ONE OF US

DENNIS ETCHISON

Dennis Etchison is a three-time winner of both the British Fantasy and World Fantasy Awards. His collections include The Dark Country, Red Dreams, The Blood Kiss, The Death Artist, Talking in the Dark, Fine Cuts, Got To Kill Them All & Other Stories, A Little Black Book of Horror Tales, and It Only Comes Out At Night & Other Stories.

He is also the author of the novels Darkside, Shadowman, California Gothic, Double Edge, The Fog, Halloween II and III, and Videodrome (the latter three under the pseudonym “Jack Martin”), and the editor of the anthologies Cutting Edge, Masters of Darkness I–III, MetaHorror, The Museum of Horrors, and (with Ramsey Campbell and Jack Dann) Gathering the Bones.

Etchison has written extensively for film, television, and radio, including more than 150 scripts for The Twilight Zone Radio Dramas. He served as President of the Horror Writers Association from 1992–94 and is a recipient of the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement.

“My friend Patrick was a professional driver,” the author explains. “He owned two limousines, was Ray Bradbury’s personal chauffeur (the license plate on that car read F451, naturally), and also provided transportation for some of the motion picture and television studios in Los Angeles. Every year the networks spent two or three busy months publicizing their new shows for the fall season, previewing them for the press and staging various publicity events. Patrick usually had contracts to shuttle stars to and from these events, and when the rush was on it may have been necessary for him to subcontract with other independent drivers in order to guarantee enough cars.

“One day in 2001 he asked me to help him out by driving a TV talk-show host to and from a press junket. When the drive, approximately one-half mile in each direction, netted me a quick fifty-dollar cash tip, I wondered whether Patrick might need help any other time soon. He did, and so over the next couple of months I spent a few hours a week behind the wheel of the F451 Cadillac with its 32-valve Northstar engine, ferrying movie and TV series stars to airports, photo opportunities, studio shoots, and the like—probably the most painless work I have ever done, and a great deal easier than writing.

“The experience was interesting and also turned out to be a research opportunity, the first product being the story you are about to read … which, I should emphasize, is fiction.”

HEYMAN RANG THE bell one more time, then walked down the driveway to the shade.

The Lincoln was so quiet he had to open the door to be sure it was running. He switched off the engine, pressed the button to pop the trunk, and went around to the back, but before he could reach inside the car the gate behind him buzzed.

A tall boy came up the driveway from the street, dragging his feet through the dry leaves.

“Morning,” said Heyman.

The boy had on hiking boots, baggy shorts, and a T-shirt with a distorted logo across the front. He tried to focus his eyes. “Uh. You must be the dude.”

Heyman nodded. “I’m the driver.”

“Uh, Willy, right?”

“Willy’s off today.”

“Uh.” The boy lost interest and stumbled on toward the house.

Heyman called after him. “Is anybody home?”

“Yih.”

“You sure?”

“Dude,” said the boy, “it’s rilly early.”

Now Heyman heard an electric guitar crank up, slashing away at one chord over and over, each time on the downbeat. Heart attack music, he thought. He looked at his watch: 10:30. The boy disappeared along the side of the house. There was the sound of French doors rattling. The music got louder for a moment and then the doors closed.

He started the engine and set the air conditioning on high again, then punched a number into his cell phone.

“It’s me,” he said. “Yeah, I found it. No problem. They’re about ready.”

He shut the phone, took a duster out of the trunk, and knocked the dead leaves and haze off the limo until the paint shone like oil. When he saw his reflection sharpen in the black surface he straightened his collar and tie. Then he put the duster away and took the envelope from the trunk, checking to see that everything was there. He lowered the trunk lid.

A few minutes later all three boys came out. One was dressed in old Nikes, jeans, and a ratty T-shirt; the other in leather sandals, pleated slacks, and a silk shirt, carrying a Tumi backpack. The tall boy in the baggy shorts still walked cautiously, as if worried about land mines on the property.

Heyman flashed a smile. “Which one of you is Perry Leyman?”

The boy with the old Nikes hooked a thumb at his friend in the sandals.

The man held out his hand. “I’m Paul.”

The well-dressed boy looked through him, went directly to the car, and waited for Heyman to open the passenger door.

The tall one bumped his head getting into the back.

“Watch yourself, there,” said Heyman. “I put some chips and sodas in the armrest. If you need anything else, let me know.”

“Where’s Willy?” asked Perry, climbing into the front seat.

“He couldn’t make it.”

“Slick Willy.” Perry unwound a pair of earplug headphones. “We go way back. My whole life, almost.”

“Is that so?”

“Dude,” said a voice from the back seat, “did you bring it?”

Perry undid the Velcro on the backpack. Inside were some folded squares of paper, a CD player, and a stack of discs in jewel cases. He passed it all over his shoulder.

