Riley
The air near the train tracks always smells like rust and rot, a cocktail of old metal and garbage left to ferment in the rain. The streetlights along the abandoned freight yard flicker weakly, their light barely piercing the growing dusk. Riley Baumgartner leans against a graffiti-covered signal post, her long purple hair tucked under the hood of her black sweatshirt. Strands of it escape and hang like ink-streaked ribbons against her pale skin.
She fiddles with the blade in her pocket, her thumb brushing over its etched handle. It's an old thing, the steel slightly pitted but wickedly sharp. Hal had given it to her years ago, when she turned 14, the day he decided she was ready to work the corner. "This ain't just for show, kid," he'd said, rolling his wheelchair closer, the cigarette in his hand burning down to a stub. "One day, someone's gonna test you. And when that day comes, you don't flinch. You don't hesitate. You stick 'em, and you make it count."
She'd nodded then, but now, with her fingers tracing the blade's length, she wonders if she could really do it.
Across the street, two figures emerge from the shadows, their voices low and muffled under the sound of a distant train horn. Riley stiffens, pulling her hood lower as they approach.
The first man is wiry, his sharp cheekbones framed by a jagged scar running down to his jaw. He grins at her, his teeth yellowed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The second is bigger, with a thick neck and shoulders that strain against his sweatshirt. His hands stay in his pockets, but his presence feels heavy, looming.
"What you got tonight?" Scarface asks, his voice slick like oil on water.
"Grass, Snow, and Crystal. What's it gonna be?" Riley speaks in a flat tone, all business.
They exchange a glance. Scarface pulls a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket while Bull just stands there, his gaze fixed on Riley in a way that makes her skin crawl. They buy what they came for—weed and meth—and linger longer than they should. Scarface leans in close, the reek of alcohol and cheap cologne curling around her. "You ever think about upgrading your hustle?" he murmurs, his voice low and insinuating. "I bet you'd make more on your knees than slinging this shit."
Riley's stomach tightens, but she keeps her face blank. "Not interested."
"Bet you'd change your mind if we made it worth your while," Bull rumbles, stepping closer.
Her hand tightens around the knife up her sleeve, its cold steel grounding her. "Back off."
For a moment, Scarface looks like he might press the issue, but then he laughs, a short, barking sound. "Fine. Your loss."
The two saunter off into the night, their footsteps fading, but Riley doesn't move until she's sure they're gone. Her hands shake as she counts her cash, forcing herself to focus on the numbers. Enough to pay Hal his cut and keep me fed for the week. Good. Fuck this shit. I'm going to go home and play mario.
She starts the walk home, the sound of her boots crunching on gravel oddly loud in the stillness. The train tracks stretch out beside her, silver rails glinting faintly under the weak moonlight. It's a fair ways from here to Hal's house, about thirty minutes of walking or so. Riley takes out her ear pods and plays some music on her ipod (another gift from Hal) allowing Metallica and ACDC to put her in a trance as she makes the journey home.
. . .
The music gets her lost in her memories as she travels. Riley remembers a lot from her younger years, mostly hunger, and not just the dull ache in her stomach but the gnawing emptiness of having nowhere to go and no one to turn to. The hunger for love, company... family. The memory of the day she met Hal is sharp and clear, like an old photograph etched into her mind. It was a summer afternoon, humid and sweltering, and she had been crouched in the corner of a convenience store, eyeing the shelves of snack cakes like they were treasure.
She thought she was quick—she'd been stealing food for years at this point—but when her fingers closed around the wrapper of a Little Debbie's Oatmeal Creme Pie, she felt a shadow fall over her. Hal's voice came first, smooth and deep, with a lilt of amusement.
"You know, if you're gonna steal, make sure you don't stand out first. A little girl on her own in a store stands out, begs the question: Where's her parents?."
She froze, staring up at him. He was tall then, and lanky. His skin was darker than she'd ever seen, deep and glossy like polished obsidian, and his smile was warm, almost fatherly, the kind of smile that made her forget for a moment that she was caught. He wore a sharp purple blazer and matching slacks, his afro haloed by the harsh fluorescent lights of the store.
"Don't call the cops," she'd whispered, her voice barely audible.
Hal laughed, a sound like rolling thunder. "Cops? Nah, sweetheart. You just look hungry."
