GILBERT

One of Ivan "Kill Kids" Braginski's guesses about Raivis's location is the storage field of a local cement plant. Notice, not storage building, or storage shed, but storage field. And that's literally what it is. A field with unmowed grass and a bunch of concrete shit sitting in it. This is a normal thing to find on the edge of the city. Once the suburban sprawl ends, the rural hickdom begins with gusto.

Truth be told though, I kinda dig the storage field. It has a nice apocalypse vibe to it, like the world forgot about this place, like time moved on without it. It's nice and quiet here at night, nobody around, not even a fence to keep nasty shit like me out. Sometimes being alone at night is lonely, but here it's peaceful.

Until I announce, "Alrighty, kid. If you're here, I'm giving ya the count of ten to come out without a fuss, like a good boy. I promise I'm not gonna hurt ya if you come over here. Honest to God."

Fuck God, but I am being honest. I'm not gonna hurt this kid if he comes out, or if I have to look for him, for that matter. Anything I wind up doing to Raivis will be as gentle and painless as possible.

Unlike what the Russian did to him.

Christ. I could puke.

"Okay, kid, I'm gonna have to look for ya. Don't run, or I'll have to chase ya, and I gotta tell ya, I hate cardio."

I pause a second longer, but there's still just silence, me and the moon and these solemn masses of concrete, like those big ol' stone guardian things you'd see in some movie with dragons or Greek gods. "Fuck yeah," I say under my breath as I duck down, checking all the cylinders big enough to fit a petite thirteen-year-old. "I'm a mighty Prussian warrior, defender of the moon gods, a knight of the night here to save the fuckin' day with my awesomeness."

The cement things hear this, I know they do, and I think they give me little nods of respect. I nod right back, 'cause it's only polite, and I'm a brute with manners.

Takes me an hour to check and recheck the field, just to make sure the kid isn't here and doing ninja moves to hide from me. But, unless he's seriously invisible, there's no kid here. Not even any sign of a kid here, no little footprints, nothing.

"Well, scratch this one off the list." In the car, as I drive back to the city, I turn the interior light on and get the paper with suspected locations written on it. I scribble out the storage field's name with a red Sharpie and put the stuff back into the dash. Flicking the interior light off again, it takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but I see it—a guy standing on the side of the road, a suitcase in his hand and a fearful hunch to his shoulders.

I slow down, then stop in the middle of the road. We're between the suburbs and the urban shit, almost right on the line, actually. Unless he's some kinda wizard here to meet up with a vampire and other wacky dinner guests, he must be lost. I get out of the car; this night should be useful somehow. Jesus. He might be stoned or something, though, it occurs to me. Well, either he's sober and I can help him, or he's fucked up and I can tip him over and watch him roll around.

The guy turns. He squints, looking into the headlights, but I still see his eyes, the most beautiful green I've ever seen in a human being's face.

Then he looks at me, looks like he sees a ghost, drops his suitcase, and takes off running down the street.

Okay, this isn't what I expected, but I don't need him running into somebody's pool and drowning himself—if he isn't sober or sane—so I chase after him.

"Hey!" I shout, though not loud enough to wake up the suburbia assholes around. "Come back, man! Get your shit, at least!"

I guess I should have given this guy the same spiel I gave nonexistent Raivis. Jesus. Jumpy people freak me out. Like, chill the fuck out, alright? You're gonna get stabbed up the ass by life eventually, whether you deserve it or not, so there's no use worrying about it. Shit happens, deal with it, move on.

The guy stops, turns, but he's still ten feet away from me. I stop, too, let him have the distance. We stand and pant like dumbasses.

Then, he says, "I thought you were someone else."

"Holy fuck, you're British."

His eyebrows, thick and dark, lift. "Yes, and you're . . . German?"

"Ja." I thicken the accent, make it sound comical to loosen this guy up. "You got somebody after ya?"

He lifts his chin, suspicious. "Why do you ask?"

"Uh, probably 'cause you just ran from me and blamed it on thinkin' I was someone else. So, the someone else is worth running from. They after you?"

His eyes narrow, but his head lowers, as do his shoulders. "Yes, someone is after me. Sorry, I'm tired. I've been . . . on the run since this morning."

"Nothing more exhausting than paranoia," I say, and he nods like he's impressed that I've spelled out his situation. It's far from rare, lemme tell ya. "So I'm assuming you have no place to stay."

He hesitates, then shakes his head. "But I have money for a hotel, if you could give me a ride to one. Please."

"No, that ain't a good idea. Hotels have registries. Whoever's hunting you will check those first. Even if you give a fake name, a few hundred dollars' bribe will always get a description of ya, or even security cam footage. Hotels ain't safe. Plus, they cost, and your money'll run out faster than you think."

He stares at me, and I watch him fracture a little, his strength fraying like an old sweater. He's not putting on the bravery show that old Antonio was. This guy is just wearily and warily trying to push through a rough patch in his life. He's afraid, that's plain to see, but he's trying not to give a damn about the fear, because it gets in the way.

This guy is brave.

Naive as hell, but brave.

"I say fuck the hotel and come stay at my place," I tell him. "It's free, unrecorded, and safe."

He's too tired to argue, I can tell. "But . . . I don't know you. You could rape me, or worse—"

"Well, yeah, I could, but I just said my place is safe, and it sure wouldn't be very safe if there were rapes and worse going on at all hours. Any sexual encounters at my house are completely consensual, promise. I even ask my dick before a rub if he'd like to get it on, and he always says ja ja ja! But hey, there's no pressure. I can just leave ya in the street, if ya want. Just an offer. My good deed for the year."

To be honest, I have no fuck clue why I'm helping the Brit. Maybe it's the bravery. Or the loneliness. Or the green eyes.

Whatever our reasons, though, he comes with me, and I put his suitcase in the back of my car, and we drive in silence for a while.

"What's your name?" he asks, voice raspy with exhaustion.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt, at your service. I'm the awesomest guy you'll ever meet, Mr . . ."

". . . Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

"Nice to meet ya, Arthur."

Silence. When I glance over, I see the Brit's head resting against the window, lips parted slightly, eyes closed. Dead sleep.

"Well, Arthur," I whisper, moving my attention back to the road, "you're not the best at maintaining conversation, but you're pretty damn cute when you sleep."