“Yih.”

“Your brother got the delivery?”

In the mirror Heyman saw the tall one elbow him. “Jason, man, try to be cool.”

Perry turned to the driver. “You know where you’re going?”

Heyman shifted into reverse and rolled down the driveway, waiting for the security gate to slide back. “Irvine. The Bowl.”

“Yih.”

“When’s the concert?”

“Noon.”

“We’ll make it. Got your tickets?”

“Passes.”

“Great.” Heyman put it into drive and started the big tires rolling out of the cul-de-sac and down the canyon. “What kind of bands? Punk?”

In the back seat, the tall one laughed. “Punk went underground.”

“Yeah,” said Jason, “way underground.”

“New Wave, then,” Heyman said. “Or grunge—is that what they call it now?”

“In the day.”

“Black metal,” Perry explained.

“What label are they on?”

“Lots of different ones. Indies and imports.”

“Not your old man’s,” said Jason.

“I got my dad to sign Blutvergieben.” Perry spoke the word with a practiced German accent. “But the manager screwed him and kept the advance.”

“I think I’ve heard of them,” said Heyman.

“Hang a right.”

“I thought we’d take Kester to the freeway …”

“We have to pick up Juno.” Perry took out a cell phone of his own and hit a programmed number. “Where are you? Stop,” he told the driver.

At the next corner a teenage girl with blue streaks in her hair teetered on the curb, about to cross into the cul-de-sac. She had on a black belly shirt with white letters that spelled FUCT. As Heyman pulled over she stashed her phone in a jogger’s pouch and squeezed into the back seat.

“Did you call the bitch?” the girl said.

“Nuh,” said Perry.

“Thanks!”

“I don’t have the number.”

“Your dad could get it.”

“My dad’s in the Caymans.”

“Then I’ll just have to kick her little ass.”

The boys looked out the tinted windows and tried not to laugh.

“You’re tripping,” Perry told her.

“Is that what you guys think?”

“Nuh.”

“Nuh.”

“The drummer’s pretty big, though,” said Perry.

“I could give such a massive shit. Did your brother get the drugs?”

“Later, Juno,” Perry told her.

Heyman took the 405 south while she continued to rant. It seemed that she had tried out as lead singer for a band but lost the job to another girl and was royally pissed. They hit a detour after LAX, an overturned truck that forced them onto the surface streets for several miles before he could pick up another freeway. He kept a map book open and followed the jumbled maze of lines that connected through to Orange County and the coast.

After a while she gave it up and put on the earplugs. From the back seat he heard a faint hiss as she sampled one CD after another, jerking her head to the white noise of insect music. The three boys exchanged information about musicians and remixes and club dates. Glancing at the mirror, he decided that they were no more than fifteen. He was responsible for them while they were in the car, at least as far as their parents and the law were concerned. If he saw any drugs come out he would have to pull over. They would love him for that.

The girl took the earphones off and glared at the boy on her right. “Sean, will you stand up for me?”

“Yih.”

“Don’t shit me.”

“I’m not.”

“What about you, Jason? Do you even have your knife?”

“Sure, but—”

“There’s other bands,” Perry told her.

“Fine!” she said. “Then you are all so busted. I’ll tell Eric what you do with his good shit!”

“You don’t talk to my brother. Ever.”

“And your dad!”

“Try it. We’ll see who’s busted. My brother just got accepted at Yale.”

“Like I care!”

“One word, Juno.”

A half-mile from the concert the traffic stopped dead. Dust swirled up. Vendors walked along the side of the road, hawking posters and fake tattoos. Heyman heard guttural lyrics warring between the cars as twin silver-lightning-bolt decals glittered in the sun. With the air conditioner on high the big engine started to overheat. He paid ten dollars to get into the lot and dropped them off in front of the main gate. A poster advertised the German band as the headline act.

“What time?” he asked Perry.

“Eight.”

“I’ll be here. As close as I can get.”

“What’s your number?”

The boy meant the cell phone. Heyman wrote it on one of Willy’s business cards and gave it to him.

“Call me when you’re ready.”

“Yih.”

He drove on through the parking lot and over the spikes to the street. As soon as he got out of the jam he opened the front console and flipped through Willy’s jazz collection. He found a tape of Miles and Cannonball and looked around for a spot to park for a few hours. Then he dialed Willy.

“I just dropped them off.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Nice kids.”

“You made good time,” Willy said. “Did you check the trunk?”

“Yeah.”

“All there, right?”

“No sweat.”

“I owe you.”

“Not you. The dad.”

“Sorry,” said Willy, “but you know I can’t cut that shit anymore.”

“I know. You’re retired.”

“All I want to do now is drive.”

“You got it.”