She didn't trust him, not then, not when he waved the cashier off and bought the snack cake she'd been after. Not when he walked her outside, handed it to her, and asked her name. And especially not when he offered to bring her home.
"Why?" she'd asked, suspicion dripping from her voice.
Hal shrugged, that same easy grin on his face. "You've got hustle. I like that. And besides, the streets'll chew you up and spit you out if you're not careful."
Home, it turned out, wasn't what she'd imagined. The house was small and rundown, squeezed between two others that looked ready to collapse. The paint peeled from the walls like sunburnt skin, and the front yard was little more than dirt and weeds.
"Welcome to paradise," Hal had said, pushing open the creaking front door.
Inside smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, a mix of warm and sleazy that would soon become familiar. A TV blared in the corner of the living room, surrounded by mismatched furniture that looked like it had come from a dozen different thrift stores. She saw the cracks in the ceiling, the stained carpet, but she also saw the couch where she could sleep and the kitchen where there was actual food.
"You can crash here for a while," Hal had said, leaning against the doorway. "But nothing's free. You work for me, you eat. Deal?"
Riley nodded, not really understanding what "work" meant yet but too tired and hungry to care.
It didn't take her long to figure out what Hal did. The comings and goings of dealers, the faint chemical smell that clung to his clothes, the cash he always had on hand—it all painted a picture. But Hal wasn't creepy. He didn't look at her like some of the men on the streets did. Instead, he treated her like a business partner in the making. Sometimes she even felt like his prodigy, learning things about the business that he didn't share with anyone else, like where he kept his private stash.
She met Charlie that same week she moved in, a wiry kid with messy brown hair and a nervous laugh. He was one of Hal's runners, hauling baggies from place to place with a speed and agility Riley envied. He showed her the ropes, and over time, they became inseparable.
Riley learned quickly that Hal had his vices. Prostitutes came and went with alarming regularity, their laughter and whispers filling the house late into the night. Some of them were kind to her, even maternal, offering her advice she didn't want or need. Others were distant, their faces lined with exhaustion.
But Hal never crossed the line with her, and for that, she was grateful. He was kind but shrewd, always making it clear that everything had a price. She could stay as long as she worked, as long as she kept earning.
Years later, she still remembers that first night on Hal's couch, the Little Debbie wrapper crumpled in her hand and the sound of laughter coming from his room. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than the streets. For a girl like her, that was enough.
Now Riley is 21, and she's learned a lot from Hal over the years. She'd come to love and appreciate the old man. After his accident five years ago, Hal was disabled and put in a wheelchair. Riley helped nurse him at home during his recovery from the accident, and had to watch as Hal's spirit slowly died day by day, until he became a shell of the man that she first met. Nowadays Hal sits in front of his television watching news, sports, and porn, smoking at least an ounce of weed a week. Riley makes sure Hal has his weed, is fed breakfast and dinner, and will make herself available to help him during the day with anything he needs. At night she works for him, along with the rest of his "employees."
. . .
Her boots scrape against the cracked pavement littered with cigarette butts and shards of broken glass as she follows the train tracks home. The storefronts she passes are relics of better days, their windows smudged with grime and streaked with years of neglect. A flickering neon sign above a shuttered diner buzzes faintly, its promise of "HOT COFFEE" long gone cold. The air is thick with the mingling odors of fast food grease, damp asphalt, and something faintly acrid wafting from a nearby alley. Streetlights cast uneven pools of yellow light, but most are broken, leaving stretches of sidewalk swallowed in shadow. A trio of young men huddle around a trash can fire, their faces gaunt, their laughter jagged as they share a bottle wrapped in brown paper. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks—a sharp, echoing sound that cuts through the night, followed by a woman's scream... but again Riley hears none of it...
As one song ends and another begins, there's a brief period where Riley can hear what's going on around her, and it's during one of these brief interludes that she hears voices behind her, slurred and laughing. "Hey!" one of them shouts.
Her blood runs cold. She glances over her shoulder and sees them: three figures weaving through the dark, their silhouettes jagged and uneven. It's those guys I just passed, they're drunk. She sees one of them still holding onto a bottle. "Hahahaha! C'mon, don't be like that! HAHAHA!" one of them shouts, his laughter ringing out making her skin crawl. Riley takes her ear pods out as she quickens her pace, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hand slips into her pocket, fingers closing around the knife.
