
"Love's an illusion," I mumbled to the gun in my pocket.
"Maybe it is, but he's still my son."
"Whatever."
"I saw him born. I'm not married to his mother anymore, yet that's another story, I guess. We were married-a long time ago-and then I got involved with my job, and I had to leave his mother and he. I've got another kid to take care of now anyhow, who hates me too."
I was about to make a smart quip about the fact that both kids despising him wasn't surprising, but I kept my mouth shut. Like I said, I figured it best to get on his good side and see what I could do about coming to a deal with the old coot.
The man turned back to the rain-covered window, resting his rugged knuckles over his chapped lips that were peeling at the inside corners of his mouth. Faded blond hair fell down over his face, while his blue irises ate away at the bloody lines that had previously invaded his eyes so that he began to look saner than when he had first starting talking to me.
"What's your name?" he asked without facing me.
For a split second, I froze because I usually only told my victims my name. Even then, I whispered my name to their cold, pulpy heart as I sipped the blood like Midas and his golden chalice. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I lied, going by a name I occasionally used, "Alec."
Alec. Smart Alec. One of the girls I had strangled in a back alley had told me that right before she died with a wire through her neck. To make a long story short, she found out that I had killed one of her boyfriends, and knowing that dead people don't talk, I shut her up the only way I knew how to.
"Alec," he mused, then faced me and stuck out an aged hand. "Kyle."
I hesitantly shook his hand, not liking to be so close to him. I needed to get back outside where there wasn't so much constriction, where I could be free. I had lived in a cage for most of my life; it was the one thing I both despised and feared more than anything in the world. Yes, I hated cages even more than I did Zack.
"So, Alec, have you ever been to a football game? You look like you might have played some back in high school. You are out of high school-right?"
"Graduated last year," I fibbed. "I played a little bit."
"What position?"
"Linebacker." Thank God I had studied the popular sports after the escape. I realized how many of the wrestling tricks and quick football slides could be useful in the hunt once I had grown old enough to understand that I needed to make up my own training moves. Spent an entire afternoon inside a bookstore, devouring every piece of athletic information I could. Too bad Daddy never taught them to us.
Kyle frowned in confusion. "That's the same spot Jack plays."
Again, I felt my insides freeze. Jack. Perhaps it wasn't my brother from Manticore, but the coincidences were becoming terrifying. After all, Jack was the brother I had been closest to before his death. When he had left me, I had cried myself to sleep many a night after that. My other siblings had thought that I had really lost it. And I had, in truth, because I had lost one of the only people in the world that mattered to me. In a weird sort of way, I was avenging Jack's death by fighting for good, fighting for what I had believed in. He died without ever doing that.
"Your son-right?" I asked, attempting to make conversation. I hated ordinary people, might as well burn in hell for what they were worth, yet some did intrigue me enough to let them live. This Kyle seemed to be one of them. He seemed familiar to me, and I was unable to place my finger on what was puzzling me. Dismissing it, I looked across the aisle to where a woman sat, feeding her tiny cocaine child. The baby shivered and cried, refusing to feed on the shriveled nipple that was offered to it, while the mother tried to stroke its freezing skull with shaky fingers. Her eyes were sunk deep into her skull, while her skin was pulled tight around her protruding bones.
"Yeah, Jack's the only kid that I see anymore. My other son's…well…that's another story. The other kid's one apart now. That's all he'll ever be: one apart."
"Are you planning to stay in Michigan, then?" I questioned, diverting my attention away from the dying baby.
"Hell no, I'll go to Canada. That's where I was before I came to Chicago. My home, my life, everything is in Canada."
I arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" Canada had always been viewed as a safe haven for the escapee X5s. Zack, when he wasn't trying to kill me, would plead with me to join him in Canada where we could be safe. Perhaps dear big brother was there now.
"Canada's a great place. Only place where I can get a job and hold it down. Nothing here in this damned U.S. economy," he snorted. Pausing, he coughed for a moment. "Can I get back to work?"
"We're almost there-aren't we?"
"No."
"Oh."
"Can I start working, then?"
"Sure, get to work, Kyle."