He stopped off at the nearest strip mall, loosened his tie, and stretched his legs. Then he ordered a spicy chicken sandwich and a large coffee at Carl’s Jr. The fast-food restaurant was full of all kinds. When he finished eating he returned to the limo, popped the trunk again, and took out the padded envelope, but before he could get another look at the photo a panhandler tried to hit him up. He flipped the guy a buck, closed the trunk, got back in the car, and cruised the streets for a better spot.

Everywhere he went people were on their way to the concert. Some had sleeveless shirts and lightning bolts on their biceps but most were normal high school kids in cut-offs and tank tops, college couples in cotton prints and white socks. There were a few old heavy metal fans and even some families, the little ones done up in their best SpongeBob and Powerpuff Girls colors. It had been a while since a rock festival came to town. He drove over to the beachfront and finally found some shade under the palm trees so that he could kick back.

On the jazz album, Cannonball had top billing and most of the time Miles sounded like a sideman. Miles was never greedy. He just laid down his part, got in there and got out of there, and picked up his pay. The man was an inspiration.

Heyman took off his black coat and tried to relax. Whenever he switched tapes he could hear a distant booming, as if a storm were about to roll in even though the air was clear all the way to the horizon. As the day wore on he could feel it inside in the car, pulsing through the ground and the tires like low-frequency electrical waves, coming closer.

At five o’clock he ran a shaver over his chin, straightened his tie, and drove back to the concert site. The throbbing grew deeper as he cruised the perimeter. There were generators beyond the tent, at the rear of the outdoor stage. He could not hear them hammering away but they vibrated and blurred under a floating layer of exhaust. The decibel level from the banked speakers was overpowering, amplifying the lyrics to a hysterical roar. Heyman realized that he could find any pattern at all in the wall of sound, as long as it had to do with anger and rage. The music did not speak to him.

At six o’clock he went back to the fast-food restaurant for more coffee, then gassed up the car and returned to the site. There was a break between sets now and families were already leaving with groggy children on their shoulders. He parked behind a line of limos near the Artists Only entrance, reached under the seat, and found a rolled-up towel. He stuck it under his coat and took it with him to the gate.

A young security guard in a yellow jacket stopped him.

“Who’s next?” asked Heyman.

“Last act. Where’s your pass?”

A cascade of pyrotechnics lit the night with blue-white lightning. The headline band crouched at the flap of the tent, ready to run up the scaffolding to the stage. The guard looked skyward, shielding his eyes, and Heyman slipped inside the chain-link fence.

In the tent, behind a table full of empty green bottles, exhausted musicians pulled off boots and sweaty shirts. Heyman searched the faces of those around the fringes. The photo in the envelope had been taken with a telephoto lens but it was clear enough. He had it memorized.

At the next round of pyro, a man in butter-soft Italian leather waved the headliners toward the scaffold. The crowd began to stomp, then erupted into thunderous cheers as the band ran up the shaky steps. The phone in Heyman’s pocket rang. He covered one ear.

“Dude!” said a frantic voice.

“Perry?”

“He’s not here …” The voice broke up. “Where are you? We gotta jam!”

“I’m on my way.”

Heyman snapped the phone shut and came up behind the man in the leather jacket. He had rings in his ears and the back of his neck was tattooed like a Samoan chief’s.

“Brent Jacobson?”

The man glanced over his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Those your boys up there?”

He looked Heyman over dismissively, the black sportcoat, the plain white shirt, and tie. “Exclusive,” he said.

“I have something for you.”

“No demos.”

“From a Mr. Leyman.”

The man squinted. “Never heard of him.”

Heyman had his hand in the towel. He felt his fingers close around metal. His thumb released the safety.

“Sure you have. The record company, on Beverly. You signed a contract. Remember?”

At that moment there was another explosion and a bright burst of sparks in the darkness, as the band up above started slashing away.

He made a U-turn and braked in front of the main gate. The German band was unbelievably loud and the older folks were on their way out. Heyman spotted two of the kids. Sean’s knees were scraped raw, Jason’s jeans were torn, and both their shirts were wet and stained. Under the mercury vapor lights the stains looked black. He rolled the window down.

“Where’s Perry?” he asked as they fumbled the back door open.

“Go!”

“Where?”

Now Perry came out, walking calmly through the crowd with his designer backpack, one arm around Juno to support her. His shirt was clean but the front of hers was drenched.

Heyman got out and shoved the girl into the back seat, then opened the front passenger door for Perry. He rolled up the tinted windows, made another U, and fell into line with the other limos.

“Who’s hurt?”

“Nobody.”

“You sure?”

“Yih,” said Perry. His silk shirt was missing a couple of buttons but unspattered.

Heyman flicked on the dome light and twisted around. The letters on the girl’s shirt were still white but Sean’s and Jason’s were smeared with red. So were their hands and arms. Heyman tossed them the towel.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” said Perry.