The men follow, their leader's laughter growing louder, more malicious...
She spots an open train car up ahead, its doors gaping wide like a mouth waiting to swallow her whole. Without thinking, she ducks inside, pressing herself against the cold metal wall. She holds her breath.
The footsteps grow louder, closer.
"I think she went in there," a voice croons, and her stomach sinks.
The Laugher steps into the train car, his face lit by the dim glow of his phone screen. His grin is crooked, his teeth bared in a predatory leer. He sticks his phone out to illuminate Riley, who glares at him like a cornered animal, caught in a trap. "You know, I've been thinking about you all week," he says, stepping closer. "There's something about you. That hair, that attitude… Drives me crazy."
Riley grips her knife tighter, her palms slick with sweat. "Have we met?"
"You don't remember me?" His grin widens, "I bought coke off you last week. Is my-my face really that forgettable?!" He laughs under his breath, a dry, wheezy laugh. The other two men climb inside with him, their faces darkened in shadow.
But Riley does remember Laugher. This loser tried the same thing Scarface and Bull just tried. It's always the same story with a lot of men she dealt with on the streets, they only see her as good for one thing. "I said no," she snaps, but her voice wavers, betraying her fear.
The Laugher's grin widens, and he turns to his friends. "See? Told you she'd play hard to get."
"Man, we didn't sign up for this," one of them mutters, lingering near the door.
"Shut up," the Laugher growls. Suddenly he lunges for her, and Riley moves on instinct. The knife flashes in the dim light, slicing across his cheek in a line of red. Laugher howls and curses, recoiling, clutching his face. Blood pours through his fingers, dark and slick.
"You little bitch!" he roars, swinging wildly. His fist connects with her face, and pain explodes across her cheekbone, sending her reeling back against the cold hard wall. Dazed, she barely registers the second man grabbing her arms, pinning her to the wall. The third hovers nearby, his eyes darting nervously.
"This is gonna hurt," the Laugher snarls, staggering toward her. "Give me that knife. I'm gonna-"
And then the shadows shift and they all hear a deep, gargling moan.
A figure lurches into the train car, its movements jerky, unnatural. The man is gaunt, his skin a patchwork of gray and blue. His eyes are sunken, milky, but locked onto the man pinning Riley to the wall.
"Jesus Christ," breathes Laugher, backing away still clutching his bleeding face.
The thing grabs the man pinning Riley from behind, its hands clawing at his shoulders. She sees several of it's finger-nails are missing. The man screams as teeth sink into his neck, tearing flesh. Blood sprays in a hot arc, spattering Riley's face. She looks at it's face in horror and sees it's white, milky eyes staring right back at her as it tears the man's jugular out and swallows it like a big, wet noodle.
The Laugher stumbles back, his bravado crumbling. "What the fuck is that?!"
Riley doesn't wait to find out. She yanks her arm free, the grip on her loosening as the creature drags its victim to the ground. She runs, her boots slipping on the blood-slick floor, and makes a daring leap out of the train car and onto solid ground. She sticks the landing and keeps on running, her knife glued to the inside of her clenched fist. She doesn't stop until she's clear of the train yard.
. . .
By the time she reaches Hal's house, her chest heaves with every breath. She slams the door shut behind her, her hands shaking as she turns the lock.
Hal is asleep in his armchair, oblivious to the blood on her face and the terror in her eyes. She finds him where he always is, in his living room in front of the T.V. Charlie is here with him, passed out on the couch with a bong between his thighs. Riley lets them sleep, moving quietly to the back of the house, past the kitchen where she sees yet another passed out pair of people, two half-naked girls that Hal paid for. She spots a needle sticking out of one of their arms.
She stumbles to the bathroom, her reflection in the cracked mirror almost unrecognizable. She scrubs at her skin until it's raw, the memory of that thing's milky eyes burned into her mind alongside Laugher's laughter, and his friend's terrified screams of horror and anguish.
For the first time in years, Riley is truly afraid, and she curls up into a ball in the shower, crying as the hot water rains down upon her. She stays like this for a while, until morning sunlight shines through the bathroom window.