“What’s all the blood?”

“Some dudes started a fight,” said Jason.

“Not us,” Sean said.

The girl laughed wildly.

Heyman took the side streets for several blocks before he merged onto the boulevard. Ahead was the mall with the fast-food restaurant. He pulled in.

“You can wash up here,” he told them.

“Carl’s Jr. sucks,” said Juno.

“Dude,” said Jason frantically, as if it mattered, “she likes McDonald’s.”

Heyman said, “The head’s in back.”

While they were gone, he called Willy.

“They stopped for some chow.”

“McDonald’s?” Willy chuckled. “Got to have their McCrap.”

“I’ll call the house when we hit LA.”

“Don’t bother. The dad’s out of town.”

“I figured.”

“And the mother’s never there.” A pause on the line. “How did it go?”

“Done.”

“Just like that?”

“No problem.”

“Pretty slick,” said Willy. “Now you’re the man.”

“No, you are. Take it easy.”

Jason came out of the restroom without his T-shirt and motioned for Heyman to lower the window.

“She wants to eat. Is that okay?”

Heyman waited while they sat at a round table and dipped fries and sipped Cokes. He folded the towel and wiped the back seat, then wrapped it around the gun and dropped it into a dumpster full of grease and flies. When they were finished they came back to the car.

On the freeway, in the dark, each of them took out a cell phone and made nervous calls to friends and family, three silhouettes waving their antennae like alien insects. The boys in the back talked to their mothers with the voices of sweet, dutiful sons while the girl giggled and slurred her words. When the calls were over she put her feet up.

“Whoo!”

“How much did you take?” asked Jason.

“All gone.” She opened her mouth, pointed down her throat, lifted the bottom of her belly shirt and rubbed her tummy. “See?”

“Yih.”

“You really did it,” she said.

The boys said nothing.

“The bitch was all ready to sing. But you cut her good. Didn’t you.”

“It’s done,” said Perry. “Forget about it.”

“You see her face? Sean takes out his lockback and her eyes are all—”

“It’s over, Juno.”

Sean and Jason looked out the windows, their eyes large and white in the headlights, their sunburned skin a washed-out red in the passing taillights. The girl took her feet down and sprawled across them, about to pass out. In the mirror Heyman saw her head in their laps, first one and then the other, as they continued to stare with blank, stark expressions. After a while she began to snore.

“You like Bush?” said Perry.

It took a few seconds for Heyman to realize that Perry was talking to him.

“I think I’ve heard of them. They made that video, what was it called?”

“Not the band. George W. The leader of our country.”

Heyman considered. “Do you?”

“My dad does. He says he’s a patriot.”

There was no percentage in lying. “As a matter of fact,” Heyman said, “I don’t.”

“Good.” Perry gazed out at the lights as though trying to find a pattern, his eyes empty. “Then I guess that means you can.”

“Can what?”

“Be one of us.”

He drove on. They carried Juno to a porch and used her key to open the door. Then they went to Perry’s house.

“Thank you for waiting,” said Sean politely.

“Thanks a lot,” added Jason, “sir.”

As the others went up the driveway, Perry lingered by the driver’s side. He reached into his backpack. It was stuffed with bills now. He handed some over.

“Here’s your tip.”

“That’s okay,” said Heyman. “I’m covered.”

“You sure?”

“One question, though. What did they do with the knife?”

“Why?”

“Knives are messy. I hope they wiped it before they threw it away. You have to watch those things. The details.”

Perry looked off into the darkness, the trees and the bushes inside and outside the security gate, as if listening for something, the movement of unseen creatures that crawled the canyon at night.

“How’d you like to be my driver next time?”

“When?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Where are you going?”

Perry thought about it. “The mountains.”

“With Juno?”

“Maybe.”

“Angeles Crest is good. Nobody ever goes there.”

Perry nodded. “I have your number.”

“If you’re serious.”

“How much?”

“Same as Willy.”

“I can get it.”

“I know.”

Heyman waited to see that they were all in safely before he started backing down.

At the side of the house, Perry turned and waved.

“Say hello to Slick Willy for me.”

“You got it.”

Perry grinned, his teeth small and straight and sharp in the moonlight.

Heyman put a jazz tape on as he came to the freeway, ready to take the car back to Willy’s. It was Workin’, another famous set with Miles. A classic.

“Slick Paulie,” he said to himself in the dark, trying out the sound of it. He liked it. “You the man, dude.”

He looked into the mirror, adjusting his collar and tie. If he wanted to be a regular driver from now on he would need business cards, an Italian suit, black and shiny, and a big car of his own, a Lincoln or a Caddy, at least, with low mileage. Willy could help him find one. No problem. “The man,” he said again and smiled, as taillights streamed past him like blood cells rushing in or out through the arteries of the city. “Yih.”